A Modest Euphoria

I finally ran my first marathon yesterday.

I can barely walk today, so I thought I'd take the opportunity to compose my thoughts on the event while I am couch-ridden. My thoughts are usually more interesting from a perspective behind the rim of a martini glass.

Vancouver's Bank of Montreal (BMO) Marathon on May 4, 2008 heralded 3,100 marathoners of which I was one. I joined my 3,099 fellow sufferers and began the race at 7:29 AM in the glow of the morning's welcome sun. Oddly, I was not the least bit nervous in the moments and hours leading up to the start. Although I'd never run a marathon before, I had finished a few training runs in the neighborhood of 20 miles so 26 didn't sound that intimidating. I mostly just wanted to get out there on the course and have a good time. I knew I was in for a long day, and I was looking forward to finishing the race in under 4 hours which I deemed to be a respectable first-timer's finish goal.

My strategy at the start was to begin slowly, conservatively, and not let the excitement of the experience overtake me and propel me forward beyond my capacity, thus draining my energy reserves for the latter stages of the race. I was absolutely commited to this strategy, because every experienced marathoner I talked to beforehand warned me of this urge to which many rookie runners fall victim. I was determined not to be that guy.

Fortunately, I happened upon my friend John who was running his second marathon. From our many training runs together, I figured we were about the same speed and he would be a good partner, assuming he wouldn't mind my company. He told me that he wasn't feeling very well and, in fact, had been vomiting the day before while suffering a fever of 102 degrees. As a result, he was running very conservatively and I allowed myself to pace along with him at about an 8:50 minute mile. He said to me "Don't wait on my behalf! By all means run ahead if you feel like it!" but I wanted to be safe. I feared I would run too fast if left on my own, so I held back with John, stopping at every water stop briefly and even queueing up at a Port-a-Potty around mile 7. Hell, it was going to be a long race! Why not take a load off? Plus I enjoyed the company of my regular training partner. Today felt like nothing more than a regular weekend long run.

My first clue that this was no regular weekend long run: we passed Elvis around mile 3. I blinked my eyes several times as we approached a sequined, caped, sideburned, bespectacled, be-wigged fellow loping in the slow lane. Two gals to our left darted across our path towards Elvis, one holding a camera while the other one posed next to him, mid-stride. He flashed two thumbs up, and drawled "Thank you very much!". I muttered to myself that I thought the hallucinations weren't supposed to happen until much later in the race.

Soon we caught up with our friend Ian, and the three of us ran together until about mile 9 when they both decided they had to pee again and stopped at another portable toilet. I took the hint that they wanted to ditch me, so I pressed on. I was sad to lose their company, but realized that I had to run this marathon on my own terms and needed to find out what I had in my tank. I wasn't going to be riding anybody's coattails to the finish line! Besides, I felt really, really good and wondered why I wasn't tired yet and why I wasn't breathing hard. I wasn't dizzy, faint, hungry, or the least bit distressed. Nothing hurt. And I was already at mile 9! I thought marathoning was supposed to be hard!!

And thus began Max's lesson in humility.

From mile 9 through mile 13, I increased my overall pace down to an 8:40 pace, which was about 20 seconds per mile faster than I should have been running. The mileage log on my fancy watch even shows an 8:03 mile for mile #11. Oops. I guess I felt pretty good. I'm not sure why I decided I should start "kicking" so early in the race -- but then again, I did feel good.

Around mile 10 or 11, shortly before entering Stanley Park, I ran past a musical group named "Modest Euphoria". The singer's croonings were pleasant and energizing (this singer's name, I later learned, was Kirk Wohlgeschaffen), but mostly I was intrigued by the name of his band, which struck me as an apt description of the runner's high. I laughed to myself that this dear euphoria we runners seek is at all modest, and I realized that my amusement at that moment could only be shared with a small percentage of people in the world. Fortunately, about three thousand of them were right there with me. At some level, we all sought euphoria -- modest or not.

