It was Sunday evening, around 18:45, when my friend Sabine called. She wanted to check in with me and see how I did in the Chicago Marathon, and ask if I'd be willing to go help her move a couple boxes into her new condo. That silly girl! Here I was, barely able to walk with an unmistaken limp with pains shooting out of my knees and sore muscles all over my legs and shoulders, and my friend asked me to help her move some small items. Being French that she was, I text messaged her husband to let them know that a marathon is 46.195 kilometers long, in case if she didn't understand exactly what 26.2 miles entailed.
Instead of going out to dinner with them, I opted to stay in, for I was dying with exhaustion and had a 07:10 flight to catch Monday morning. I wanted at least six hours of sleep. I tried to watch the Bears-Packers game, but I was too busy cooking, showering and packing for my business trip to Seattle. Besides, we were doing horribly against the 4-0 team. Of course, it turned out that I should've stayed up to watch the game because we had won...
Anyway, I went over to Myke's place on Saturday night because he lived smack in the middle of downtown, a few blocks away from the Start of the Chicago Marathon. The idea was to get as much sleep as possible, and not worry about waking up early enough to deal with public transportation or parking. Unfortunately, my day's activity on Saturday ran longer than expected, and I didn't get to sleep till 23:30.
Before I left for Seattle the Sunday of September 30, I briefly looked up the weather forecast throughout the week in Chicago. It was going to be a scorcher for much of the weekdays due to a troublesome high pressure system that kept the jet stream north of Chicago. But at that time, the forecast called for cooler temperatures come Sunday. And of course, by the time I returned home from Seattle this past Friday, the forecast for that heat had been wrong, and the high pressure was going to stay longer. Change of plans as far as clothing goes.
I packed two running outfits with me, one for the hot and muggy type of weather, and another for more of a regular warm weather. Obviously I ended up picking out the tank top that was touted by Nike to be cling-free and best for moisture management. Unfortunately though, that exact tank top would be black. So that was my first tough decision for the marathon, which turned out to be one of several critical decisions I faced throughout the day.
The next decision was if I should bring my hydration belt or not. A hydration belt with four eight ounce bottles certainly can weigh a runner down during a race as opposed to a training run which is typically slower. Since the race organizers had already planned out and finalized the route for months, I knew that with the heat, I might not be able to last between the 15 aid stations about one to two miles apart. So I decided to wear my hydration belt to the race, as well as making extra Accelerade in a bottle for Myke to carry for refill later on the middle of the race where we had planned to meet.
When I was ready on Sunday morning, Myke and I did a brisk jog to the start of the race so that my muscles could warm up enough to stretch. Even my 16 minute mile jog, which was quite slow, at 07:00 made me glisten a lot. I knew right then and there that it wasn't going to be a good day, especially when I had planned to do well in this marathon after the disaster that was the
2006 Arizona Rock 'n Roll Marathon. This was going to be my first marathon which I had trained for, with plans of not getting any injury, unlike my last attempt.
As I stood in the corral for the 4:15 finish time group, I waited patiently while taking pictures and eavesdropping on other runners' conversation. After all, I was running by myself, whereas the others who I had been training with all summer long were in a slower pace group. I stood by an old Japanese couple who had flown in from Japan, and I was quite inspired and awed that these two were lined up in the 4:15 group. On the back of the old Japanese man's shirt was the route of the Tokyo Marathon, which he had run in. That was freaking inspiring.
When the line moved forward for the top 10 competitors after the national anthem was sung, emotions began running high. People were wooting and cheering. Runners were pumped, and everybody got closer together. It was so close that I could feel the warmth and energy emenating from my fellow runners. Adrenaline pumped throughout my body. I wanted to just break out and run, were it not for the massive crowd. The moment sank in when we all walked under the start sign, while the repetitive beeps of the electronic timing chip computer logged each passing runner.
Yup, this is definitely the point of no return.I started out slowly, running a brisk 11 minute mile. I wanted to start out with a sound mindset and not get carried with the crowd, because if you get caught up in the excitement, you may accidentally run faster than you have trained for, which may cause you to be tired sooner easily. Surprisingly, the first mile came faster than I thought, even though in the reality of time, it was just perfect. Our first mile took us by the famed
Millennium Park and under the
BP Bridge.
