Training for a marathon during the Winter is rough enough under ordinary circumstances.  It's dark when you wake up, dark when you get home from work and cold all throughout.  This season was extra demanding because my knees were hurting and I had gained some holiday weight.  In early January, it was hard to get any kind of consistency going where training was concerned.  I couldn't afford to miss any runs because I inadvertently started my training five weeks late.  On top of that, I decided to try a new training program, adding my own on the fly adjustments to make up for those missing weeks.  To make matters worse, I caught a terrible cold five days before the marathon. 

This had all the makings of a Greek tragedy waiting to unfold.  But I was registered to run the Spirit of St Louis on April 9, so I packed up my gear and headed down I-55.  I was staying with Julie, my friend from my undergrad days at Northeast Missouri State University.  Going to school there allowed me to get to know St Louis so well, which made it an excellent choice for a spring marathon.  (Julie's offer of a free place to stay did tip the scale a bit!)  And my grandmother once told me that a last minute decision led the family to Chicago instead of Missouri so this was a homecoming of sorts.

Race Day Morning
 

We arrived at the start line about an hour before race time.  I like to do that so I have time to go through my pre-race rituals which include stretching, adjusting to the temperature and other things runners know about but I won't mention for the faint of heart.  I saw Bobbie, a fellow runner from Chicago, at gear check and we started talking.  She was wearing a running jacket and had long pants so for a moment I wondered if it would be too cold to run in shorts and a sleeveless singlet (I did have my Turkey Trot sweatshirt that I was planning to jettison if I got warm enough).  No sign of Doris or the others from Chicago, but Bobbie mentions that she had drinks with them last night.  As I was nursing a cold, I've been alcohol free for a week (not counting the Nyquil cocktails).

Bobbie and I run differently.  She's there to party and enjoy the race.  I'm there to run my fastest, best race possible.  Knowing this, we said our good byes and wished each other luck and went to line up at our own respective distances from the start line.  The horn sounded and we were off.  Still feeling the effects of my cold (I was coughing almost uncontrollably just 12 hours ago) I was worried about what pace I'd be able to run.  On Friday I had gone for a practice run and barely managed 9 minute miles. 

It was a sunny, windless day and I didn't have any problems running, if anything I was going too fast.  That, or the early mile markers were off.  For instance Mile 5 was a sub 7 while Mile 6 took me 9 minutes.  This could make for a long morning if I didn't make some adjustments.  Fortunately the hilly course would see to that. 

Marathon courses are typically point-to-point or loops that might repeat, but The Spirit of St Louis course does something truly bizarre.  It starts at Market and 18th, near Union Station -- a combination shopping mall and museum about 2 miles West of the famous Gateway Arch.  The course jets south so that it can go through the Anheuser-Busch Brewery, which I suspect underwrote a good portion of the marathon startup costs.  I'm not complaining, the scenery is very nice and even the Clydesdales came out to watch.  After exiting the brewery, we backtrack the street we came in on and end up heading West on Market Street going past the start line.  You basically spend the first 7 miles getting back to where you began.   

Everyone is together through the first 9.5 miles.  Then the half marathoners break off from the full marathoners.  In the span of 100 yards, it gets very quiet.  I looked over at a water station that was awaiting half marathoners, and would serve the marathoners in a couple of hours and saw someone who looked familiar.  She smiled and I waived.  It couldn't have been anyone I knew, of course.  It is amazing the things that can enter the mind when you run.  Thoughts flow back to the past.

There's something I need to tell you, her voice rang through my ears. I could see her effervescent smile in my mind's eye. She always lights up a room with that smile. When she said those words to me, she was trying to muster up that smile, but couldn't quite sell it. I knew the news wasn't something I was going to like hearing. 

Half Way Point

The course flattened out a bit as we headed for Forest Park for Miles 10-13.  It's very pretty and there is finally some crowd support and entertainment.  A group of young people, students perhaps, are beating African drums and it's helping to motivate the runners.  Somewhere just after Mile 11 Julie sees me and shouts out.  All of this gives me a much needed boost.  When I made it to the 13.1 clock, I was pleased that my time was about what it should be and I was still feeling good.  My strategy was to pick the pace a bit if I had anything in the tank.  Unfortunately, this is also where the bigger hills rear their ugly heads. 

