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H 'B ft na an «i n n n n i> ».
I
sports
Marathons can be a pain
By Doug Levy
Of the Emerald
It is not worth it — that's what I
kept telling myself as I trained for
the 1983 Portland Marathon.
I had decided to try the Oct. 2
run more than a year ago. I had
finished the 15-kilometer Cascade
Runoff physically intact — my first
marathon was the next step.
"You must be mad," said one
girl when I told her of my plan.
In July, I clipped a three-month
marathon training schedule out of
a running magazine. At first, the
running wasn't a hindrance at all,
but the sheer drudgery of long
runs every day overwhelmed me.
Soon I began to take days off.
Then I took a week off.
Still, the thought of finishing a
26-mile run had become a con
crete goal. "Once you finish that
first marathon, you're hooked,"
said one summer training partner,
a veteran of four previous
marathons.
I wondered though. After my
first (and only) 150 minute jaunt,
my legs were so stiff I could barely
walk. A friend and I ran 75
minutes the morning after the
stint.
"People don't understand how
much time and training go into
running a marathon," my summer
partner said. "They think we just
go out and run one."
One night I ran 70 minutes, felt
a sharp twinge in my right leg, and
walked home.
Fear set in. What if I pulled a
muscle right before the
marathon?
Exercising caution, I waited a
week before running again. It was
Sept. 28, just four days before the
big event. I was nervous, but
mostly I was scared.
I logged a 75-minute run, then
three 30-minute runs. Runners are
supposed to scale down time
training the week before a
marathon.
Another rule for marathoners is
to load up on carbohydrates, curb
fats, and watch a strict diet.
I won't claim I was a saint, but I
did watch myself. About a month
Granhu hv Shawn Bird
before the race, I stopped eating
red meat.
What hurt the most was cutting
out alcohol. I spent a month
minus beer, gin and tonics, and
inebriation. That hurt.
Finally, race day beckoned. Oct.
2 — the day I'd yearned for and
dreaded at the same time — was
here. I was scared that I hadn't
run enough miles, scared that I
might buckle and hit the infamous
20-mile "wall.”
The first five miles went well. I
ran side-by-side with Rod, my
htgh-school buddy. I'd hoped to
run at an eight-minute mile pace,
which converts to a 3:28
marathon, and we were running
7:51s. Adrenalin flowing, legs
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churning, I felt great.
Five more miles passed, and we
remained strong. I remember
hearing a guy call out
78-something at the 10-mile mark.
This isn't so bad, I mumbled to
myself.
At 12 miles I passed my parents,
still going strong. They were not
expecting me to pass them so
soon — I whizzed by before my
mother could get a picture of me.
I felt powerful. I kept thinking
how amusing it was that I worried
about my endurance. I predicted I
wouldn't hit a 20-mile wall. My
time at the halfway point of the
run was 1:43.
Fifteen miles. Medical experts
say the body begins to tire at this
point. Sure enough, I slowed —
but not much. The legs continued
to propel me, the body continued
to sustain me, until 18 miles. I was
still running at an eight-minute
pace. Perfect.
Then the roof caved in. Sudden
ly I didn't want to run another
step.
My earliei' prediction about
missing the 20-mile wall was cor
rect. I encountered the 18-mile
wall.
By the time I reached 21 miles, I
was running about as fast as most
walk. Volunteers told me there
were five miles left. "You're
almost there — the homestretch,"
they shouted.
They couldn't know that this
five miles was eons tougher than
the other 21. Although I never
walked, I stopped and stretched
my shins frequently. My dream of
three and one-half hours had
evaporated.
Days later (it seemed so), I saw
the finish line and sprinted 200
yards. The clock ticked to 3:58.02.
Yes, I finished a marathon. I am
glad about that, although I’m not
glad about limping and avoiding
stairs.
I was gravely disappointed with
my time. Everyone else I ran with
or near was in the 3:30 range. I had
limped in 28 minutes later after
running my last 13 miles in 2:15.
Old ladies passed me by. The win
ner, Monte Brothwell of Idaho,
burst home in 2:17.
Yes, I will run another
marathon. At noon Sunday, I
seriously doubted I would say
that. Funny as it sounds, I want to
run past a 26-mile barrier again, if
only to achieve my 3:30 goal.
Madness is addictive.