INSPIRATION

Sri Chinmoy, the founder of the Sri Chinmoy marathon team, is a perfect example of his own philosophy of continuous self-transcendence. When he turned 65 years old, his motto became: “Don’t retire, aspire.”

Throughout the summer of 2000, while we were running the 3100-Mile Race, Sri Chinmoy, at 69, was inspiring us as he lifted weights of 500, then 600, then 700 pounds. In October he set a record for the double dumbbell bench press by pressing 500 pounds with each arm simultaneously—a total of 1000 pounds.

He says: “There are no limits to our capacity because we have the Infinite Divine within us.”

This is one of his poems that inspired me during the race:

Run, run with your soul’s

Dynamism river flow.

You are bound to succeed

In everything that you want to do

And everything that you want to become.

& What I Learned From It

onstant encouragement of my u iS helping me to discover and fulfill my role i in life. Ac ea tion than that, | cannot imagine.

Editor’s note: While Suprabha’s story was being typeset and laid out, she was back on the 3100mile course for the fifth time, becoming the only runner to have competed in all five of the megaultra races. Her time for 2001 was 52 days, 10 hours, 37 minutes, and 42 seconds.

Special

ao The Art of the ue Ultramarathoner

Runners Have Been Doing Ultras for Centuries, and the Basics Never Change. A Classic Revived. Part 3 of 5

by Tom Osler

CHAPTER 5: DIARY OF A LONG DISTANCE RUN

I discussed the technical aspects of long training runs in the previous chapter. Details on how to mix walking with running, the selection of drinks, and psychological preparation were all considered. In this chapter I will describe one such workout, drawn from the pages of my own training diary.

The Day Before

It is Saturday, September 2, 1978. Several times each year I arrange one of my favorite workouts, a fifty-mile run from my home to the seashore in Atlantic City. My wife and two sons will be driving to the beach tomorrow, and I can meet them there at the conclusion of my run. A check of the weather forecast reveals that Sunday will be clear and hot; a perfect day for swimming, but a trying day for a pedestrian.

It is best to do very little running the day before such trials, and I elect to sit around the house and read, staying off my feet as much as possible. This run will take from eight to nine hours. I don’t want to leave too early in the morning, for it will be dark until 5:30 a.m. Not only is it difficult for motorists to see a runner at night, but there are probably drunks on the road returning home from a Saturday night binge. I decide to compromise and start at 5 a.m. inform Kathy, my wife, that I will meet her at the beach at 2 p.m. I ask her to keep an eye out for me as she drives there; in case I meet with unexpected difficulty, she can give me an early lift.

I go to bed at 9 p.m. and set the alarm for 4:30 a.m. My running shorts and sleeveless running shirt are set out for my quick morning get-away. My softest training shoes, as well as a cap with a large sun visor, are placed beside them.

In addition, a small change purse is prepared. It contains about three dollars for the purchase of drinks at vending machines. An additional forty dollars in bills is included to buy yet more drinks and supplies as well as a taxi ride home if the need arises.

The Big Day

As usual, I awaken before the alarm rings. It is 4:45 a.m. I check my weight— two pounds over my usual morning reading. This is a good sign, for it means that I am hydrated. I will need this extra body fluid during this hot, day-long run. It is very bad to arise on the day of a long run to find your weight a few pounds below normal.

A bowel movement and shave help get my system going. Soon the kettle is boiling for a cup of tea with plenty of honey. As I sit and drink, I try to calm myself. I always get too excited before these runs, which are among my most enjoyable undertakings. I decide to take an additional drink, for there is no place to purchase drinks on this course before the eight mile mark. I select a large glass of apple juice.

I pin the change purse to the side of my running shorts and stuff an old handkerchief there as well. I leave a note for Kathy telling her that I left on time and will see her at the beach between | and 2 p.m.

The Start

I walk out the back door at 5 a.m. Except for a street light, it is dark. On most mornings at this time the sound of traffic from a highway 200 yards away would be heard, but it is Sunday, and a strange quiet fills the air. It is damp, nearly 100 percent humidity, but the temperature is only seventy degrees. The weatherman predicted clear skies, but as I look up no stars can be seen.

It is important to get in the proper mood. I walk easily for fifty yards, then begin moving in a gentle trot. Normally I have difficulty running this early in the morning, but the excitement of a special workout has my juices flowing and my running steps seem remarkably easy. I stop and walk a few yards during the first half-mile to make sure that I warmup slowly.