Soon after entering Stanley Park, the course went uphill for awhile and I was sucked in by my main nemesis: hills! The mountain climber in me awakened at the sight of an uphill, and so I ran even faster. I hammered my way through Stanley Park, and recognized another runner friend named Gwen as I climbed past her during the first hill in the park. A small voice in the back of my head mentioned something about the absurdity of passing someone I KNOW is a faster runner than me, but I resisted the voice and pressed on. I tried to quiet the voice by pounding another GU packet, and swallowing a handfull of electrolyte pills. I crossed the halfway mark.

I had been running for one hour and 52 minutes.

Gwen overtook me a few minutes later and I realized I had slowed. I was starting to feel tired, and was glad when she recognized me and started chatting. She seemed pretty fresh and seemed less distressed than I felt, so I thought I'd try to leach some of her aura. She graciously pulled me along for the next couple miles and I was grateful for the tow. By the time we exited Stanley Park around mile 17 or so, I began to fear that the final third of my race was going to be rather difficult. As I watched Gwen pull away from me at the Burrard Street bridge, I began to worry that my 4 hour marathon might be in jeopardy.

A few steps later, halfway up the bridge myself, I started wondering why in the hell I ever thought I could run a four hour marathon!

A nice Canadian fellow on the bridge was shouting encouragement at the runners. I recall vividly what he said as I passed: "Only one percent of the world ever does or even contemplates doing what you are doing right now! Be proud!" I took heart from this call and resumed my focus, determined to hold myself together for the last 8 miles.

8 miles! That's nothing. Right?

Between mile 18 and 20 I started to feel very poorly. Around mile 19 I saw my friend Neil running the other direction, and my addled brain calculated that he was within striking distance of a Boston qualifying time so I shouted some nonsense to him about how he was going to make it, though I'm not sure if the words I heard were coming out of my mouth or were purely my imagination. The crazy bug-eyed look on his face did nothing to dispel my fear that my words were internal, and that I was starting to lose my sanity.

Temporary insanity has various cures, and I was fortunate to discover one of them at mile 20. The Vancouver chapter of the Hash House Harriers ("The Drinking Club With a Running Problem!") were roadside with a keg and several Silo cups of beer. I staggered to the side of the road and said, as serenely and nonchalantly as I could muster, "Is that beer?" One of the Harriers said "For sure!" and handed me the cup, and I chugged it. Nothing ever tasted better in my life! I smiled and felt like hope had returned. I merged back into traffic, thinking that I had found the elixir of success, the gods' ambrosia. 10 steps later I nearly puked on the runner next to me.

Well, the beer seemed like a good idea at the time.

My 4 hour goal had by this time transformed into a goal of... just finishing. "Just finishing" had always seemed like a silly goal to me, as if one would begin a marathon with anything other than that objective in mind. Suddenly, I acknowledged the very real possibility that I would not make it to the finish line. Somehow, this acknowledgement angered me very much, but also somehow lifted a great burden off my back, and I relaxed a little and tried to continue to live in the moment, to soak up the sights and sounds of this wonderful day. I continued to peer into the faces of the runners next to me, trying to draw inspiration, resolve, hope, resentment or simply humanity from their gasping, sweaty, agonized faces. Instead I found solidarity. Unfortunately, around this time I also ran into Elvis again, and was agitated to discover I was only about 20 minutes ahead of The King. Cape and all.

So much for humanity.

But then John passed me. John, my friend who hours earlier had been vomiting from the flu, who hours earlier had had a fever of 102 degrees. John, my friend who mere months earlier had been fighting a life battle of Lance Armstrong proportions. John, the guy I left at a Port-a-Potty 13 miles earlier. And he passed me, shouting words of encouragement.

I'd love to be able to report that this moment inspired me, caused me to dig deep down into some ancient pre-human reptilian core of resolve, and that I sprinted to the finish. Ha. Nice fantasy.

But the good news is that I was not disheartened. I was happy for John, and in all honesty I was still enjoying myself -- in spite of the fact that I was becoming aware of an odd sensation in my legs. The odd sensation could be more properly described as "cramping". I had never cramped in my life. I always thought cramping was a way for tired people to refer to the fact that they had given up, as if some monster had attacked them and ripped their muscles from the bone. Not a bad analogy, now that I can empathize with the experience. Ouch!

