Typically, it is suggested that up to four workouts over the course of each 13-week schedule may be skipped completely as necessary because of lifestyle stress, general fatigue, and/or simply the desire for a mental break. While no single workout will create significant performance gains, missing any single workout (or several for that matter) will not hurt your performance either. To the contrary, skipping several workouts as needed or desired when listening to your body will often result in greater improvement while preventing staleness or injury.

General consistency and adhering to the specific workout guidelines and the general principles of smart training—as well as listening to your body’s signals—will tailor any of these general training templates to the complex organism that you are as an individual at any given time in training.

In part 3, we will review how to evaluate whether you need to repeat certain weeks and will review a three-week extension to these schedules for racing a second half-marathon. In addition, we will review other factors affecting performance, frequently asked questions, and how to transition into training for longer ah distances at the culmination of this half-marathon training program.

further elaborate on broad concepts as well as specific details of these training programs.

A Letter From the Middle of the Pack

The Key to the Door Behind Which Dwells the Inner Self Is a Dose of Physicality.

ovember 1990

Dear Todd, here’s the promised account of my New York City Marathon adventure. I think you will see why running has taken on a profoundly new meaning for me.

Friday. Arrive New York City in a.m. by train from Princeton. We are staying with friends in New Jersey to save a few bucks. Diane and I took two days driving from Toronto. It was a good way to rest before the big run. Will sleep in NYC Saturday night. My brother Rob and his friend Sherry flew in from LA yesterday. When marathon registration starts, I wait in line with the international runners. Get inside and am given the official international breakfast run number, pin, and United Nations pin.

Get marathon number, T-shirt, and hat.

In the afternoon, Diane is feeling tired. She stays in Rob’s hotel room while he, Sherry, and I go sightseeing. We go up the Empire State Building and see just how far we are going to run. We all agree it is much too far and that we’re nuts. I can’t decide if we’re nuts because we are going to run the marathon or because we looked over the distance.

Friday eve. Diane is sick. Stomach flu from earlier in the week is gone but now has a bad cold. She can’t eat. Can’t drink. Weatherman is predicting record heat for race day.

Diane is becoming afraid she can’t run. When two marathoners speed by her on the street, she breaks into tears. Diane has worked extraordinarily hard for this race. I don’t know what to tell her. Now, Rob is starting to have stomach problems, too. Not a good night.

Saturday a.m. Slept late in Princeton to help Diane get some rest. She still can’t eat. I miss the breakfast run.

Saturday p.m. Check into our NYC hotel that is across from Madison Square Gardens. Diane is feeling a little better. Finds she can drink a sports-type milkshake. First thing in her stomach in two days. I’m up tight about her running.

It’s warm now. Haven’t even thought about the race for myself.

Can’t locate Mike, our friend from Tucson who is also running in the marathon. Am afraid we won’t find him before the race.

Diane and I go for a 20-minute jog in Central Park, and we run the last mile of the race course. Preparations are being completed and it appears to be all ready to go. Turn the corner into the park and head up the hill. Very emotional. Feels like I have been here before. I realize that I have been, a hundred times before, in my dreams.

Climb the slight hill and make the last turn toward the finish line. Diane streaks ahead and I try to catch her. I feel like Ken Martin chasing down Juma Ikangaa. The result is the same. Fantastic!

Settle into our hotel room and rest.

Saturday eve. Diane needs to sleep and Rob is now really sick. Sherry and I go to the pasta party together. The line goes very fast.

It will be hot tomorrow, so Fred Lebow gives a short announcement about extra water that will be placed along the course. I have been told his cancer is in remission. But his appearance reminds me of my brother Rick as the symptoms of his brain cancer began to overcome him. I am having a hard time.

Sherry and I decide the food isn’t very good after all, so we go to a pizza place. It’s full of marathoners. They see my Ronzoni hat and ask how the pasta party was. Sherry jokingly says, “We’re here, aren’t we?”

Eat pasta. Drink lots.

Go back to hotel. Walk through Times Square at night. Am disappointed the famous Coke sign is gone—maybe it will be back. Find that Diane had been able to eat a little. She is now looking forward to running tomorrow. Racing is out, though.

Watch Twin Peaks. Go to sleep.

Sunday. Race day. Get up at 5:00 a.m. Have to check out of our room and meet Rob at bus by 7:00. Find we have been misinformed and can’t leave our bags in the hotel bag-check room until after 7:30. Panic!

We get in a cab and race to Rob’s hotel. He’s gone already, but we luckily have a key. Dump our luggage off. By 6:45, we’re headed for the buses that are located at the main library.

Diane seems OK. I feel nothing, no nerves, just nothing.