Thave now left our housing development, which offered the protection of street lights, and turn onto a narrow, dark country road which I must travel for 4.5 miles. I am uneasy about this stretch because of the danger of not being seen by the occasional motorist. As always I stay on the left side of the road facing traffic. For ten minutes, I am left to my own thoughts as no cars appear. I try to keep my stride as short as possible, for I can barely see where my feet hit the road.

I hear a car coming from behind. As it approaches I stop and walk off the road until it passes. I am paranoid about being hit.

Before the run, I had planned to walk every fifteen to twenty minutes, for about five minutes. As the time for the first walk approaches, I decide to forego it, due to my uneasiness about this dark stretch of the road. I want to get off it as quickly as possible. It is undeniably important to start walking at the very start of a long workout, to establish the proper run-walk rhythm. But I am just too uncomfortable, and decide to wait until I reach the five mile mark at CrossKeys.

Cross-Keys (5 Miles)

Five country roads meet at this little backwoods center. Usually there is heavy traffic here, but at this hour there are no moving vehicles. I hear the sound of voices—loud semi-hysterical female voices. As I approach the intersection, I see a car parked near the trees and several teenagers standing around, apparently drunk. They don’t notice as I trot by and turn onto the three-mile stretch of road that leads to Williamstown. Normally there would be some daylight by this time, but the heavy cloud cover postpones the dawn. Suddenly it begins to rain, a hard-driving downpour that immediately chills me to the bone. Worst of all, my shoes are drenched, and my feet begin to slide in them. After about five minutes the shower stops and the sky begins to open; at last there is light on the road.

In spite of my heavy, flopping shoes, this is the first time that I feel really cheerful. I simply can’t relax when I’m on the road in darkness. Six miles have passed and I still have not walked. Normally, I would have walked twice by now. I would stop immediately for a walking break, but Iam cold from the rain. I relax and keep moving towards the eight mile mark.

Williamstown (8 Miles)

I have now been running without a walking break or a drink for one hour and fifteen minutes. I certainly would not recommend that a long workout begin this way, but I have had little choice. I enter the small center known as Williamstown. Thus far, there have been no gas stations or stores at which to buy drinks. Now I have a choice of both. I select a twenty-four hour, chain grocery store, since it might offer fruit juice, while the gas stations have only soda machines. As I walk in, Iam instantly made aware of my appearance. The glance from the clerk is intimidating; I am wet with rain and sweat, and my calves are covered with grime from the road. I quickly select a sixteen ounce container of orange aid. As Iremove the change purse from my shorts the clerk looks at me with further wonder. “Where are you going?” he asks timidly. I

Tom Osler THE ART OF THE ULTRAMARATHONER = 133

always enjoy startling people, so I pipe up “Atlantic City.” He looks at me in total disbelief. “I’ll be there by 2 p.m.,” I reply as I walk out the door. He grins. “Good Luck!”

At last I begin walking a few steps and drinking. How refreshing this feels. I wonder if I will pay a heavy price for not stopping sooner to walk. Suddenly I feel slightly weary. Is my mind playing tricks, or am I deteriorating already? I’m taking no chances, and sit down on a nearby concrete step.

It feels good to be off my feet—too good. Oh well, I can always call Kathy and get a ride home. How often I have thought of doing this in previous workouts, but in eleven years of marriage, I have only called her once to rescue me. It is now 6:30 a.m., and I enjoy the view of this quaint town as I sip the remainder of my drink.

As Irise to continue, my concern is not with my recovery, but with how best to discard my empty paper container. I’m not a “do-gooder,” but I just can’t leave this on the road. Years of running have given the road an animate quality. Littering would be an act of disrespect towards the road on which my feet must travel. I have been trained in modern science all my life, but when I’m in physical labor, I think as my Stone Age forefathers did and see spirits of nonliving things. I crumple the container in my hand and wait until I have a trash container in which to discard it. I have carried bottles many miles on previous runs for the same reason.

I’ve resumed running again and feel refreshed. Once more I face barren country road, but now I have daylight. Seven miles will pass before I reach Winslow and the next opportunity to buy drinks. The sun is rising and would be directly in my eyes were it not for my visor. I need to urinate, and relieve myself in the cover of the trees. This is a good sign, for it means I am not dehydrated. I stop and walk every fifteen minutes. It’s beginning to get warmer, but I do well in heat and am not too concerned.