My second mile was kind of interesting, because we had to run on the bridge over the Chicago river on State Street. When you're driving over the grated bridge, you'd never think anything more than the loud noise your tires make when going over them. But when on foot, it became weird. I had to run like a duck with my feet pointed outwards, because I didn't want to twist my ankles over the long and wide gaps of the metal grates. Unfortunately, I saw a woman trip and fall face forward on the bridge about 25 yards to my right. Fortunately, other runners around her helped her up and ensured that she was okay. And around that time, a couple really cute girls yelled out my name and cheered, "Go John!" The night prior, I spent lots of quality time with Myke and Sharyl's cutting board, kitchen knives, and duct tape, whereby I created perfectly shaped block letters that spelled out my name for the front and back of my top. These girls were running faster than me, and they introduced themselves as Team Fish.
Right after the bridge, I saw two portable toilets, but there was a long line of runners. Just then, I saw a couple runners run to the alley before the toilets and disappeared into the loading dock of a really nice, black marbled office building. I ran back to the alley, and made peace with the pee gods along with four other runners. I certainly hoped the building janitors and engineers didn't mind the impromptu conversion of their loading dock into a temporary stink zone. This would be the first and last time I would pee throughout the entire race.
Myke and I rendezvoused at
Mile 3, on the LaSalle Street bridge over the Chicago River. Our friend Jeff was there too, and they both snapped pictures of me. At that point in time, my spirits were still high. I even had a smile from ear to ear and posed for the camera. And then I went into a zone right away. I think I was keeping a pretty steady pace for the next four miles, and I don't even remember passing the major streets of Fullerton (
Mile 6) and Belmont (
Mile 7) except for the constant cheers from the crowd calling the names of a Katie and Erin, with a sprinkle of John here and there. I assumed that those two girls must be good looking, and running my pace, because their names got called for miles and miles and miles.
The only thing I remembered next was when I reached the northern tip of the race course where I had to turn on Addison. I recognized it because that is where my friend Erin lived, and I was in the lookout for her in the crowd. But I didn't hear or see her. The course on Addison was short before turning south on Broadway for
Mile 8. This is where my other friends Maria and Matt live, and I was hoping to see them too. But I didn't remember passing their apartment, nor did I see them. But I think I was temporarily distracted by a cute spectator holding up a sign that read "I FARTED" and a stage full of men in drag and pretty ponytails and skirts doing the cheer. Instantaneously I recognized that I was entering
Boystown, a neighborhood so nicknamed because of the prolific gay community there.
I was back in the zone for the next couple miles, until I passed
Mile 10 where we turned onto North Avenue. I recognized the road, and was beginning to feel excited because I knew it was getting close to being halfway there. And I was holding up a steady 11 minute mile pace still. So far, I had run continuously without stopping, and I was proud of that. But when I got near the Fleet Feet station on North Avenue, I thought my worst fear had come through. Instead of paying attention to the ground below me, I was looking at the Fleet Feet station and all their cheers, and I accidentally stepped into a giant pothole slightly wider than my foot and significantly longer. My entire right foot sank in and landed at the bottom at an angle, twisting my ankle on the way. I yelled out a quick
Shit! and limped out of the pothole. I slowed down a bit to make sure that no race-killing damage had occurred. Thankfully, I soldiered on.
The one and a half miles between
Mile 10.5 and
12 along Wells street back into downtown Chicago was the toughest stretch during the first half of the marathon. The many signs that spectators were holding up reading "Back to Downtown!" were an encouragement, yet I couldn't see the loop. All I could see was the long stretch of runners' head bobbing up and down into the horizon, and a rather tiny Sears Tower. That was certainly a psych out point for me.
By the time I reached downtown, I was just a mile away from the half way point. I finally looked up and marveled at the beauty of concrete, steel and glass that surrounded me. I felt as if I was running in a huge valley of concrete cliff walls. And my GPS watch concurred, because it couldn't get a fix from the satellites above. When I finally turned west onto Adams Street for
Mile 13, I was pleased to see Myke and Jeff again. By this time, I had already consumed two of the three Accel energy gels and two of the four bottles of Accelerade. I stopped on the Adams Street bridge over the Chicago River and chatted with them for a few seconds. After getting three more packets of the Accel energy gels and giving Myke my two empty bottles so that he could refill and pass them back to me at
Mile 17 (our next rendezvous point), I took off and crossed the half marathon split. I was quite elated that I did that in 2:14:14.