At mile 23 I told myself that I had one "GLU" left. A "GLU" is a "Green Lake Unit", which is roughly equivalent to 3 miles. Any runner who lives in Seattle is inevitably familiar with the GLU, and knows exactly what I am talking about. How much farther to the finish? 1 GLU? Piece of cake...

The only problem? That final GLU included a climb back up the Burrard Street bridge which by this moment in my day appeared as insurmountable as the Halls of the Gods which mortals are not allowed to enter.

My mile pace for mile 23 was 12:12.

While ascending the Burrard Street bridge at a blistering pace my arthritic 90 year old grandmother would consider a slow walk, my face and body language must have conveyed quite a sense of despair and agony, because the friendly Canadians lining the route continued to shout words of encouragement, even calling me by name (our race bibs displayed our first names in large font) and told me that I was looking good and was doing great. Mentally pausing only long enough to wonder how their judgment of me could be so poor, I nevertheless took heart from their words and continued forward -- probably looking very much like a zombie as my stiff legs stumbled forward, my head bent in anguish, my fists squeezing from my gloves a nasty cocktail of Gatorade, sweat, and Gu. Halfway up the bridge, my quads failed to respond to my brain's command to contract, and I watched in shock and horror as I tripped on my own feet and nearly fell. I looked down at my legs to see if the handleblades of the jagged knives stabbing my legs were still visible above the skin after sinking beneath my flesh, but nothing was noticeable. Hmm. Must have been a calcium and potassium deficiency.

Suddenly a pun occurred to me. I realized that the Bank of Montreal was the primary sponsor of this marathon, so it was regularly referred to as the BMO Marathon. But, since my quads were inflamed and sharply pained by cramps, I wondered if this race should be called the VMO Marathon.

I'm a nerd, and it's funny that such thoughts crossed my mind at the bottom of my pit of agony.

I laughed out loud at my wit, but I'm sure the audible version of my laugh sounded more like a gasp of anguish to the bystanders within earshot. Those lovely, lovely bystanders. I love Canadians.

The frequency of water stops seemed to increase the closer I got to the finish line, which was a good thing because I began to treat water stops as rest areas. I only wished I had a dog to walk or a cigarette to puff. Alas, the cup of Gatorade and the two cups of water were finished and tossed, and reality must be faced again.

The final 3km were a total agonizing blur, but two images persist. One is of the smiling friendly faces of the Canadians lining the final portions of the race, their handprinted signs of encouragement and their words of inspiration.

The second is of the prone, motionless body of a man in the middle of the street about a half mile from the finish. Several ambulances had gathered at an intersection not far from the finish and when I spied them from afar I thought they must be there as a preventative measure. Then I saw the guy, lying in a puddle of his own... I'd rather not speculate, surrounded by medics. Completely motionless, spandexed legs splayed. Not a victim of vehicular manslaughter, but a victim of... what? Dehydration? Hubris? A faulty heart valve? At the bottom of my barrel, I painfully contemplated what separated that guy from me. How much separated his condition from mine? Was it a small degree? A cup of gatorade, an electrolyte pill, a packet of Gu? A long run? A track workout? A good night's sleep? A glass of beer at mile 20? I was ashamed to think of his demise, and ashamed to acknowledge the relief that I was not that guy. I was also startled to think that I might be that guy.

This was no Modest Euphoria. Here was no runner's high. This was a human being prostrate on the cement. This moment felt completely IM-modest to me, and whatever the antithesis of euphoria is. I felt a little angry, though relieved to have the luxury of anger.

I turned a corner, and saw the finish line. There it was -- a horizontal blue banner encapsulating a digital time display, weaving and bobbing on my horizon like the seafarer's view of the distant shoreline. I squeezed my eyelids around this focal point, trying to make the horizon stay horizontal, and suddenly felt the energy of the crowd that had materialized along the latter stages of the course. There were thousands of people on the sidewalks, cheering for friends, family and strangers. There were people shouting my name, and the collective din rose in my consciousness and I felt like a rock star maybe for the first time in my life.

