Pennar 40-Miler Every Runner Ought to Try at Least One Ultra. Yeah.

ONE PEARL of wisdom that I have recently learned is “Never run an ultra on a whim.” Of course, that is the only way I would run an ultra, because, if I actually thought about it, I would probably sleep in and watch reruns of The Love Boat.

THE PENNAR 40-MILE FUN RUN After years of encouragement from my local track club’s ultrarunners about the benefits of real pain, I was finally persuaded to run the Pennar 40-Miler in Pensacola Beach, Florida. This race could easily have been called the melanoma marathon, as it is held annually in the oppressive June sun with no hope for shade unless you are lucky enough to get run over by a truck. The crowd support was nonexistent unless you like hermit crabs, the water stops were sparse unless you like salt water, and the nesting terns were so territorial that it made you feel like you were in an Alfred Hitchcock movie. In addition, the hotel manager thought I was a drug dealer when I requested a 2:30 A.M. wake-up call. (The race starts at 4 A.M.)

On the positive side, it was an out-and-back course, and it was flatter than four-month-old Dr. Pepper. I did have some Tallahassee support. One local runner, Herb Wills, was especially helpful toting supplies, calling split times, and filling water bottles that would have made a Himalayan Sherpa proud. The clincher was that there was rain in the forecast, and just for good measure, I downloaded a secret Hopi Indian rain dance. I figured that 40 miles of sun might be difficult, but I could handle 40 miles of rain.

When I arrived in the parking lot at 3:30 A.M., I realized that I had made a big mistake. Absent were the fun-loving 25-year-old coeds with their charity T-shirts whom you see at most marathons. In their place were marginally employed roadweary veterans with 20-year-old race shirts who kept referring to me as the new

guy or the ultra virgin despite the fact that I had finished 27 marathons. Another eerie sign was that they all knew each other, and I began to wonder whether I had been invited to run a race or join a cult. One thing for sure, my Hopi Indian rain dance not only made me look silly, it also did not work, as it was 75 degrees with 100 percent humidity and not a cloud in the sky. Come to think of it, I may have downloaded the funky chicken dance by mistake.

WHOSE PACE IS THIS ANYWAY? Roughly 50 runners answered the roll call, and the gun sounded. Bolting into the lead at a ridiculous sub-7:30 pace was a Tallahassee runner, Jeff Bryan. Curiosity got the best of me, so I pushed into second to see what was going on. I caught him around mile three and asked why he was running this pace. He said he was trying to entice another Tallahassee runner, Dana Stetson, to catch him because he didn’t think Dana could hold that pace for 40 miles. This sort of made sense.

Rain Dance?

Michael Hughes

If Jeff and I could not do it, Dana probably could not do it either. Yet, with Dana safely back in the pack, it still did not explain why we were running that pace. I was soaked with sweat as we crossed the four-mile mark at around 30 minutes, feeling like I had just run eight. A kid passed us, and I mentioned that he looked like a good 10K runner, which may have been prophetic, as he seemed to falter shortly thereafter. (I think he survived to finish 12th.)

FOLLOW THE LEADER Jeff stopped for a bathroom break at mile six, so I rallied to catch the leader and overtook him around mile eight. If I ever possessed any reasoning or logic, it abandoned me at that point as I adopted a new strategy akin to something a kamikaze pilot might develop. I decided to make an early push, build a big lead, hold off the field for the last 20 miles, and steal the race. Like the crazy lone bicyclist who tries to escape from the peloton in the Tour de France, I feared that my strategy was destined for failure.

By mile 15, the sun rose, and my temporary amnesia subsided. I remembered that I had run a marathon seven days before, I had already consumed four of my eight GU packets, and the rain was nowhere in sight. I slowed the pace and yielded the lead to the eventual winner, David Jones, at mile 17. At the turnaround, I was working on a new strategy to preserve second place—and my dignity.

