It’s OK to 1 DNF—Really!

The Marathon Will Always Be There, Waiting for You to Return.

BY TIM MARTIN

T HE ODDEST thoughts flash through your mind when you’re about to drop out of a race. Take my thoughts, for instance. I had just limped through 12 miles of the Napa Valley Marathon, and I was completely out of steam. My legs pumped full of lactic acid, my feet moving at about the speed of Dutch Elm disease, all I could think was find a place to stop where no one will see me.

Yes, I was hurting badly and—I won’t delude myself—filled with burningcheek humiliation. One minute I was floating along on a strange three-ouncesof-gin exhilaration, soaking up the fine Napa Valley scenery, and the next I was overcome with the sort of plummeting despair you feel when you’ re driving coast to coast and suddenly realize, in an isolated area, that you’ ve been going in the wrong direction for the past three hours, the oil light is flashing, and you’ re out of gas.

I dragged my drained, depleted, misery-ridden body to the side of the road and stopped.

Did I mention that I was a tad grumpy? Well, I was: grumpy and severely embarrassed. Since marathoners utter “uncle!” about as often as Jackie Chan, dropping out of a race can have that effect on you. Instinctively, I began thumbing through my rolodex of plausible excuses: a sore knee? Hamstring pull? Heel spurs? Food poisoning? El Nifio?

[had waited until the last minute to prepare for the race. I had been living in a perpetual state of fourth-and-long, always running late, grasping desperately for the slippery short end of the baton, and continually battling my own lack of forethought with come-from-behind, pressure-cooker heroics. To put it another way, I hadn’t trained properly. And let’s face it, training for a marathon, like gravity, taxes, and Walt Disney’s hand in your pocket, is simply fundamental. Standing there, head lowered in shame, I tried to ignore the

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MICHAEL HUGHES

hundreds of runners flying past me. But no: well-meaning marathoners were on me like eczema.

“Hey! That guy’s dropping out!” shouted one runner.

Yeah, thanks. Flaunt it in genuine in-your-face-Mister-Failure style, why don’tcha?

“Get back in here,” said another runner.

This man deserved to be eaten by hyenas, but I’d left mine at home.

“Don’t quit now!” yelled a third runner.

Icringed. Whatever milliliters of confidence I had built up as arunner over the past 15 years had just leaked out of my Reeboks.

So, no, I was not in the best of humors. But sometimes, when you least expect it, fate takes a detour. Just as I began slinking, tail between my legs, toward a side road, I was rescued by two beautiful women. Jill Hanson and Ann McKenzie, from Victoria, British Columbia, were tracking their husbands along the course when they spotted me hobbling along.

“Looks like you could use a lift,” said Jill.

“Thanks,” I said, climbing into the back seat of their car.

“Bad race?” asked Ann.

“Knee problems,” I lied, feeling lower than ever.

Oh well, I thought. A quick trip to the motel, a shower, and I could put this whole ugly thing behind me. Or so I thought.

Tim Martin IT’S OK TO DNF—REALLY! @ 33

“I hope you don’t mind a few stops,” said Jill. “This isn’t the express run. It’s the milk run.”

She wasn’t kidding. Jill’s and Ann’s husbands (Bruce and George) were on a4:30 pace. Consequently, there was a lot of stopping. A lot of waiting. Jill and Ann made at least a dozen stops to cheer on their husbands and hand out drinks at aid stations along the way. And each time they stopped, I cowered down in the back seat to avoid being seen.

I was so angst-ridden, I needed someone to throw mea dog biscuit. But from my hiding place, I could hear the commotion: “Come on, runners! You guys make it look easy! You’re awesome! Great job!”

After a while, I found myself sitting up and taking in the proceedings.

“Lookin’ good! Go marathoners! Keep going!”

All along the course people were handing out bananas and orange slices. A police car streamed by, booming praise: “Keep it up! Way to go! You’re inspirational!”

At one stop I watched a father snatch up his two-year-old son, place him on his shoulders, and say, “Look! There goes Mama!”

My heart cracked ever so slightly.

Jill and Ann stuck with it, right up to the last mile. “You’re almost there! Only one mile! You can do it!”

I must be something of an emotional chameleon, because by the time we arrived at the finish my mood had moved from crawl space to penthouse. Somewhere along the course I had discovered a few important things about running, and about myself. I discovered that running is a catalyst for bringing good people together and forming long-lasting friendships that probably would not be made otherwise. I found that life is truly a balancing act. In one hand, you hold your running, and in the other, you hold a job, family, and other challenges you face on a daily basis. When running is important in our life, we have to find that balance.

Most important, I learned that losing or DNFing can carry over to anything you do in life. Didn’t do so well today? That’s OK. Don’t worry about it. Go home, train hard, come back next year, and try again. If you do get over the hump and accomplish your goal, victory is even sweeter.

The marathon will always be there, waiting for me to return. When that happens—and I am sure it will happen—I’ Il be ready to meet it head on. PE.

34 M@ MARATHON & BEYOND January/February 2000

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