While walking down Seventh Avenue in midtown Manhattan, we run into Mike! Strange. I get the feeling something is going to happen today. Something good.

As we board our bus, we lose track of Mike in the masses.

Get to the fort and I need to use the world’s longest urinal—about five times.

There are more than 25,000 marathoners in the fort now. My excitement begins to grow. Again Diane runs into Mike! Very strange. Now I am certain something is going to happen.

Race day, 10:30 A.M. It’s time to go to the staging areas. Diane and Sherry are off to the red start for the women. Bob, Mike, and I are off to the blue start for the elite men.

We take a short jog for warm-up. It is already 65 degrees.

I look out over the start. Awesome. The bridge towers above us. Twenty-five thousand marathoners are lining up. I can see the front-runners settling in ahead of everyone else. I’m with Mike. Rob has made his way closer to the front. At the last minute, he has decided to go ahead and race. I am worried about Diane.

“The Star-Spangled Banner” plays and I am now very excited.

The race. The cannon sounds. We are off!

It is truly spectacular. Twenty-five thousand runners all move at once. A vast multicolored tide of veterans and first-timers. Each one full of hope and determination. Each one about to run a marathon. Silently, I wish them all luck. I find myself yelling with excitement.

We are close enough to the front that Mike and I are at a full run soon. We climb the bridge; very steep. There is a fireboat in the river and music plays in the distance. This is good stuff. We laugh when we discover that the world’s longest urinal is actually the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge.

Make the top of the bridge and the first mile in 10:05. Not too bad. The pack starts thinning and we get up to a good pace going down. Because of injury, Mike is not in great shape for the marathon, so he tells me that our present pace will be fine for him.

At 2.5 miles, I am feeling good. I tell Mike I am going to pick it up and I leave him. I hear from behind: “Go for it, Bill!’ I smile.

Hit my goal pace by three miles. The number of runners is staggering. We are on our way through Brooklyn. Bands of all types are playing in the street: rock, jazz, steel, brass, you name it. There are times when the cheers of the spectators are deafening. High fives go out for all runners near the curb. This is really good stuff.

I am wearing my Arizona state flag singlet. I hear, “Go, Arizona!” several times.

Running comfortably now, taking lots of water. No question, this is really good stuff.

The race, 10 miles. Something is wrong. I am feeling that bear clawing at my heels a little early. Why is that damned grizzly trying to climb on my back already? Why is he carrying that piano?

It’s warm, but I am staying hydrated. I try to relax. I think to myself: Shoulders loose, stay smooth. lam very worried about Diane.

The race, halfway. I hit the half on schedule, but I think I have pushed too hard. No, I’ve trained properly, I’m OK. Things are not good.

Iclimb onto the Queensboro Bridge and run on the carpet. I feel a little better. Maybe even feelin’ a little groovy. This is the New York City Marathon! Months of hard work and fighting injury and I’m here. I know what is coming up, and I really need it now.

I come off the bridge. I strain out a smile for the video. It’s very quiet here, just the sound of running feet and heaving chests. I think of distant thunder during a summer monsoon, a strangely comforting sound.

One turn, another. Finally, I have made it. I know I am about to see a living version of the poster hanging in my living room, the one I have been projecting myself into after every run for six months.

I run under the bridge and onto First Avenue. It is incredible! Spectators everywhere. They are lining the street and hanging from buildings. The roar is awesome. I am now a part of that poster, and it feels truly fantastic. I want to soak it in, but I hurt too much. I have never hurt this much before.

What is wrong? I get a lump in my throat, too much emotion. I use the cheering crowd now, but I am thinking it is time to make a decision: Can I go on? Maybe if I stop, I will find Diane and she can help me. But, what if she is in trouble?

Thear, “Go, Arizona!” again. I go. I walk through an aid station. I drink some Exceed, some water. I go on.

The race, 17 miles. I am about to drop out. The way I’m feeling, I see no way I can finish. I pick the signal light where I will turn off; two blocks. Maybe I can watch Diane, Mike, Rob, and Sherry finish.

Then, for some reason, I think about Fred, then my lost brother. I remember that this has been declared “The Race to Stop Cancer.”

All of a sudden, I hear over the din from a few yards in front of me a gritty, determined voice, “Come on Arizona, you’ve got to do it! You have to do it!” I see who has yelled to me. He looks into my eyes with an intensity I have never before seen. In a firm voice he says to me: “You have to bear down, now. Just bear down and you will do it!”

Thad imagined something was going to happen. That was it. Someone from home, on a street in New York City, who saw I was in trouble and yelled to me the only thing that he knew we might have in common. Those silly two words: “bear down,” the University of Arizona slogan.

