More on the rest of the trip to Chicago later, first a marathon recap. While I can’t negotiate stairs with any kind of grace, I’m feeling pretty good 48 hours later, and I’m happy with the way things went. The day was really perfect, considering all of the factors involved in something like this. I got a good night’s sleep and woke up in the dark at 5:30 Sunday morning. After a litlle breakfast, Aimee and I joined hundreds of other runner-types and their companions and fans, as we walked quietly down State Street towards Grant Park. The sun was rising as we walked, and we enjoyed beautiful views of the Tribune Building and the Chicago River as we funneled into the start area an hour before the race began. On a strange, serendipitous note, Wilco’s “I’m a Wheel” (featuring the classic lyric “Once in Germany someone said ‘nein’/ 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9”) was playing on the race PA as we walked into the park. The very same song was playing as I ran back into the park to finish the race four hours later. A “wheel,” indeed.
After spending a good half hour in line for the bathroom, I dropped my bag off at gear check, and made my way to the 9 minute mile pace section of the start area. It really was a sea of people, runners and onlookers all mixed in, waiting for the starting horn to sound. The sight of thousands of pieces of clothing being launched from within a crowd of people a minute before the start was unforgettable; those of us on the sides of the crowd were pelted with cheap windbreakers and expensive lightweight shirts as people stripped down and prepared to start. The horn sounded, and after ten minutes of walking, we finally crossed the start line and began running. We ran under the beautiful and impressive Gehry-designed BP Pedestrian Bridge, and as we headed under the overpass beyond, a roar of cheering from the runners went echoing through the space, and gave me the chills.
I stopped to stretch out my hip three times during the first few miles of the race in a pre-emptive measure to avoid the crippling pain of my 20-mile run, and I guess it worked. I never realized how much of the race would involve trying to make my way around people in front of me. It wasn’t that I was passing them, but people were walking, stopping, running across the road, and not all moving at the same pace, so it was a bit of an obstacle course in places.
Miles one through twenty were, if not a breeze, at least very consistent and, from a pain/injury/energy standpoint, fairly uneventful. I spent most of my time trying to hold back, stay on pace, and enjoy the surroundings. I enjoyed the bands who were playing (especially The Powerknobs and the polka band playing on the Polish Marathon Club of Chicago stage), and the crowds (over a million, by the news estimates) were great, always cheering and occasionally handing out gummi bears and bananas.
I saw Aimee at our first two designated spots, in the crush of downtown and then somewhere near the half-marathon spot. I was looking out for her as I approached Mile 20 or 21, happy to be able to tell her that there was no “wall,” as people described it, that in fact I was doing great, feeling great, and I would be just fine. I never did see Aimee there, though, and somewhere in Chinatown, something happened. I started losing steam, slowing down, and hitting the wall I was so ready to dismiss. I think it was more like a steep slope than a wall, but it certainly slowed me down, and I couldn’t keep up the pace I’d kept up to then. For most of the race, I watched the miles roll by as I multiplied everything by nine and stayed on pace. If I were to run the whole thing at a nine-minute pace, that would leave me with about five minutes to spare to make my four-hour goal, so I wasn’t sure if I should run as much as I could at a faster pace and have more room to slow down at the end, or try to be consistent and hope I could maintain the somewhat slower pace throughout. I chose the latter, and it ended up working, just barely.
After the dead zone of New Comiskey/U.S. Cellular Park and the Interstate, where the cheering was sparse and the outlook bleak, the southside blues band and the final water/Gatorade stop brought me back to the moment. The final quarter mile or so featured the only hill in the entire race, an entirely unexpected and very unassuming slope that caused many of the people near me to just stop running altogether. I could see the finish line, and knew I had about two minutes to get up the hill and across the line, so I started my only charge of the day, this horrible-looking shuffle-waddle that took me up on the curb, past the police and the the EMTs picking people up who weren’t going to make it, and right in front of the giant-screen tv showing a live image of grimacing me, into the finish line with a time of 3:59.14.
After stopping my watch and realizing I’d made it, I headed right for the real reward of the race – not the medal, but the shiny Mylar blanket, which I finally felt I’d earned. Only then did I get my medal, as I bowed in front of a young volunteer who draped it over my head. Next stop was the chip removal station, where a volunteer with a razorblade cut the chip off my shoelaces, and then I was free to retrieve my bag, find my cellphone, and call Aimee to reunite. I trained for it, and now I’ve done it. It was a great day.