ANOTHER BRICK IN THE WALL I do have experience hitting The Wall but not with 17 miles to go. At mile 23, I was struggling, beginning to feel nauseated and dizzy, and had an excessive need to urinate. I could only conclude that I was either suffering from the onset of heat stroke or I was pregnant. (Thankfully, it was the former.) Finally, the rain came in torrents, which cooled my body temperature and revived my spirits. I was resigned to plodding the final miles until I encountered a group of ultrarunners coming the other direction at mile 25. They told me the leader was struggling and I was sure to catch him. Pride got the best of me, and I quickened the pace again and made a three-mile surge to the top of a ridge at mile 28. I expected to be on the heels of the lead runner, but when I crested the ridge, he was nowhere in sight. I guessed the runners must have been mistaken. (Later I learned that ultrarunners often feed the new guy false information. To me, this tests the limits of sportsmanship. At mile 25, I am usually so gullible that if you told me Martians had landed, I would probably believe it.)

THUMBING A RIDE The last 12 miles were a blur, but I did have one highlight at mile 34. A lady stopped her car and asked whether I needed a ride. (I had a race number on, for

crying out loud!) I declined and surmised that I must have looked like death spread on toast. I managed to survive and secure second place. Some local Tallahassee finishers included Jeff Bryan, Gary Griffen, Andrew Maurey, and I. (Dana Stetson retired at mile 22.) All in all, there were only 25 finishers, so the casualty rate was near 50 percent, which put this race nearly on a par with new shows in NBC’s fall line-up.

IN CONCLUSION People ranking hotels use stars to assign quality, so I will use toenails. I give this race four toenails—literally. I gave the race one toenail during the race, one on my ride back to the hotel, and two more the following week. So will I do it again? Are you kidding me? I’m not that dumb! This is a race that I check off the list and say, “Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.”

Boston Marathon 2003 A Dream Race With a Nightmare Finish. APRIL IS the time for the granddaddy of all races, the Boston Marathon. The Boston Marathon is to running what the Super Bowl is to football, the Tour de France is to cycling, or Captain and Tennille are to rock ’n’ roll music—simply the pinnacle.

However, unlike the beliefs of local patriots, not all men are created equal, and I’m not talking about the speedy Kenyans. While the rest of us had to scratch and claw our way to a qualifying time for the privilege of joining the masses under the tents in Hopkinton, some people had a different experience. Actor and Saturday Night Live alum Will Ferrell was allowed to run despite a four-plus-hour marathon in Stockholm, while elite runners received a free hotel room, limousine ride from the airport, and their own massage table. So what’s the deal? I broke three hours in a marathon! Where’s my special treatment? Where’s my limo? I want to be pampered!

RUNNING TO THE EXPO The expo itself is a marathon menagerie with people coming in all shapes and sizes—well, not all shapes and sizes. I think I was the fattest one there. Vendors would see me from two tables over and shout, “Hey, fat boy—don’t eat all my free samples!” At the expo, we were inundated with advertisements. Of course, there were the more recognizable slogans: adidas’s “Shock, Denial & Renewal” and Nike’s “Just do it” but also messages like “No regrets,” “Don’t go out too fast,” and

“Save yourself for later.” At times, I wasn’t sure whether I was looking at running slogans or a top-10 list of bad prom themes.

PARTY BUS As many of you know, the race does not begin in Boston, but it does end there (unless you collapse en route, in which case it could end at one of several hospitals along the course). It starts in Hopkinton, a town 26 miles to the west. The pilgrimage begins in Boston Common, the oldest public park in the United States. Until the 1850s, cows were allowed to graze there, but not now. On marathon Monday, thousands of sleepy runners congregate to catch one of the old yellow school buses to travel to the start. It is always interesting whom you meet on the bus. Last year, I talked with an elderly gentleman who said that, since he used to work for Citgo, he did not have to qualify; he obtained one of the few corporate exemptions. After he made that remark, I politely told him to go sit next to someone else.

This year, I talked with a young lady (mid-30s) from California who said that her husband had to stay behind to take care of her two daughters. She had already received a report from a friend that her two daughters arrived at church with their Easter dresses on backward. (Apparently dad was not used to being in charge.) This just goes to show the type of sacrifices others have to make when they have a runner in the family.