For the final quarter mile of my first marathon, I was finally able to ignore the cramping in my legs, the agony of being upright, and pounded my arms and fists in a rhythmic arc, forced my knees forward and up, and maintained some semblance of running form. Mostly, I tried to maintain something less than a grimace on my face. I was in pain, and I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry for the knifeblades in my legs, but I also wanted to cry for the masses of humanity who had come to cheer the runners.

I staggered down the exit area, clutching my plastic blanket and finisher's medal, fighting back tears, wondering if my tears were for the outrageous "4:25" I saw on the finish clock or for the pain in my legs or for...? Was I happy? Sad? Relieved? Had I accomplished something?

What had I accomplished? I finished a marathon, simply. Some families have that first person who goes to college, and the event is considered a great moment. My father is a doctor, so I'm certainly not the first collegian in my family and I'm definitely not the most accomplished. On the other hand, I'm definitely the first person to run a marathon. I do not come from an athletic family; my genetic heritage boasts an amazing ability to hoard fat for the lean times of winter. It seems that some of my siblings have mastered the art, in fact.

My crossing the finish line is a HUGE accomplishment. "Just finishing" was not a goal I would have acknowledged as worthy four and a half hours earlier, but at the moment I crossed the finish line, I was completely satisfied that I had done something worthwhile.

At the bottom of the exit ramp, while huddled with a group of recent finishers as we waited to enter the finisher's plaza, I glanced left and saw a 15 year old boy playing a simple acoustic guitar attached to an amp, while singing the words from Five For Fighting's Superman...

.....I'm not that naive
I'm just out to find
The better part of me.

I'm more than a bird
I'm more than a plane
I'm more than some a pretty face beside a train.
And it's not easy to be me......


I coughed, choked, and stopped pretending I didn't want to cry. I completely lost it.

My tears were for joy, for despair, for triumph, even disaster. I was acquainted with all the above; they were my constant companions. Marathoning had given me a way to stay in touch with all these friends of mine. Triumph without disaster would be lonely indeed, just as my life's joys cannot live without its despairs.

Life is a Giant Mixed Metaphor

You never have a second first time.

Half a lifetime ago, I had sex for the first time. That moment stands apart from all other sexual experiences not because it was wonderful or memorable in and of itself, but simply because it was... the first.

In 2 days I will run a marathon for the first time. It will be my only first marathon.

I've thought a lot about firsts lately. The first time I kissed a girl, my first day of kindergarten, my first bicycle, my first painful disappointment, the first time I truly fell in love, my first basketball game, my first car, the first time I saw The Matrix.

All of these firsts remain with me because of their ordinality, not necessarily because of their profundity.

In a way, I'm kind of sad that my first marathon will soon be in my past. For the past couple years I have been savoring my first marathon, preparing for it, visualizing the experience, experimenting with strategies and training techniques, talking to experienced marathoners, reading books about running and athletic nutrition, patiently willing my body to what I considered to be an inevitability.

Now the time has come to put my first behind me. Indeed, I made a commitment 2 years ago that my first marathon would not be my ONLY marathon. I didn't want to be one of those people who puts "Run a marathon" on their list of things to do before the age of 40, then cross it off and move on to whatever comes next ("Buy a house"?, "Climb Mt. Rainier"?). This is precisely why I backed out of a couple marathons for which I was not sufficiently trained. I feared injury and an experience so negative that I would be unlikely to want to repeat it.

Therefore, I am very much looking forward to this event.

Let me share with you what the past few days have been like.

My pre-race taper period has left me feeling quite restless. I've reduced my training volume considerably in the past several days, and I feel like I want to jump out of my skin! The whole purpose of a taper period is to arrive at the start line of a race feeling rested and physically eager for the event -- not completely drained. I think I've accomplished that much, in any case.

On the other hand, I do not feel 100% prepared for this event. I definitely followed the training schedule during the past six months -- for the most part. I'm sure somewhere around mile 20 of my marathon I'll suddenly remember with much clarity exactly HOW MANY workouts I skipped! But I have no doubt I will finish the 26.2 mile course. My only unknown is how much will I suffer, and for how long.

No matter how long this race takes me, the result will be a Personal Best time -- my own record. I am guaranteed not to run slower than I've ever run before.

Because this is my FIRST marathon.

It will not be my last.