The long stretch west on Adams Street was a little bit brutal, because the sun was right behind us beating down on our necks and backs. But I ran towards
Mile 15 with determination and a hint of stubbornness. After passing
Mile 15 and heading back east on Jackson Street, I decided to take in another Accel energy gel. This was when trouble began for me that forced me to walk. And I was rather disappointed too, because I wasn't tired or anything. Of all possible things, I suddenly developed a piercing itch somewhere in my right tonsil and began coughing uncontrollably. Just when I thought I would push harder in the second half, I ended up walking between mile 15.5 and 16.6. As thick, clear mucous continued to build up in my throat, I was brainstorming why that was happening to me. If anything, I was quite perplexed, because before leaving Myke's place that morning, I had taken Zyrtec to prevent from being attacked by allergies. Yet I was experiencing the very classic symptom of something like pollen stuck in my throat on a day when I forgot my allergy pills!
After walking for a mile into
Mile 16.5, I decided to start running again. The next designated rendezvous with Myke and Jeff was going to be at
Mile 17, and to hell if I was going to let him catch me walking. This is a guy who has been running lots of marathons and been attempting to qualify for the Boston continuously. I couldn't possibly display a poor show of athleticism, especially when it was not tiredness or fatigue that made me walk, but a freaking allergy attack. The run towards
Mile 17 south on Halsted was probably the stretch where my eyes watered the most and I hocked loogies continuously to get rid of whatever it was lodged in my tonsil. I'm sure the runners around me were getting really disgusted with me, but hey, you gotta do what you gotta do sometimes.
My first disappointment occurred during the Halsted stretch at
Mile 17. Myke wasn't present, and I only had half a bottle of Accelerade left, and I needed my refills. Furthermore, it was on this stretch where I saw a runner take off his shoe on the sidewalk in disgust and angrily threw it against the wall. I assumed that he must have gotten injured or somehow disabled and he knew he had to stop despite still having it left in him to finish. Then he picked up his shoe again from where it bounced off the wall and threw it against the wall again before yelling
F**k! It was demoralizing, because for the most of us, we have trained almost half a year for this day, and for something unexpected cutting your race short was simply disappointing at best. And finally, the last disappointing thing about this stretch was that I totally forgot the course went west on Taylor for a mile, then south on Ashland, then east on 18th, before turning south again on Halsted. As a result, this was my second psych out point, because as someone who lives here in Chicago, the whole time I was thinking I wasn't far from Chinatown, which was at
Mile 21. But I was actually quite far away.
When I turned west on Taylor towards
Mile 18, I ran by Little Italy. I could smell the wonderful Italian aroma in the air, and it was certainly pleasant. That alone got me past my psych out shocker. But before I reached the lone PowerBar Power Gel station right before
Mile 18, I saw my first runner down on the sidewalk, being cradled by fellow runners and spectators. I felt sorry and wanted to help along with the others, but I knew more hands would make matters worse. So I kept on running.
By the time I turned south on Ashland past
Mile 18, I decided that the little bit of sprinkles on my torso and head wasn't going to cut it, so I took my proactive measures to the next level. Whenever I see an aid station or a water hose thanks to the generosity of my fellow Chicagoans, I would just dump it slowly all over me from head to toe. I had reservations about this initially, but after seeing another runner down and unconscious along Ashland,* I decided that the risk of soggy socks and blisters on my feet far outweighed the potential fatal harms of heat stroke.
When I turned east on 18th at
Mile 19, it finally dawned on me that I needed to reevaluate my desire of reaching my 4:15 goal time. I figured with the allergy attack previously that resulted in almost a mile of continuous walking, I would reset my expectation to finishing at 4:30, given the fact that I would make up some of the lost time by pushing harder later on. But alas, I got another dose of fright when I saw more runners down. Instead of just one here and there, now I was seeing downed runners more frequently.
And worst of all, the field was now a clusterf**k. Instead of the usual sight of runners who also had similar goal times as myself with +/- 15 minutes, I was seeing a field of runners in the 3:30 pace group all the way to the elite competitors carrying bib numbers with preferred starts of B, C and D! And here I was, a general runner who couldn't even qualify for a preferred corral start, and I was catching up to some of the seasoned runners!