THE ATHLETES’ VILLAGE When we finally arrived in Hopkinton, we saw a morass of circus tents to house the restless runners. It was a sunny day, with entertainment and thousands of people scattered on blankets making last-minute preparations. The sight of this hodgepodge of half-dressed riffraff lubricating themselves, not to mention the background music, reminded me of Woodstock without the illegal herbs.

At the side of the Hopkinton High School was an awe-inspiring sight—496 port-o-lets. It looked like one of those old Johnny Weismuller Tarzan movies where he leads the explorers through the jungle to the famed port-o-let graveyard where all old port-o-lets come to die. There was not enough time for me to try every one, but in a few more years, maybe I will.

THE STARTING BINS A half hour before the race, we were herded into the starting bins like cattle preparing for slaughter. It was a warm day in Hopkinton, and I could feel myself burning under the sun. As I stood at the start, I thought about my usual marathon goals. The first was to not embarrass myself, the second was to not cry for my mother, and the final goal was to finish without excessive drooling. (I’ve never really accomplished the third goal, but hope springs eternal.)

MCDERMOTT MADNESS Unique to this race were my surname goals. At the expo, I learned that I was one of five McDermotts who were in the race, so one goal was to beat my kin. I was so surprised by this that I almost expected to find a long-lost cousin in the starting bin. Another goal was to run better than 2:55:10, because that was the time of the winner of the inaugural Boston Marathon in 1897—John J. McDermott. (Of course, that was back when the course started in Ashland and was only 24.8 miles—wimps!)

THE ODYSSEY BEGINS As we surged out of Hopkinton in the 70-degree weather, the Boston Marathon reminded me of Homer’s Odyssey. Not because the marathon lasts 10 years as it did for poor Odysseus (although sometimes it felt that way), and not even because it takes you through strange lands, with strange people, with lots of strange adventures along the way. It reminds me of the Odyssey because at mile 22 there is always this really ugly woman who could pass for the Cyclops. (Well, no, not actually.)

Michael Hughes

The real reason that the Boston Marathon is like the Odyssey is the enticing downhill for the first half of the race. Like the beautiful sirens in Homer’s Odyssey that encourage the travelers to do something stupid, the downhill can cause the most reserved runner to alter his strategy and run like a madman. I could almost hear faint voices in the wind chanting, “Run faster, Jack,” until I crashed on the shoals of the Newton Hills around mile 18. Boston is a tough race. The hills in the late miles can change the gentlest runner into the Boston strangler in a matter of minutes. Even Olympian Kenny Moore admitted that the Boston Marathon is the only race that ever made him cry.

I cannot possibly catalog all of the interesting sights along the route, but I must make note of a sign I observed at mile 11, before we approached Wellesley College. The sign read, “Don’t kiss the college girls.” It reminded me of going to the zoo and seeing the “Don’t feed the animals” signs. I guess they get fed enough.

THE ODYSSEY ENDS I crossed the first half in a blazing 1:26:30, which had my Internet fans convinced I would run a 2:53 and wondering why I bonked. Even my mother called to say, “Why’d you slow down?” Although my good cheer continued through the Newton Hills, my good pace did not. Running in my bright green racing flats, my quads of glory became the quads of gory as I tried to slug out the last six miles without Advil. One thing I did find encouraging was what the announcer said as we crossed the finish line: “Welcome back to Boston.” Unlike most marathons where you spend three to four hours sweating only to end up exactly where you started, a point-to-point marathon gives you the satisfaction of actually going somewhere. It reminds us that running was originally a mode of transportation, not something you do to metabolize doughnuts.

MARRIED LOGIC You may ask why I wore racing flats in a marathon known for its savage hills. Because I am stupid? Possibly. But another reason has to do with some advice a friend gave me. She said that before every marathon, I should try something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. I guess she figured my odds of marriage were low and I should probably use this wisdom in some fashion.

The something old was my lucky compression shorts, which I haven’t washed in three years. (This, in itself, may explain my lack of marriage opportunities.) The something new was my racing flats. The something borrowed was all the towels at my sister’s apartment, and the something blue was the free samples of Viagra that I received after answering some spam mail on the Internet. (Which, in terms of performance enhancement, worked rather well until I saw this cute coed at the water stop at mile 18.)

