Brief history:
2000: Qualified for the first time in October, 1999, with a lovely run
in Chicago. Injured 10 days before Boston 2000. Stood on Boylston
Street watching the amazing finish that year, unable to run a quarter
mile without pain.
2001: I trained, I showed up, I ran, the Devil Incarnate even let me
take home a teeny PR. But I ended up badly dehydrated and in the ER
that night, soaking up three IV bags.
2002: Opted to run the inaugural Lakeshore Marathon in Chicago.
Weather in Boston that year was good; weather in Chicago stunk. Got
hit by a wave the surf was so high. 25 mph winds in my face on the way
out, then they turned around and slapped me in the face on the way
back. I have no doubt that the Devil Incarnate (Boston) was
responsible.
2003: Made the first corral. Happy, proud of myself. Trained ok, not
great, but winter is winter here in Chicago. I built character all
season long with run after run in 15 degrees and high winds off the
lake. Race day brought 70s and sunny. I brought my gloves and a hat,
but no sunscreen. Here follows my story:
If I were as inaccurate in my profession as weather forecasters are at
theirs...
I was overdressed in a singlet and shorts. Naked would have been
overdressed. I haven't run one this warm since the
fry-an-egg-on-the-hood-of-your-car Madison heatfest back in '99. Oh,
what memories. 'Twas in the 90s that day when all was done. This one
was decidedly cooler than that, but 70s is too warm to race a good
marathon.
The line to get on the buses was long. I waited and waited and skipped
the port-a-john. What a mistake. I had to go pee so bad when I got
off the bus I thought I was going to die. I read elsewhere on the list
that the BAA thought 460 port-a-johns was enough. It wasn't even
close. If it was, the lines wouldn't have been 20 long at every damn
one for the last hour before the race. Constantly! When you have to
go bad, a tree or bush will do. If the line is two or three people
long, I might wait, but not 20 people long. No way.
I didn't die waiting to pee, and made it to the starting line, albeit
without sunscreen. Weather forecast consistently said 50s and cloudy,
so I brought nothing of the sort, and didn't manage to bum any off
anyone else.
Gun goes off and off I go. I'm going to try. 20:00 5ks, or
thereabouts. No problem! First one is close and I'm doing ok. Second
one I slow it down just a hair on purpose, and it's ok. Third one is
work *and* a bit slower still, although not intentionally. I check all
systems. I remember the words of the immortal Ancyent One -- you can't
beat the weather. If it conspires against you, save yourself for
another day. Race over. I still want to finish, but I'm going to run
easy the rest of the way and not drive myself into the ground to get a
time I know I'll be frustrated with.
Great plan, not exactly what happened. The weather is warm and I'm
doing ok for a while, albeit at a more pedestrian pace. By about 25k,
I'm starting to hurt. I'm drinking lots, but I've also dropped two of
the three electrolyte caps I brought with me. At the top of
Heartbreak, I'm told I look like eric, I agree, and I keep going.
"It's all downhill..." grrr. I hate that. I'd rather have uphill at
this point. My legs are trashed.
Going into Boston, the temp starts to drop dramatically, from 70s down
into the 50s with a cool breeze. It feels nice, but it's way too late
to matter. I walk a couple of water stops. I invent a couple of water
stops to walk. Somewhere around Cleveland Circle, I announced my
retirement from marathoning, but no one really took notice. I slog my
way down Boylston Street to the cheering crowd. Somewhere around
Kenmore Square I said to myself that I was happy that I would not be
qualified for Boston next year, thus precluding another attempt at the
Devil Incarnate, but as I head toward the fabled final turn, I realize
that next year I'll be 40 prior to Boston, and unless I stop in my
tracks and wait a couple of minutes, I will qualify. I'm not
interested in stopping, so I cross the finish line -- man, is Boylston
Street long or what!? -- and the medical people ask me if I'm ok. I
say no, and I'm not lying to get an IV, and they promptly put me in a
wheelchair and take me to the medical tent.
In the medical tent, I am treated well, covered with blankets and cooed
over by people who no doubt are thinking I'm nuts. But then if it
weren't for nuts like us, there'd be fewer jobs in the medical
profession. They take my temp -- 93.5. No way. Try again. 94.1.
Ok, get somebody else. 94.3. Ok, now they believe it. Better cover
him with some more blankets, and an IV might help too. A sadistic
nurse pokes me at least a hundred times (ok, maybe four or five) to
find a vein, takes blood, has it checked (it was fine), and then puts
the IV in the other arm with a few more pokes. Oh well, I wasn't
really in a position to complain.
Final time: 3:18 or some such, after hitting 15k just a bit over 1hr,
but who cares. I bagged the race at 15k and it was a good thing. Why
I ended up with another IV after this race I don't know, but perhaps
the course really is trying to kill me. I'd love to run this race well
just once. It's a darn tough course and I could die happy having never
run it well, but once, just once, .... I guess I'll be back, but I'm
still retired right now, nursing some sore legs and a really bad
sunburn.
Despite the bad race, the weekend was great. Some of you may have
noticed that I've been a bit distant from the list over the last nine
months. Well, late last summer, my wife and I finally split up after
quite a few years of a deteriorating marriage. I now live with a
wonderful woman that I adore and that makes me happier than I've ever
been. I had the opportunity to take her along to Boston with me, and
the trip was fabulous even if the race stunk. Beautiful, fun, funny,
smart, and as supportive of this crazy marathoning endeavor as anyone
can be (having run two of them herself, including one on the Devil
Incarnate), she's a perfect match for me. Some of you might even know
her. I'm sorry I didn't make it to any of the DRS encounters, but I
wanted to spend the weekend with her, all to myself, greedy bastard
that I am. And it was worth it.
Prescott R Balch
Chicago, IL