Winslow (15 Miles)

I trot into the tiny rural cluster of homes called Winslow at 7:45 a.m. One hour and fifteen minutes have passed since my only opportunity to drink, and I now eagerly anticipate arriving at a soda machine which I have used on past occasions.

My rising joy as I near the long-sought oasis is abruptly stilled as my eyes focus on a hand-printed sign that says “out of order.” Five more miles separate me from Hammonton. I really need a drink.

I begin to walk, I say to myself “relax, relax.” I begin to look at each little country home that I pass, hoping to see someone whom I can ask for a glass of water. I’m in luck! There is an old woman sitting in a rocker on her porch. I

walk up, and again am immediately intimidated by the reaction to my appearance. “Good morning,” I say, “could I trouble you for a glass of water?” The woman says nothing, but rises and enters the house. She returns a minute later with a large glass of water. “That’s pure spring water, not pipe water,” she says proudly. I drink it down quickly. “Could I trouble you for another one?” She smiles and seems delighted to be of help.

I must have consumed a quart of water on that stop, and my stomach feels really full. I walk for a few extra minutes to let it settle down. When I start running again, I feel the water sloshing about in my stomach, but I am relieved. I know this will pass, and I’ve been rescued from dehydration.

Hammonton (20 Miles)

Old Hammonton is a picturesque, medium-sized town in the heart of South Jersey. It is in a conservative area originally settled by Italian immigrant farmers who have prospered remarkably. (The number of millionaires per capita in Hammonton is one of the highest in America.) It is 8:40 a.m. and there are several people in the streets. They barely notice as I trot down Main Street, as usual, looking for a grocery store.

When I leave Hammonton, there is a ten-mile stretch of highway with little chance for refreshment. I buy two sodas and sit down to drink them. After the first is consumed, I don’t feel that I can handle the second. I begin walking, hoping that the first drink will settle in and make room for the other before I start running. It doesn’t, and the precious second drink must be discarded.

As I leave Hammonton, I am leaving the quiet country roads behind. I will now travel over Route 30, the White Horse Pike. This major artery from Philadelphia to Atlantic City was one of the first paved roads in the nation.

Thirty miles to go! The thought is intimidating, because the next ten-mile stretch on the White Horse Pike is psychologically the most difficult of the entire run. The road is as straight as an arrow. There is heavy traffic, but the shoulder is adequate. There are no towns; only an occasional roadside produce stand. More importantly there are no shade trees—I will be exposed to the sun for two hours straight!

At such times, I assess my condition carefully. My legs feel good, with no signs of stiffness. I try to accelerate my gentle trot to a speed of about six minutes to the mile, to see how it feels. Unfortunately, this acceleration reveals that I am more fatigued than I thought. Damn it! Why didn’t I walk during that first hour?

As I approach White Horse Pike, with its continuous noisy flow of cars, I spot an open gas station. I pause here and relieve my bowels. In addition, I soak my hat and shirt in water. Leaving the rest room, I look like I’ ve just emerged

Tom Osler THE ART OF THE ULTRAMARATHONER ® 135

from a swimming pool. Water is dripping all over from my hat, trunk and legs. This will giving me some protection against the increasing heat.

A Long Ten Miles

T’m now on the White Horse Pike, with traffic whizzing by. I hate traffic, and take every opportunity to run on the grass rather than the shoulder of the road. I concentrate on keeping my stride smooth and easy. I hear the words of a popular tune, “take it easy, take it easy, don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy,” again and again in my mind.

There are few landmarks on this truly boring stretch of road, and the two hours required to traverse it go by ever so slowly.

After five additional walks and one stop to drink, I at last enter Egg Harbor City.

Egg Harbor City (30 Miles)

The large green road signs remind me that I have twenty miles left to run. It is 10:30 a.m. and really hot. An inviting cluster of trees, surrounded by rich cut grass appears during my next walk; I sit down under their shade. Sitting there sipping iced tea, I wonder what the motorists zooming past must think. I really don’t care though; it feels good to be off my feet. After five minutes I rise to continue walking, only to discover a serious problem. The nail on the large toe of my right foot is beginning to feel strange. It doesn’t quite hurt, but the fact that I am conscious of it at all indicates the onset of damage. This happened several times previously, and is due to my left foot being slightly larger than my right. As a result, the nail gets pressured by the end of my shoe. If I don’t relieve the pressure now, I will probably lose the nail.

