In Pursuit of a BO and a Sub-4:00

How | learned they are not one and the same.

morning. There is excitement in the air, anticipation—all runners know

that “It’s finally race day” feeling. Hundreds of runners are gathering in the tall timber near Iron River, Wisconsin, for the start of the WhistleStop Marathon, which is run on an old railroad bed all the way from Iron River to the quaint little town of Ashland, Wisconsin.

It is a cold, crisp morning, not a ray of sunshine—just gray clouds, damp with wind swirling through the trees. John, my running partner and brother-in-law, and I are thankful that it isn’t snowing like yesterday. The grass and leaves and the roofs of the houses are all white, covered with snow. When we ran this race last year, the trees were beautiful—gold and red. There are still some like that, but most are bare and stark, having already lost their leaves to the snow-covered ground.

I peel out of my long pants, and we put our computer chips on our ankles. John leaves his long pants on. I want to run barelegged, cold or no cold. My poor legs have enough to carry as it is.

Little do I know as I put on my chip in preparation for my ninth marathon how significant my chip time will be to me.

We have 10 minutes before start, so I check my bag, and we get in the long line of runners not too far back from the starting line.

As I talk with John, I am also going over my mental checklist. I have a few ibuprofen and Clif Bloks in my shorts pockets. In the side pockets of my jacket,

\ SHLAND, WISCONSIN, October 14, 2006. It is finally here, marathon

I have some hard candy and sunglasses. I am optimistic about some sunshine later in the race.

A guy witha speaker horn is trying to give us final instructions, but I can hardly hear over all the chatter of the runners—something about two minutes until the start. | am excited; this is what I’ve trained for all year. I’ve run 105 times, 894 miles this year, all for this morning and a chance to make Boston. Finally, a big foghorn blows, and we’re off and running.

A turn onto the rail bed

After that southward first mile, we make the turn to the east onto the old railroad bed—25.2 miles to Ashland. The tail wind out of the west is helpful and appreciated. The old railroad bed surface is good, not too soft or muddy, as I feared it might be. It is another reason we like this marathon; the crushed limestone rock surface is easier on the legs.

The start of a marathon is always exciting, people talking and cutting up. I love the initial enthusiasm, but I also know how it wanes three hours later after mile 20. I, too, feel great. I tell John I am grateful just to be able to run and how awesome it is to run with him.

I started running primarily out of concern for my health. As a pastor, I don’t get exercise at work. However, I do get a boatload of burdens, and running helps me cope. For the longest time, I was a convenience runner. If it was a nice day, if my schedule allowed, I would run, which meant I was inconsistent.

As the years went by, I realized that I was getting stockier, which is a nice way of saying I had enjoyed too many church potluck dinners. I was a pretty good athlete in high school, but that was 40 birthday cakes and 30 pounds ago. Then my concern for my health actually grew into a phobia—a fear of open-heart surgery that gripped me when my dad had his heart surgery. After that, each time I made a hospital visit with someone going into heart surgery, I would drive straight home and change into my running gear and soon be running down the road with a prayer that I would never have to have my chest opened and my ticker fixed.

I became more consistent and started going farther. We live in the farm country just outside the city limits of Lincoln, Nebraska, and our area of the state is divided into square-mile sections. My usual run to the corner and back was a mile and a half. But I started going around the corner and each time a little farther to the next telephone pole or cedar tree or farmhouse until I worked up to two miles. Then it made more sense to go on around the square-mile section than to turn around and come home. The first time I ran the four miles around the section, I felt that it was an awesome feat.

Iread in the newspaper about an upcoming 10K race. I didn’t know how many miles a 10K was, and I had never run a race in my 53 years of life. The whole

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family came to watch Dad run a race. My finish time was 54:28—certainly not fast, but I had finished my first race ever.

Iran the same 10K the next year. The following year I read The Nonrunner’s Marathon Trainer by Whitsett, Dolgener, and Kole. Halfway through the book, I closed it, laid it down and said, “Before I die, I’m going to do that. I’m going to run a marathon.”

So at age 55, I ran my first marathon in hilly Kansas City. In those last hard miles, I made myself two promises: first, I would finish even if I had to crawl; and second, I would never be so crazy as to do this again. My finish time was 4:44:58—not exactly a world record, but my family acted as though it was. Fortunately, the feeling of accomplishment that I had as I crossed that finish line made me forget my second promise.

Since then I’ve influenced my brother-in-law, John, and nephew, Chris, to run marathons with me. But they are younger and faster and thus not content just to finish. They insist on getting PRs, qualifying for Boston, and continually taking it to the next level.

Because of their influence, it became my goal to do a four-hour marathon in preparation for that time when a four-hour marathon would qualify me for Boston. Idid Chicago in 4:15, North Olympic in 4:11, Chicago again in 4:04, Grandma’s in 4:07, and Fort Collins, Colorado, in 4:05.

My very own pacer

Then in October 2005, John, who runs his marathons a half hour faster than I, agreed to do WhistleStop with me at my pace to help me get that elusive fourhour time. We were within two blocks of the finish when my right calf locked

<4 The author (in shorts) and his pacer, brother-in-law John (384), as they make their way through an aid station early in the race.

up in the worst cramp I’ve ever had. I staggered in at 4:01:44, excited to get a PR but disappointed that I missed that elusive sub-4.