I can’t stop now. I have to run. I have to run for Fred, for my brother Rick, for me. God, it hurts.

The race, 18-plus miles. The leg cramps have been small but regular for a mile now. I am hydrated. What is going on?

It is at least 75 degrees. At 19 miles, my calves are cramping hard. To keep my muscles stretched, I have to run on my heels. I can’t walk. That would be the end.

lam feeling little cramps in my quads and groin now.

I keep running. I enter the Bronx. More cheering people.

“Go, Arizona!”

I go. I go. Briefly, a cool breeze starts to blow. I feel better, like I can get back to race pace, maybe just for a while. I try. No, it doesn’t matter. I have to finish. Ihave to run to the finish.

The race, 20-plus miles and Harlem. The pain is really bad now. On top of it all, with the force of a sledgehammer driving a spike, I have run square into The Wall.

My emotions have gone crazy. I yell, I cry, I scream at myself: “Damn it, you are not going to let it beat you. You will go on. You will! Damn it, you will!” The crowd hears me and cheers for me.

I enter Central Park for the first time. The hills, oh, Christ, the hills. My legs are cramping continuously now, from my hips to my ankles. I am hobbled. I have to jump on my heel sometimes to get my calf to relax. I want to walk and massage my legs, but I am afraid. A medic calls for me to stop. I tell her I can’t. If I do, I won’t finish.

The world is empty now; the other runners have vanished from my mind. There are only the cheering spectators. No, there is only me.

The race, 25 miles. So close. I am still not sure I can make it. I go down. Silently, two runners appear out of what seems like a mist. They help me to my feet. No words are spoken. They look deep into my eyes. They know how I feel. They know what I must do.

Stepping aside, they let me go. They understand. I waver. The crowd is hushed. I step forward. I run. The crowd roars. The crowd roars for me! I have, I must keep running. Just a few more steps. Run.

The race, 26 miles. I turn into Central Park for the last time now. I am on the part of the course Diane and I ran years ago. No? No, it was just yesterday. The feeling is different now. I am no longer Ken Martin. I am me, and I am going to finish. Words flash into my mind from the conclusion of Rocky: “Ain’t gonna be no rematch. Ain’t gonna be no rematch.”

<4 Going to the well, and finding it empty. The author captured during the late miles.

I stop my watch. It doesn’t matter. Did it ever, really? I cross the grass. I climb the hill. I make the turn and see the finish line! I want to run across strongly. I stride out. Twenty yards from the end, my leg begins to cramp. No. No, please, not now. I see the ground start to rush up at me. I stop. I don’t go down. The cramp eases. Quietly, it’s over.

I run across the line, breaking a tape only I can see. On one end of the tape stands Rick. He beams with the pride and confidence only a big brother can have.

As the finisher’s medal is draped around my neck, a medic asks if I am OK. In silence Inod, but quietly say to myself: “No. No. I’m not OK. Yet, I am better than I have ever been.” I burst into tears.

Diane finished OK. I needn’t have worried. She is truly tough. Rob did OK, also.

Mike ran a good race. Sherry pulled off a personal best.

Later, on TV, I see Fred Lebow sum up why we run the marathon:

“They all come to New York to do one little thing.

“To run 26 miles.

“and to cry over it.

“and to fight over it,

“and be happy that they finished.

“T don’t know how to describe it.

“Tt’s a wonderful thing.”

Indeed, it is a wonderful thing.

There will be a rematch. There has to be a rematch. I have to go now, the road beckons.

Your friend, Bill

1990, I have continued to run. I have raced other marathons, been injured, had layoffs, and returned to run again. During that trek through New York, I found

strength in me that I never knew I had. Though I have not chosen to do so, I have had to call on that strength many times.

running world mourned when Fred Lebow and George Sheehan both died from cancer. My father was also taken by the disease, as were my uncle, father-in-law, and numerous close friends. My mother survived her battle with breast cancer. My remaining brother is now in the midst of his own struggle to beat a very serious form of cancer. In addition, Diane and I have taken separate paths. While going through the steps to divorce, I looked toward running as a metaphor for what I was going through. With that, I knew I could find the finish line and keep running on past it. The respect I have for Diane and her accomplishments stays with me, as does the support she had given me through so many hard years.

Icould never have known when I toed the line that day in 1990 that the lessons learned, while being supported by strangers on the same long road, could have been so important to my life since. The truth given to me by running did not come through the act of running itself. It was through the challenge of the task, going beyond limits, and finding support from those around me, yet still accomplishing the task by myself and for myself.

That day in November was a celebration—a celebration of the joy in a just being alive and in finding the strength to be who I am.