CONCLUSION I ran a good race but unfortunately did not get a PR. I also did not better John J. McDermott’s time of 2:55 set in 1897. Not only that, based on my performance (and that of my kin), unless I can somehow manage to marry Paula Radcliffe and father some speedy offspring, it will probably be another 100 years before a McDermott once again reigns at Boston. Until next year—stay fit, and eat your chowda!

How to Annoy Race Directors A Guide to Make You Unpopular. ONE UNSUNG hero in every local Saturday morning road race is not the overall winner, the age-group winner, or even the oldest finisher. The greatest kudos should go to the unsung hero—the race director. Some race directors have become so skillful at handling minor race-day problems like race bandits, missing finisher cards, and no-show volunteers that managing races has become less of a challenge to these esteemed individuals. Therefore, to make their lives more challenging, I developed a list of “Ways to Annoy Race Directors and Wreak Havoc on Race Day.” The secret is to pretend that you are someone annoying. (For some of us, this is an easier task than for others.)

THE OLYMPIC HOPEFUL Tell the race director that you are on the Hungarian national team and that you need a 5K qualifying time for next month’s Olympic Trials in Budapest. Hand the race director a jar of urine and say that the race director is responsible for drug testing it within 48 hours.

THE LAWYER Bring a friend dressed in a three-piece suit to pose as your legal counsel. Tell the race director that your lawyer has found several problematic clauses in the waiver statement on the entry form, and therefore you refuse to sign. Offer to negotiate specific language with the race director. If the race director insists that you must sign or you can’t run, have your lawyer threaten to file a lawsuit for violating your civil rights.

THE GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL Arrive with several friends in dark suits and sunglasses before the start of the race. Inform the race director that you represent the Bureau of Indian Affairs and that

Michael Hughes

Here’s my urine sample. Rex will be ready soon . . . the off-road course runs over an ancient Seminole burial ground. Say that you have a court injunction stopping the race. Hand the race director a crude map of an alternative course that is “roughly five kilometers.”

THE PET LOVER Run the race with your German shepherd, Rex. Demand that Rex be given a race number. At the awards ceremony, when the over-65 age-group winner is announced, make a scene. Claim that although Rex is 8 years old, he is actually 72 in dog years! Warn the race director that, if snubbed, Rex may get so angry that you will not be able to control him.

WOODWARD AND BERNSTEIN Tell the race director that you are an investigative reporter for a running magazine, The Flat Foot. Tell the race director that several unnamed sources have confirmed

that some of the race sponsors may be Communist front organizations. Ask the race director for an official comment. Proceed to interrogate race volunteers asking, “Are you, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?”

THE POLICEMAN For races that serve beer after the race, tell the race director that you are an offduty police officer, and demand to see the running club’s liquor license. Ask whether the race director has been carding underage runners. If the answers are not satisfactory, make a citizen’s arrest.

THE ROMANTIC Before the race, insist that you must see a list of all registrants. Inform the race director that your runner/ex-girlfriend has taken out a restraining order against you and that you are legally required to stay at least 200 yards away from her at all times. Pretend to find her on the list, and ask the race director for a 200yard head start so you can comply with the court order. Also, request a separate finishing chute.

UNION OF FOOLS Tell the race director that you represent a local labor union. Bring along two large friends to act as your goons. Inform the race director that you are unionizing the race volunteers to negotiate wages and dental benefits. Insist that all race volunteers fill out union identification cards and tell the race director that failure to cooperate will require your associates Vito and Guido to start negotiating in earnest on your behalf.

THE TAX MAN COMETH For races that give cash awards, tell the race director that you represent the Internal Revenue Service. Explain to the race director that although the running club is tax exempt, the cash awards are taxable for the winners. Ask the race director to provide proof that all cash winners have filed their W-2 forms and that the FICA tax and federal withholding tax have been properly calculated and deducted prior to the awards ceremony. Warn that if the race director does not comply with this request, you will make a few phone calls and the race director will face a personal tax audit.

In conclusion, I know some of these suggestions seem cruel, but remember that if you are going to be a race director, you had better have a sense of humor!