Running Like an Antelope: Ten years later - Eisenhower Marathon

Wow. Has it really been 10 years?

A decade ago last month, I ran my fastest marathon ever and, in the process, fell head-over-heels in love with the Midwest.

Since the previous year, I had been on a mission to qualify for the Boston Marathon. Falling mere seconds short at the New Jersey Marathon in 2008 (my second 26.2-miler) bummed me out but also made me more determined. I did some research and found a tiny marathon in the middle of nowhere in Kansas.

Kansas! Hey, it is flat there; and if it is flat, that means I could run a fast race. And if I could run a fast race, then I could go to Boston. It was, I did and I did.

In the decade since, I have qualified for Boston nine more times. Yet, despite some valiant efforts, I never did best that PR time of 3:04:42 (though my result at the Mississippi Gulf Coast Marathon is debatable). So, here is the tale of my journey through Abilene, KS, as written in the weeks after the Eisenhower Marathon, 10 years ago. I have also included some video clips from that first adventure to the beautiful Midwest.

April 11, 2009

The start was delayed about a half-hour due to late registrants, so the 556 runners (the total for the marathon, half-marathon, 10K and 5K) had to wait in the chilly morning air before the start of the race. Still, it would be hard to complain - the sky was clear, the wind was calm and it was forecast to be a beautiful, sunny day. We were more than ready to go when we were finally given the start command.

I took my first few steps and pressed "play" on my iPod, which was set to play Phish's entire show from Aug. 26, 1989 because it was exactly the length of my goal time - three hours and 10 minutes. "Fluffhead" began the show in my headphones and, after heading south along Buckeye (the main drag through town) for two miles, the course took a turn into Brown Memorial Park and on its winding pedestrian path.

There were no mile clocks but there were mile markers, so it was up to me to manage my pace. To keep from being too obsessive about it, I only allowed myself to look at my stopwatch every three miles. The goal pace was 7:15, so 21:45 was the magic number for each chunk. At the three mile mark, I looked at my time - it was under 21 minutes. Too fast, as usual. I remembered the advice from that girl I had met two years before, spoken in a very measured tone: "Don't. Start. Out. Too. Fast." I had not heeded it in any of my three marathons. Too late now, I slowed down a bit and made an effort to enjoy the scenery of the park.

During these first few miles, a fellow runner named Ken told me that he liked my pace and asked if I minded if he stayed with me. I told him I was gunning for a 3:10, so if that was his goal, then feel free to stick with me because I was determined to get it.

Out of the park at the fifth mile marker, we continued back to K-15. A man was calling out times at the half-marathon turnaround point (6.55 miles) - 48 minutes and change. I felt a tinge of panic because I had slowed down too much and was now behind schedule. Looking ahead at the long stretch of road in front of us, I saw some folks in the distance and told Ken, "See those people? We're going to catch up to them."

We did, and by the ninth mile, we were right on target, in the 65-minute range. Two more miles of wonderful, flat straightaway led to a right turn and a slight hill. Perhaps to Kansans, this was a tough climb (I did hear some complaints), but compared to what I am used to in New Jersey, it was a simple incline. I told Ken that if we pushed on our way up, we'd be able to relax and coast on our way back down.

Remembering my lessons from the 2008 New Jersey Marathon, I began my extra fueling at the 12-mile mark. Dipping into my pocketful of energy gels, I grabbed a chewable Power Bar Energy Gel, chomped it and washed it down with some Gatorade from the bottle I had been carrying. I always train with bottle in hand, so running races with it never feels awkward. The downside to carrying my fuel is that it adds extra weight. The upsides are far greater: I fuel at the times to which I am accustomed (every three miles), I never have to slow down at aid stations, and I feel lighter as the race goes on because I'm depleting the bottle in hand and packets in pockets.

Almost at the halfway mark, Ken asked if my legs were starting to hurt. My legs felt great - fresh and strong - but Ken was starting to feel the burn. He told me that it was his first marathon and I warned him that this was a pretty fast pace for a first-timer.

At the turnaround point, another volunteer was calling out times. The push leading up to it put us about a minute ahead of schedule. I told Ken that we were now able to re-gain our strength in the steady downhill, but he was fading fast. He told me to go on ahead, but I did not want to abandon someone who had come so far using me as a pacer. I told him we could hang back for the next couple of miles and I offered some encouragement. He insisted I move on because he did not want to slow me down. Bidding him farewell and good luck, I pressed on. I had a goal to meet.

I had not been paying much attention to the Phish show while running with Ken, but now my mind focused on "AC/DC Bag" playing softly in my ears and I rounded the turn into the 16th mile. Back on the long straightaway, I was also noticing the runners headed the opposite way toward the halfway mark. I recognized several people including Duke, the race organizer, and a woman from New York City I had met at the pasta dinner. As I exchanged waves and received encouragement from all of these familiar faces, I realized that even though there were no spectators on this course and the field of marathon runners was only 185 strong, this was a personal experience no big marathon could offer. I could not wipe the smile off my face for the next few miles.

But the smile faded during in the 20th mile. I was still ahead of schedule, but instead of counting the miles that were racking up behind me, I started counting down the miles ahead. It seemed like an eternity between the 20th and 21st mile marker. Seeing it as I rounded the corner and headed back toward the park, I felt relieved as I checked my stopwatch - still ahead of schedule by a few minutes. I thought I had slowed down, but I was chugging along at the same pace as I had been an hour before.

Sucking down my third packet of Gu Energy Gel, I navigated the twists of the park. I began feeling fatigued. I had not quite hit the wall, but I was losing strength. The strange delirium that I had experienced in my previous marathon started creeping in. I was unfocused, my form was deteriorating as my heels were striking my ankles, my thoughts were getting scattered and I started trying to convince myself that I should slow down. The same park that I sped through at the beginning of the race now seemed to go on forever. The path’s twists and turns felt exaggerated, each one harder to negotiate than the last. Someone passed me. Instead of trying to catch up, I let him go. In my headphones, Phish was prompting me, "Set the gearshift for the high gear of your soul/You've got to run like an antelope out of control," and, boy, I was trying.

Finally out of the park, I hit the 24 mile mark and checked the stopwatch one last time. The sight of it broke me from my stupor. Two hours and fifty minutes - I was going to make my goal and there was no doubt about it. I had 20 minutes to run 2.2 miles. I could run 10-minute miles from this point and still qualify for the Boston Marathon. But, after some bargaining in my addled brain, I forced myself not to do so.

Straightening up my form and regaining control of my body, I focused on finishing strong. Reaching my goal was a given, now I was in a position to shatter my goal time. All I could think about was the fact that I had succeeded. Everything was worth it - the heartache of the previous year, the hard training of the previous 18 weeks, flying out to the Midwest. All of it culminated in this unbelievably joyous and triumphant moment. My thoughts: Savor it, Dan. You did it.

In the last mile, I felt so good, I even made an attempt to overtake the runner in front of me. Seeing the clock at three hours and four minutes made it as emotional a moment as can be imagined. Tears of joy were streaming down my face (why does this happen at the end of every marathon?) as I shouted to the few spectators...

"I love you, Kansas! I'm going to Boston! Thank you, Kansas! THANK YOU!"