Now it is crunch time. None of those marathons would have qualified me for Boston even if I had done sub-4, because I wasn’t yet in that age bracket. Now Iam 59, and we’ve passed that September date, and I’m eligible to qualify for the 60-64 age bracket.

So here is John coming all the way from Kansas City to northern Wisconsin, once again running at my pace with me, trying again to help this old plugger make Boston. My sister Marlene, John’s wife, is more excited for me than I am for myself.

John and I talk some, but we also just run along in silence, taking it all in. These northern Wisconsin woods are beautiful even if they aren’t as colorful as they were last year. Every so often the woods open up to let us see several wellkept dairy farms with their big barns. Runners are as far as I can see in front of me and behind me—maybe 1,000 or more this year. Ah, that’s a lot of crazy people! You’ve got to love it.

The WhistleStop Marathon has to be the most spectator-friendly race in the world. The old railroad bed runs parallel to Highway 2, which runs east/west across northern Wisconsin, and in our case, from Iron River to Ashland.

The first north/south country road that crosses our trail is at about mile four. There are my wife, Gayle, and sister Marlene cheering for us and taking pictures. We see them again at mile six.

A Only your sis can get by with this kind of encouragement (a slap on the butt)!

The miles are clicking by—10, 11, 12, and finally halfway, 13.1. We are right on schedule: two hours. I am fearful of cramps and pain in my calves in the latter miles, so I am trying not to push it too hard at this midway point.

The reason I have such concern for my legs is that I ran a marathon just three weeks ago. The ultramarathon man, Dean Karnazes, was in our city to run the Lincoln Marathon as part of his 50 marathons in 50 days in 50 states tour. I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to run with him. And what an experience it was to meet him, to visit with him as we ran, and to get an autographed copy of his book, Ultramarathon Man. I devoured the book and learned a lot from it.

That was not a “live” marathon. The Lincoln Marathon is in May, and that was September. Dean ran the route of the Lincoln Marathon with 12 of us who signed up to run it with him.

Dean’s Web site indicated that he was doing his marathons in about 4 1/2 hours, so I felt that would be a good training run. It was for the first 20 miles, and then someone said, “Hey, I smell the barn. Let’s go!” and the group really picked up the pace. My pride got the best of me. I wasn’t going to let them leave me behind. I finished with them at 4:15, and I think it took a toll on my legs.

Some truly foul “ibies”

In anticipation of pain, I take a couple of ibuprofen. Those “ibies” can really be gross as my shorts are sweaty, and the ibuprofen get soft in the pockets. I pop two into my mouth and just shake my head in disgust with the bitter taste. Then they lodge in my throat and don’t want to go down.

The miles are still clicking by—18, 19, finally mile 20, and our time is 3 hours and | minute. John seems pleased. I’m sure he is hoping that I’ve saved enough strength for those last 6.2 miles.

The WhistleStop Marathon is a very flat and fast course; however, there is a slight but long incline somewhere after mile 20, and by this time it seems like a mountain to me. No one is making light conversation or cutting up. It is quiet; people are laboring, breathing hard, struggling, suckin’ air.

Every so often a pain shoots up my left calf. John is now running about eight to 10 yards ahead of me. The sun is breaking through the clouds. It is good to see blue sky.

I reach around to my back pocket for ibies; only two left, and they are soft. Oh, no, I dropped one in the dirt. I pop the last one into my mouth then lick off what is left on my hand, behaving like some kind of addict.

John is 25 to 30 yards ahead of me. My left calf hurts. I am afraid it will lock up as my right one did last year. I am trying to push off more with my right leg and limp that left leg forward. Maybe if I can favor it some it will not cramp up. My quads feel good, and I am glad that I can depend on them to pull me up this forever incline.

My mile time for 21 is 9:20; for 22 it is 9:10. Finally, at 23, there are Gayle and Marlene. Their encouragement and an aid station keep me going. I get a cup of Powerade and walk through the station drinking it.

It is tough to get going again. My body says “No,” but my mind says “Go!” I can see John a couple of blocks ahead. I am determined to keep him in sight, not to lose him. Our plan is for him to keep the pace no matter what, not to wait for me.

Some people are walking and some are still running. I go by one guy, and he says, “You’re looking good. Go for it.” I thank him and think, /f you only knew how bad I feel!

Finally, mile 24. Now my right hamstring has started to cramp. I have to stop and bend over as though I’m touching my toes in order to stretch it. This happens more than once. How frustrating.

Finally, the end of the railroad trail, and we are in Ashland and through the 25-mile aid station. A security guy watching traffic for us at the intersection tells me, “One more mile to go.” I look at my watch—my total time so far is 3 hours and 52 minutes. Can I do this last mile in eight minutes? No way! I decide that I’m going to give it all I’ve got.

A lady directing traffic in another intersection says, “Only 10 more blocks to the finish!” I’m thinking, Jf you knew how I feel, you wouldn’t use the word “only.”