Once we left Forest Park the crowd got sparser, and things quieted again.  I could focus on the scenery, which looked vaguely familiar to me.  As I rounded the corner of Forsyth onto Delmar after Mile 16, I spotted this fancy restaurant where I had gone to a rehearsal dinner a decade ago.  A mile later I saw the church that same couple was married at and realized it was Palm Sunday (Does watching Dogma last night count?).  It's still a bit too early in the run for my usual conversation with God. Okay, it's more me screaming obscenities at him and him patiently listening, not hitting me with lightening bolts and basically giving me the strength to continue. But since I hadn't been to church in almost a month, I wasn't expecting any positive divine intervention today.

I always had a hard time letting go, especially when I don't get something I want.

Mile 17-19 was a straight stretch on a street called Delmar. It starts in a rich neighborhood (Brentwood I think) and continues past Washington University and onto a hipster area called The Loop, St Louis' answer to Chicago's Wicker Park. This was extremely familiar to me as I had run this very street many times during visits to Melissa. Mel, my long lost friend, who was like a sister to me, lived there with her husband in the mid-90s and I visited them frequently. I recognized the fountain near their apartment and Blueberry Hill. Blueberry Hill is a St. Louis landmark, a friendly dive filled with pop culture memorabilia including Chuck Berry, the Beatles, Star Wars, jukeboxes, lunch boxes and toys. Think a slightly less cheesy Hard Rock Cafe. 

When I would visit, I would often run down (or is it up) Delmar, in the direction we were heading now. Back then they would tell me not to go too far east because the gentrification only went about a block or two past Blueberry Hill. Well, I wasn't afraid then and even though there were Starbucks and other Corporate America Franchises, I wasn't scared now. Today I was prepared to run into the very heart of Hell if need be. I could smell a new PR around the corner.

Take it to the House

When I crossed the Mile 19 marker, a runner asked me how I was doing. I said I was alright. We started talking a bit. I asked him if this was the park we passed through earlier on the way out and he said yes. It was Forest Park where I had seen Julie. It occurred to me that she might have hung around to see me on the way back. Suddenly I heard Julie call to me. I saw her and yelled back "hold on to this" and tossed my water bottle to her.

A gutsy move but it allowed me to have both hands free to pump my arms which in turned helped fill my lungs with much needed oxygen. I would just have to trust that the water stations would be where they were supposed to be.   It was just then that I heard another voice call "Go Michael!"  It was Bobbie, coming in the other direction.  She runs her marathons at a pace slow enough to stop and party with the crowd and any entertainment that is along the way, so she still had 13 plus miles to go. 

At Mile 20 I introduced myself to my new friend. His name is Kevin and he told me that we were on pace to do a 3:25 or so. I said to him, I think I'm gonna open it up a bit and see what I can do. Another gutsy move, especially since a Boston Qualification time (BQ*) was realistically out of the question. But the one thing I've learned this year is that even when you don't have a prayer, you still have to take your shot. Otherwise you end up in your own personal purgatory.
 

There's something I need to tell you, the ghostly voice returns.  I heard you the first time...long ago in a sleepy college town in Northeast Missouri.

For the next few miles I ran either just under 8 minutes, if the course flattened out enough or 820s if we hit a hill.  At Mile 24 I confirmed what I had suspected a few miles earlier. If I were to walk, I would finish under 4 hours and probably even close to my PR. While I could ease off and try to save something for the end, I realized that at this particular moment, whatever pace I achieved, however fast or slow I ran, that would be my new PR. I controlled my PR and in a small way my destiny.

Somewhere halfway between Mile 24 and Mile 25, on some highway underpass I'll probably never see again, my watch showed I had been running for 3 hours and 15 minutes...the time I need to qualify for Boston at my age level. The marathon was 1.7 miles too long.

It didn't matter. I felt strong, ran as fast as I could and the lactic acid meltdown never came. As I approached the finish line, I heard the announce encouraging the runners "if you hurry you can break 3:30". It hadn't occurred to me to go for any particular time once I realized I would set a new PR. I threw whatever I had left and pushed for the finish line.