This was a turning point for me, because I decided to yet lower my 4:30 goal to anything sub-5:00, and kicked in my strategy thinking hat. I decided that from then on, I would walk in the full blast of the sun, and run only when the shades of tall buildings and scattered clouds could afford me. Not to be a total wuss or anything, as I thought about the Valley of Death Marathon in the dead of summer where temperatures could reach 130 degrees, I understood my limits and what I've been training for. Those Valley of Death marathoners dedicated themselves through months of training in the heat, and the course was probably planned towards that, unlike the Chicago Marathon, which has been traditionally cooler.
Finally, I reached
Mile 20 and began heading south on Halsted again. This is where they passed out huge sponges drenched in ice cold water. I took a sponge, and instead of wasting it by squeezing the all the water onto my head, I took the smart route and placed it under my collar behind my neck. I figured that I could give myself an exemption from the no-running-in-direct-sunlight rule when I have a constant trickle of water coming down from the sponge. And boy, did it help ever!
Unfortunately, not all my strategy has been stellar so far, because as I started running again, I could feel my heart pounding hard with pain. I instantly recognized that when I got really spooked during the last couple miles after witnessing so many downed runners, I accidentally over-hydrated myself. And my mistake was not without warrant, because my being spooked was also exacerbated by the fact that Myke wasn't there at
Mile 17 as planned, and by then I only had half a bottle of Accelerade on me so I was drinking a cup of Gatorade
and a cup of water at each and every aid station instead of just one cup of either. Oh, and I should add here that there was a banana station along with the sponge, and even on asphalt, water, Gatorade and banana peels just provided for a very dangerous running condition, which I had to wait till the ground was no longer yellowish for some yards before I could run again.
Although my chest was pounding in pain and I felt like puking, I pressed on. I focused myself and slowly returned into the zone that I did not even realize that I had passed
Mile 21. Then I was suddenly greeted with the loud clanging and banging of Chinese drums and cymbals, and I instantly recognized that I had entered Chinatown. I whipped out my Canon SD20 camera from my back pocket, and was ready to take pictures of the Chinese lions dancing in the corner of Cermak and Wentworth, as well as the gate adorned in American and Taiwanese flags that I will be running underneath. Sadly, either my battery died prematurely, or the excessive sweat and constant dousing of water rendered the camera unresponsive. I really wanted a picture of the beautiful crowds at that corner under the gate, because it has large Taiwanese flags, which I used to be a citizen of.
Despite the lost Kodak Moment opportunity, running through Chinatown was a big morale boost. Strangely, there weren't proportionally more Asian spectators in the crowd than anywhere else along the course on average, yet I got cheered on the most, unlike the first part of the course heading north when more people were cheering on a Katie and Erin. I was ecstatic, and I ran harder with a smile. Although the cheering and hearing my name yelled out in encouragement is always welcome, there is a side effect which I really don't like. I am not one of those runners who will not acknowledge spectators when cheered on, so I will always smile, say thanks, raise my hands with thumbs up, or point my finger at the spectator. And I was getting
really tired with raising my arms through Chinatown, especially I hardly said thanks when I was breathing hard while running harder. It was all appreciated, nonetheless.
Then my first major blow to the race came at the 35 km mark, when I could see the clock atop the
Mile 22 post some yards ahead. There was a loud announcement from race organization volunteers and paramedics telling us that the race has been cancelled due to excessive dangerous heat. Runners all around me got dejected, and some even got pissed! I thought it was a cruel joke, until I saw the clock read "C" on the 35 km split timer. As I ran over the timing mat, I didn't hear a beep from the computer. Then I heard one runner scream, "They can't cancel the race when we have reached 22 miles!!! It's just not fair!" I kept my mouth shut, but ran anyway, until I saw yet another runner down. I decided to walk. The blaring message over the loudspeaker said to the effect of the race being canceled and we are to walk until buses could pick us up. After hearing that, I decided to walk and grab another banana at the aid station past
Mile 22. After all, with so many runners out there, I was certain that I would have to wait to get on a bus, and wait some more while on the bus, and the last thing I wanted was to be hungry while standing or sitting still for hours. So the banana was to be a snack for the eventual and impending bus ride.
I walked and walked and walked, and before long, I turned east onto 33rd Street, a cool half mile later. No sight of any buses. I saw a couple runners in front of me pull out a sweat-drenched map, and I glanced at it quickly to memorize the remainder of the course, because by then I decided to run as far as I can until I was forced out of the race. I would then time myself up to the distance where I would be forced off the course for my own personal keeping. So I began running again. With a banana in my hand. And every time I passed a major intersection, I memorized the cross streets and the time on my watch.
