It was a secret for everyone else and then a surprise for myself.
Unbeknownst to my friends and family (who were worried that I was overdoing it), I jumped right back into marathon training, starting in the middle of the Hal Higdon Advanced program with an eye on a Maryland race on Nov. 17. I wanted to continue my one-per-state streak, but needed something drive-able because I could not afford another big airplane trip. I knocked out 18, 19, and 20 mile runs with surprising ease.
In the meantime, my dear grandfather from Cape Coral, Fla., passed away. You may recall that I was supposed to run a marathon in his hometown last year, but it was cancelled. And then he was gone and I would never get to show him my stuff and make him proud of his grandson's accomplishments in running.
I stretched the budget and booked a flight for the memorial service, landing in Florida on Friday, Aug. 8. That evening, I looked at the local paper and saw an article about a new marathon taking place on Sunday, a mere 12 miles away from Cape Coral. I made up my mind right there. I announced at the memorial service the next day that I was going to run that race for Grandpa and my cousin was going to run the half-marathon.
Mikey and I got to Fort Myers Beach before the crack of dawn to do race-day registration. We got our bibs, stretched a bit and hit the start line. There was no time to be nervous or to over-think it.
This being Florida, the course was almost entirely flat. However, this being Florida, it was hot and humid. I had been training in the increasingly colder northeast. Heck, Mikey had not been training at all. Shirtless, with my bib on my right leg and Grandpa's old business card on my left, I headed out of the starting gate with 230 marathoners and 558 half-marathoners. Within a half mile, we went over the bridge out of the beach town - the one "hill" (and it was big).
Deliberately hanging back and trying my hardest to start out slow, I somehow knocked out almost precise 7:17 splits up to Mile 13, directly on target for my modest but challenging goal of 3:11. But by then it was around 8:30 a.m. and the sun was heating things up. And since most of this section of the race took place on main roads like San Carlos Boulevard and Summerlin Avenue, there was a lot of blacktop to add to the heat. Perhaps that is why my 8:08 13th mile gave way to a 6:47 14th mile once we got into beautiful Lakes Park.
Inside the park there were a bunch of twists and turns within the double loop along its paths. Some were tree lined and paved, some dirt, some little foot bridges over water. The new terrain helped me stay within a reasonable if not ideal time frame, with 7:20-ish splits for miles 15 through 19.
I watched the people coming at me on the backside of the loop, and noticed that I was consistently passing people that had been far ahead of me in the first half of the race. I counted as they passed, and as I passed others. I was in eighth place! Then seventh...sixth...fifth...fourth!
Then it was back out on the road and time to keep on keeping on. It was lonely out there in miles 20 through 22. No other runners around me, cars speeding by, only a handful of spectators. A fast female runner passed me - she looked strong, I was fizzling out. 7:55 splits.
Amazingly, I passed her at the next water station and she never returned to overtake me. I was back in fourth...and then I passed a guy who looked more burned out than I was.
But I was definitely burning out. I wondered if I would ever see that Mile 23 sign. It seemed like forever. It was more than eight minutes. Ditto for Mile 24.
But then, like a beacon of hope, I saw the bridge back to FMB. I just had to get over that bridge and I was home free, right?
Not quite. I was in Mile 25 and the bridge was only a half-mile from the finish, so where was that extra mile? As this question hit me, I was instructed to turn left. Just. Before. The. Bridge. It was heartbreaking. And that, I believe, is what caused me to slam into The Wall.
"Who hits the wall in Mile 25???" is all I kept thinking as my body started shutting down and the run turned into a shuffle. Grunting and groaning as I passed people who were walking the half-marathon, I pushed up the bridge.
"Push...push...push...Got...to...do...it...for...Grandpa..."
Cresting the bridge with a 9+ minute pace for the last two miles, I tried as best as I could to lengthen my stride, no matter how much it hurt. This was for Grandpa. This was how I would have wanted him to see me finish. Strong. Just like he was.
Mikey was on the sidelines, taking video of my final approach as I yelled, "This is for Grandpa!"
With a final time of 3:18 and a third-place standing, I was more than happy. I kissed the sky, loudly proclaimed my dedication of the race to George Sorrentino, and collected my medal.
Excepting the disasters in Delaware and Utah, this was my slowest marathon. Yet it felt as good as my best races.
This is what I learned right then and there: If the goal is not a PR, but rather something more existential, then the clock time does not really matter. What matters is finishing strong. What matters is feeling good about the accomplishment. What matters is making Grandpa proud, even if he is not here to say so.
(official results and photos at FortMyersMarathon.com)
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