Concern over my nail has caused me to forget the gradual fatigue that is slowly surrounding me. I begin to look for a piece of sharp glass with which to make a hole in the front of the shoe. These days you don’t have to look far to find broken glass on the road. In fact, I soon have several sizes and shapes to choose from. I stop, remove my shoe, and quickly make a one inch slit through the soft nylon upper of the shoe, right at the spot where my toe is being irritated. This isn’t the first time I’ ve repaired my shoes on the run with broken glass. I smile inwardly. How many runners could fix their shoes on the open road? Ah, there is a certain pride. …

Pomona (35 Miles)

Only fifteen to go; I feel relaxed and confident, and begin to enjoy the prospect of a successful run. It is 11:20 a.m. and I am trotting through the parking lot of a small shopping center in Pomona. A car driven by a teenager starts up as I

pass through, and I stop in front of him unknowingly. He guns his motor and I immediately flinch with fear. Instantly I am angry and stop. I look at him defiantly, as he stands some ten feet in front of his car. He smiles and slowly heads toward me. Immediately I check myself, remembering past encounters like this when I was fatigued from running. I can get very aggressive at such times, much like a soldier suffering from battle fatigue. I have learned that it is best not to confront people at such times, but to leave as gracefully as possible. I turn and continue running.

My body is now flooded with adrenaline. Iam so angry! I notice that Iam no longer weary and am probably moving at a pace close to 6:30 per mile, rather than my usual nine minutes. It seems funny, but I should go back and thank that kid! He energized me, and now I feel like I just started. I deliberately check my speed—there is a long way to go.

Moving along comfortably, I am suddenly conscious of being watched. I turn to the right and see a car slowed to my speed on the other side of the road. Ilook carefully to see if itis anyone I recognize, or possibly that crazy kid from the parking lot. But it is neither. The car is beginning to tie up traffic, so it accelerates and leaves. Who was that?

Ahalf-mile farther down the road I see the same car again. A slender young man steps out in shorts and waits for me to approach. “Are you Tom Osler?” Now I haven’t run well in short races since the late 1960s, and I’m always surprised when someone that I don’t know recognizes me. The previous year five friends and I made a well-publicized fun run from Philadelphia to Atlantic City. The distance is 60 miles, and while ultramarathoners know that it can be easy to go that far, the uninitiated find it impressive.

We run together for an hour while his girl friend drives the car ahead to meet him. At first I have great difficulty slowing him to my pace, but after the first walk, I have him under control. He gives me a detailed history of his running career, from high school to his present college status. I find listening to him very enjoyable, for he takes my mind off the miles at hand. He seems surprised that I stop to walk so often, and remarks that he has never purchased drinks on the run. He is especially uneasy when I walk up to a garden hose and douse my head, neck and back with water.

Absecon (40 Miles)

It is now ten minutes past noon, and my groin is beginning to chafe. I stop at a drug store and purchase a small jar of Vaseline. At the next gas station I stop and put plenty of this jelly on the affected area. Immediate relief!

My college friend and I continue to get acquainted. The White Horse Pike now becomes Absecon Boulevard. This is a six-mile stretch of divided highway built over marshlands that separate the island of Atlantic City from the

mainland of New Jersey. On either side of the road is an endless expanse of water in which tall reeds grow. In the distance the skyline of Atlantic City is visible, with the famed Convention Hall clearly in view. A pleasant breeze blows across the marshes. With my destination in sight, and the realization that Tam still moving easily, I wear a broad smile. Soon my friend’s car appears and we shake hands and part.

I’m glad that I will run the last miles alone. I really enjoy the last hour of these workouts. All psychological doubts and fears are gone. I can savor the sound of my easy footsteps as a reward for years of preparation.

Atlantic City Boundary (46 Miles)

A long steep bridge marks the edge of Atlantic City. This bridge has special significance for me. In 1967, in training for my first fifty-mile race, Imade my goal to run from my former home to this bridge. This fifty-mile jaunt was only possible after I learned to prepare sugared drinks. Every time I see this bridge I think of that first workout of over fifty miles, taken many years ago. How absolutely delighted I was with that achievement!