But as I kept on running, I saw no buses. I saw no course marshals roping off the course. I then hit
Mile 23, which was designated as the
International Mile. There was a huge banner under an overpass with large Korean letters. To the side of it was an English translation, which read, "Running For Dream." That poor grammar was probably the biggest pick-me-up in an otherwise dejected race after being told it was canceled.
As I ran past
Mile 24, along with the recent pick-me-up humor fresh in my head, I decided to run to the finish, no matter what. So I threw away my "snack for the bus" banana onto the sidewalk where there were a few kids sitting there, and I found some renewed energy. I thought that if I didn't finish this, I would be really pissed. And the funny part was that my motivation was for the wrong reasons! Instead of wanting to finish a race without injury and under 5:00:00, I now question my sanity for my reasoning back then. If I didn't finish the race, I would have wasted a lot of money for buying two finishers' plaques, one for me and one for my parents, as they were non-refundable. Furthermore, I have invested heavily in this race: a commemorative jacket, several technical clothing articles highlighting the popular annual Chicago sporting event, and more. It would all mean nothing to me if I didn't finish the race. I know, that was somewhat morbid, but it did the job, considering I don't make that much money to begin with.
Starting with
Mile 23, the announcement by the race volunteers that the race was over came more frequently and loudly. To pour more salt on fresh wound, a police helicopter kept on flying in laps following the course with a loud bullhorn that we all should walk, because the race was over. I heard conflicting stories from volunteers along the course between
Mile 23 and
25. "The race is officially closed, you will not get your chip timed!" "The race is closed, but you can still walk to the finish and get your chip timed!" "You can stop now; there will be buses available to take you back to the finish!"
Well, which is it?!? The Chicago Fire Department is saying one thing, the race volunteers are saying another, and the Chicago Police Department is saying something different. And to add to the confusion, the spectators continued to cheer on us. "You can do it! You're almost there!"
'Nuff said!That was the last thing that came into my head before I started running harder. Sadly though, that newfound burst of energy and determination didn't last long. After getting doused in lots of water and running in soggy socks for more than an hour, it was apparent that three more blisters had began to form, besides the other three that felt like I was born with (one on the left big toe, one on the right big toe and one on the ball of my right feet). In particular, one of the new blisters was on the bottom of my foot between the big and second toes. I have never had that before, and if I walked, it felt like a burning itch, but if I ran and put pressure on it, it stung like acid was being dripped into an open wound. Not only did the new blisters discourage me, but Myke was right in that after passing
Mile 23, the next three miles north on Michigan Avenue would be tough. After all, it was only two miles, but each block seemed to take longer to pass than if I was taking a leisurely walk while shopping downtown. On top of all that, you could see the glory that is downtown from there. Yeah, that was yet another psych out point. Well, not really a point, but a three mile long psych out.
As I walked and took refuge in the shades of tall buildings of Prairie District, I started feeling down. With all the announcements and the constant reminder of the police helicopter hovering over my head, I was sure I would be forced off the course. As I approached
Mile 25, I saw several CTA buses drive down the course in the opposite direction of the race. BUSES ON THE COURSE! As I got closer to the buses, I noticed that there was a personnel in bright orange event uniform with the huge letters: MD. I thought for a second, before realizing that it probably stood for Medical Director.
Shit, he is shutting down the course! I thought that was finally it, and I quickly looked at my watch. 4:45.
4:45?Yes, 4:45!Instantly, instinct from many past races took over my mind and body. Pain none withstanding, I just took off running. I realized that if I started running at a pace of at least 11 minute mile, there was a good chance that I could
still finish the race with the remaining 1.2 miles under 5:00! Suddenly I had a clear and focused goal in my mind. I knew it was going to be a challenge, because I had been running 11 minute mile pace for the most part of the race, and I knew I was wiped out quickly. Not only was I running against time while looking at my watch every few seconds to monitor my pace, I was hoping against hope that the police and race organizers wouldn't block off the turn into Roosevelt right before the 26 mile mark.
Suddenly, I was in a whole new zone, this time with more concentration and focus then anywhere else on the course.
