MARATHON One afternoon, I was reading the Dallas Morning News and it essentially laid out this schedule for completing a marathon, assuming you could run 2 miles and then slowly build up to marathon distance. What a great idea… (I often suffer from “Great Idea” syndrome, where at some point I have to utter the phrase, 'Well at the time, it seemed like a good idea!'.

I looked at the schedule a little more closely and the only issue I saw was that schedule was for 6 months and I only had a little over 4 months. No problem, I’ll just cut and paste a bit and should have no problems. The schedule actually called for you to run around 24 miles prior to the big race, but as far as I got in training was 18 miles… This is important later on in the story, so we’ll just set it aside until then.

Okay, fast forward and it’s the day of the big race. It’s a bit chilly but good running weather and of course, I’m a little nervous as this is my first marathon. Sensing this I suppose, a fellow runner, a guy from Wisconsin who had flown in for the race and begins telling me “Don’t worry, Dallas is an easy marathon. I’ve done it a few times and it’s one of my favorites. It’ll be fine, Tex!” Great! I’m in my hometown and some stranger has already nicknamed Tex and the stinking race hasn’t even started. I make a mental note to destroy the state of Wisconsin, should the opportunity ever present itself.

Fortunately, about this time, a guy comes over a megaphone and announces the race is about to begin and they have a special treat for us. This year’s race will be started by a Civil War Artillery Reenactment Group. Apparently, they got a reenactment group to bring out their Civil War cannon. So on a slightly raised platform in front of City Hall, a group load and fire their cannon sending telescoping rings of smoke over the runners. Okay, that was pretty cool for a starting gun, even if my ears are now bleeding from the sound wave, and a few of the neighboring building’s windows got shattered.

So we’re off and I make it upwards of a mile, maybe even a mile and half and I start to cramp. CRAP! I can’t cramp this early. Oh this is great! The remaining 25 miles should be a breeze now!

Then, here comes my new “friend” from Wisconsin, who says, “See Tex, pretty easy, huh?” I make a further mental note, that Madison, yes; we’ll start by sacking the city of Madison then march on to Milwaukee.

I shot him my dirtiest, “I-have-a-cramp-you-IDIOT” look, which clearly had it’s intended effect, because he responded, nonchalantly, “You know, people down here are so friendly, one of my favorite cities. Good luck, Tex, see you at the finish line.” Fortunately, I never saw him again, but Wisconsin is still on my “list”.

Fast forward a bit further, and by now the cramp, Thank God, has gone away, but not the challenges. About every 2 and a half miles the marathon has aid stations, that corporations sponsor, where they hand out fruit, Gatorade, stuff like that.

Well, because I’m such a great, veteran marathoner of zero marathons, and clearly the epitome of cool. I don’t take advantage of any of these aid stations until mile 8 or so, which is a big mistake, because the idea is to stay, hydrated in the early part of the race so you don’t hit the “wall” later on.

Well, mile 8 comes along, and being the cool guy I am, decide to run through the aid station, grabbing a cup and drinking on the run. Don’t want to lose precious time, you know. So I take the cup, bringing it to my lips, get maybe a drop, perhaps two, in my mouth and the remainder spills down the front.

Ever tried to drink while running? Turns out you can’t, but as an added bonus, Gatorade is very sticky and can be quite the fashion statement in the running world when spilled across your chest. I’m pretty sure; I was the only runner whose paper race number turned orange. No doubt, this guy knows what he’s doing.

And lucky for me, the next aid station is a mere 2 and a half miles away and by this time, I’m beginning to hurt a bit, my mouth is dry and I’m getting dehydrated. I decide this time; I can walk through the aid station and drink a few cups without terribly impacting my “cool” factor, because as we all know, it’s about being cool. No problems this time and actually drank the whole thing without creating more Gatorade chest art.

Okay, I’m getting the hang of this and now we’re entering the lake portion of the run. Dallas has a local lake, White Rock Lake, pretty creative name huh? According to ancient legend and myth, it was named after a large white rock. Mysteries on our planet abound, do they not?

Anyway, the nice part about this part is that it’s downhill, then becomes nice and level as you run around the lake. Cool, but just as I’m about finished running the lake portion, what do I see coming the other way? It’s some guy in full, army fatigues, with a full rucksack and army boots hoofing it against the flow of runners, while his wife/girlfriend on a bike, tells him how wonderful he’s doing and should have no problem making it into Army Ranger school. The guy is basically sprinting, or so it appeared at the time, loaded down and not even wearing running shoes and looks as though he’s not even breaking a sweat. What a jerk! I make a further note to move control of the army under the command of the navy, when we attack Wisconsin.