I can do it!Push harder!C'mon, you walked for almost four, if not five miles of the course. You have taken all the rest you need. Just do it!Among a sea of walkers, I began zigzagging through the crowd. There were times that I had go so far as to avoid groups of walkers that I would go from the east sidewalk of the street to the west sidewalk of the street, and I did that two more times! If you're familiar with Chicago, in that side of town, Michigan Avenue is a four lane road with an extra turning lane in the middle, essentially making it a total of five lanes! I couldn't believe I had to go to that extremes to avoid the throngs of walkers, but if there was ever any other moment in my life where I had to pull through so much adversity, it certainly wasn't ingrained in my memory.
With just 25 yards to go before turning east onto the Roosevelt overpass over Lake Shore Drive, I saw police cruisers driving south against the flow of the race course, with their bullhorns screaming, pleading the few remaining runners to stop. I didn't look behind me, as I had my eyes on the cruisers, but I could tell there were only four other runners ahead of me in a pool of walkers. One by himself, and a group of three to my right. As the cop in the passenger side of the lead cruiser pointed his finger at me while holding the radio microphone on his other hand, I heard a loud siren followed by, "This race is over! Don't run! Walk to the finish line!" Fortunately, I ran by him, and the cops in both cruisers did not jump out and tackle me as I had imagined.
Just as I turned the corner onto the Roosevelt overpass, I witnessed with my own naked eyes the famed "insurmountable hill." Sure, I have driven over this portion of Roosevelt many times before, but when on foot, it is more than just an insurmountable hill. The sight was so magnificently discouraging as if you were facing Mount Everest that the middle guy in the pack of three stumbled and nearly fainted. His friends to his sides quickly caught him by the arms, and helped him up.
I quickly ran past the group of three, and set my eyes on the other jogger in front of me. I rolled my eyes as I saw him against the backdrop of the "hill," and said loudly, "Here we go!" Just then, people on the left side of the course started cheering on me. There were what seemed like hundreds of walkers all over the overpass, so I was forced to run along the left edge of the course, inches away from the spectators. People were giving me high-fives, and yelling words of encouragement. I simply let it all sink in slowly, and kicked it up a notch. I concentrated so I could regulate my breathing while I tackled the hill.
I looked at my watch, and to my surprise, I was charging up at 10:45 minute mile pace. I'm sure that is slow for a lot of runners, but for someone like me after spending over four and a half hours in the grueling sun running almost 26 miles, that is freaking amazing on a steep hill nonetheless! And it didn't take me long before passing the lone runner in front of me.
As I moved closer and closer to the peak of the overpass, I almost got knocked in the head by some bored girl holding up a huge sign when she turned around with just a foot or two in front of me. Either I was just ugly that I disgusted her, or (hopefully) she just had to go pee. I thought to myself, "This is how I'm getting out of the race, with a freaking concussion thanks to a 13 year old girl."
When you're tired and your mind is in disarray, things seem exaggerated than reality. I thought my six foot body was sure to slam into the girl's sign, but luckily, I ran underneath her sign with inches to spare. I quickly refocused on the "hill." I must have blacked out or lost touch with the world momentarily, because I cannot remember for the life of me the moment between the girl with the sign and my actual reaching the peak of the overpass.
In fact, I only realized what had happened maybe 10 yards into the other side of the peak. From then on, I had a smile as wide as the world as I gently cruised down the hill. I looked at my watch, and it was 4:55:40. I knew right away that barring from a sudden attack of a heat cramp or twisting my ankle on the crack of the road, I was going to make it under five hours.
Under five hours!!!When I turned the final corner and started heading back north at
Mile 26 on Columbus Drive towards the Finish Line, either the world fell silent or my ear drums temporarily lost blood circulation. With just 0.2 mile left, the end was further than it appears. I began drifting towards the center of the course, but I saw five little hands reach out to my left right by the 300 meter mark. These kids didn't even know me, yet they were more excited than I was and had the eager eyes for me to high-five them as I ran by. And I'm not one to not respond to people who encourages me, so I drifted back to the left side of the course and high-fived them. Before the fourth hand was slapped, a fifth kid threw out an impromptu hand.
At that point in time, my emotion was, well, I don't think I can put a finger on it. With just 300 meters left, I felt excited. I also felt like I needed to release the built-up tension in me and cry because I had witnessed so many of my fellow brethren runners collapse along the way. I certainly have never, ever ran a race seeing even one single runner collapse, other than a slight trip and fall, where they picked themselves right back up. And best of all, I felt strong without any serious pain or injury that I could feel at the time.