As the saying goes, “What comes up, must come down” is only half of the story, because what they don’t tell you is that when running “What runs down the hill, must run up the hill”. It’s about mile 19 now, and the racecourse takes us out of the lake bottom and uphill.

Experts say that most runners can run about 2 miles further than the furthest they’ve run previously before hitting the “wall”. With the benefit of hindsight, I could HAVE USED THIS FACT BEFORE NOW, because now that I’m hitting the wall and have to pull out another 8.2 miles from somewhere.

Great! I’m at my limit and there’s this huge stinking hill. But my despair was short lived because after nearly dying on the hill, there was another aid station. Thank, God!! These aid station volunteers, even have a sense of humor, because they’re advertising free beer. “Yeah right, like their really serving beer at mile 19/20 of a marathon. No one is going to serve beer in a marathon. Clearly, they think I must be stupid and just fell off the turnip truck. I mean, sure, I may have been born yesterday, but I stayed up all night!”.

So, because I’m so clever and cool, don’t forget, I take their challenge and down the cup in a single gulp, thinking, that the yellow color is probably lemon Gatorade, “Ha, Ha, showed them”…. Hey wait a minute, that tastes like… OH CRAP!!!! THAT’S BEER!!! And it’s not like beer dehydrates you or anything. Later on, I conducted some independent research and discovered Gatorade doesn’t make a lemon flavor. A fact that has proved handy on more than one occasions, let me assure you.

Great, that aid station was wasted and by now I’m really thirsty, after the hill and the beer and have crashed headlong into the “wall”. But like a merciful angel from above, a woman is standing outside her house, (the race has a lot of spectators) offering bits of cut-up, Snickers bars. Hmmm, thinks I. Snickers, that would be perfect for some quick energy and maybe get me through this personal hell. So I take a few, nod a “thank you”, and quickly pop them in my mouth.

What I underestimated was the moisture-sucking properties of nougat. Yes, nougat, that brownish tan sediment of Satan in every Snickers bar, because my mouth went from dry to Sahara desert dry. And to top things off, with my tongue, I could feel nougat and chocolate on my teeth. No doubt, making it appear as though I still had two, maybe even three of my original teeth and achieving that coveted “Hillbilly” look to which all runners aspire. It just keeps getting better.

What would people notice first about me, the fact I smell liked beer, my recently commissioned Gatorade art, or the fact that I had only two teeth. It’s going to be hard to keep the women at bay when the finish line arrives. The next aid station could not arrive soon enough and I swear I drank at least 10 cups, swishing them around in my mouth to purge that Satanic nougat.

However, by now, I’m really beginning to hurt. It took almost everything I had to leave that aid station, but I did. The pain is indescribable because it’s almost as much mental as physical. Every step felt as though I were jarring loose my brain (further). Truthfully, I’ve never felt pain like that.   Definitely run more than 18 miles before tackling 26.2!

Then the stupid race directors begin playing mind games. At that time, the race began and ended at City Hall in downtown and from the current course, I can see downtown in front of me and I’m directly heading toward it. But then there is this guy standing in the road directing everyone further south, away from downtown. I’m pretty sure the shortest point between two distances is a straight line, and this new development was definitely in violation of that principle. This guy’s probably from Wisconsin. What a jerk!

Then the worst part. My mind was pretty much gone at this point, but fortunately, I’ve handled the slight detour and am heading back toward downtown where I know the finish line is. I can even see buildings, really tall ones. Then IT appears…. ANOTHER HILL!!! CRAP!!! This wasn’t on any maps. I’ve lived and certainly visited here my whole life and never seen a hill here. But figuring, I’ve come this far with a little over a mile to go, I gut it out to the top of the hill, -about 3 feet - and then am thankful, because mentally I believe that now I’ve crested this 3 foot tall behemoth, I can coast downhill to the finish line and mercifully, finish the 26.2 miles.

And that hill? The technical term is a railroad crossing. Railroad tracks crossed the racecourse at that point and the road rose about 2 to 3 feet to meet the slightly elevated tracks. However, in my mental state, I was convinced the stinking thing was a hill… And I haven’t even told you the part about the importance of taping up and greasing down, but perhaps another time. Or even better, just take my word for it.

Wesley