Again I concentrated on my breathing, focusing deep breaths entirely through my mouth instead of in by nose and out by mouth, and began sprinting at 9:00 minute mile pace. I didn't know it at the time, and I couldn't hear anything just like in the movies when all you could hear was your own breathing, but my friends Myke, Erin and Aarthi were lined up on the left right by the 300 meter sign, next to the kids I had high-fived cheering on me.
While other runners were jogging slowly, relieved to see the Finish Line, I was passing everyone. Next came 200 meters. I pushed harder still. A little ahead of me was a guy who began limping after a short distance of light jogging. His two hot friends jumped the fence onto the course and carried him towards the Finish Line. Then I passed 100 meters. And I saw some course marshals motioning me to slow down, as if I was a maniacal driver speeding through a construction zone.
With just five steps left till the Finish Line, I caught a course marshal in the corner of my eye grabbing one of the two girls carrying their friend. "Miss, you can't come in here!" I wanted to defend the girls for their big-hearted support of their friend in the spirit of the human perseverance, but I decided that crowd management and public safety was of higher priority.
Within a second or two, the distinctive
beep could be heard chiming to my right. The crowds' cheers finally became audible. I kept on running in disbelief, and had to force myself to stop before running into tired runners in the final staging area. I wanted to cry. I wanted to just fall to the ground and close my eyes and relax.
Of course, what did I do? As soon as I saw the crane platform in the air with cameras pointing at my general vicinity, I told myself that this isn't the moment for any tears, but a smile and a fist up in the air! I hoped that one of the three cameramen had caught that shining moment, before turning my focus to reuniting with Myke and Erin.
My excitement and satisfaction soon dissipated, because I realized that I still had lots of energy left. I decided that it was not the time to mope, but celebrate and think of all the bad decisions I made during the race at a later time. And I found the perfect distraction from being self-analytical: the official finisher's photo shots! I was so silly that I struck different poses with different photographers. Yup! I had the
insanity to wait in three different lines to take three different poses!
I couldn't be any happier for finishing my first Chicago Marathon in what I now call my hometown! Especially so when my watch read 4:57:19, but my chip time recorded 4:56:59. It wasn't anywhere near my goal of 4:15, but after running a marathon in one of the most grueling environments ever, I think I'm more than happy that I even finished!
HISTORIC RECORDSMen's Finish:
Patrick Ivuti of Kenya beat Jaouad Gharib from Morocco by five-hundredths of a second, the closest finish in the Chicago Marathon's 30 year run... Both seemed to have crossed the finish line together, and officials had to rely on photo finish before announcing the winner a few minutes later.Women's Finish:
The women's race featured one of marathon's greatest comebacks in history with Ethiopian Berhane Adere sprinting past Romanian Adriana Pirtea, closing the 30 seconds gap between the two at the final 50 yards of the race. (
You absolutely must watch this YouTube video of how it played out in order to appreciate the very sport of the marathon; crank up the volume to hear the audio.)
Hottest Race: 2007 saw the hottest race temperature at 88 degrees (without humidity factor) in the Chicago Marathon's 30 year history. The previous record of 84 degrees was last recorded in 1979, a year before I was born.
Hottest Day in Chicago: 2007 saw the hottest October 7 ever recorded in the Chicago Weather Almanac, surpassing the previous record of 86 degrees in 1982.
No-Shows: According to race officials, approximately 10,000 of the capped 45,000 runners in the sold-out event did not even bother lining up for the race.
The Pee Dilemma: After peeing just once early in the race, I never peed again, despite drinking so much fluids. Yes, it was
that hot! In fact, after the race, I drank fluids all day, and I never peed! That goes to show how hot it was, as I was sweating
all of the liquids in me!
REFERENCECourse Map of the 2007 Chicago MarathonVideo of the Chicago Marathon Course in 10 Minutes* When I first saw the motion-less runner passed out with two fellow runners and a spectator cradling him, I thought it was just heat exhaustion. But when reports of a fatality came through, the initial pictures posted by the news struck a striking similarity in the facial features. Later on, I became sure that who I saw on the ground was probably not
Chad Schieber, because A) according to news reports, Chad collapsed just a quarter mile further from where I saw the fallen runner, and B) more pictures of Chad on news websites showed a longer face despite similar looks. My heart goes out to his family, especially his wife who they started out together but ended up splitting at the 10 km mark. His wife never learned of his death till after she had returned to the hotel. What a sad way to learn of the news.
Labels: marathon, sports