I go over the bridge and four more miles to the beach. Many of the streets in Atlantic City are desolate with entire blocks leveled in quiet anticipation of the city’s revival thanks to legalized gambling.

Desolate or not, I am joyous as I stride down the sidewalks with the boardwalk just up ahead.

The Beach (50 Miles)

I stop one block from the boardwalk, and walk the last 100 yards. It is 2 p.m.— I’m on schedule. My wife, my father and two sons, Eric and Billy, are playing in the sand. “Look mommy, there’s daddy!” I pull off my shoes and walk over to them through the hot sand. Kathy is pleased to see me looking fresh.

I quickly remove my shirt and take a short swim. If [don’t jump in the water at once, my body temperature will drop and I will never get in later. How refreshing it feels!

After lunch on the beach and a nap in the shade of the boardwalk, Kathy and I take a walk of two miles on the boards. A walk at this time helps relieve fatigue in the legs.

The Next Days

On Monday, I wake and feel no leg stiffness whatsoever. This indicates that the run was done “well within myself.” While I feel good, I elect not to overwork and run only three miles, to make sure that I am recovered. Normal training can resume on Tuesday if no further evidence of fatigue appears.

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CHAPTER 6: RACING FOR HALF THE DAY

Having examined methods of training for traveling very long distances on foot, we now consider the needs of the athlete who could test his or her ability against other runners and the clock. In this chapter we explore races of fifty miles, 100 kilometers (62.2 miles) and twelve hours. Of these, the fifty-mile race is the most common in the United States. Fifty kilometers (thirty-one miles) is also considered an ultramarathon, but in my eyes it’s really a long marathon. The fifty-miler is the shortest ultramarathon worthy of the name.

Two Types of Races

Should the athlete run the entire distance, or should he mix running and walking? This is a basic consideration, and must be settled before further race plans are made. For novice runners, regardless of their demonstrated marathon capability, running and walking is best. In fifty-milers, it may be difficult to cover the distance in under six hours thirty minutes while mixing, but the quest for fast times should be deferred until experience is gained.

Why should a 2:30 marathoner walk and run in his first fifty-miler? He surely will not produce a time worthy of his marathoning potential in this way. But remember that these races are very difficult. Reckless ultramarathoning can produce lasting injury. An inexperienced fast marathoner, who sees fifty miles as a long marathon, might produce a record time in his first race, but he could also do his legs lasting harm. Patience is a required virtue in this sport if months or even years of agonizing recovery from leg trouble is to be avoided.

Who should elect to run continuously, rather than mix? Marathon runners who cannot break 2:50 should not consider running fifty miles continuously, but should mix walking with running. Experienced ultramarathoners who can race the marathon in 2:45 can probably run fifty miles in 6:10 without harm. Marathoners of the 2:35 class can likely cover fifty miles in 5:50; marathoners of the 2:25 class have demonstrated that they can run fifty miles under 5:30. To achieve the fifty mile times that I roughly projected from known marathon performance, it is assumed that the runner can master the necessary special techniques of the ultramarathoner. These include the ability to relax while others run out of sight, and the ability to handle large volumes of fluid.

Before leaving the subject of continuous running in ultramarathons, we should note that the world’s record for 100 miles is 11:30:51, held by Don Ritchie of Scotland. Needless to say, Ritchie’s pace of under seven minutes to the mile did not allow him to walk. But the average ultramarathoner had best not be fooled by such performances; they are as far from his or her reach as a sub-3:50 mile is from the average miler.

Time Limits

Many ultramarathon sponsors place time limits on their event. These time limits are important, and must not be ignored by the competitor. For example, a fifty-mile race might have an eight hour time limit. Any runner who finishes after eight hours is disqualified. There are many reasons why sponsors impose such time limits. In road races, they allow for traffic control by the police. They allow the officials, who are probably volunteering their time, to know exactly when they can return home.

If you cannot meet the advertised time limit, then out of courtesy and awareness of the enormous job of the race officials, you should not enter. If you do enter and subsequently find that your progress will not allow you to finish in time, then you must graciously retire. For no reason should you remain on the course after the time limit expires without having consulted the race director first for permission. There is always great concern for a missing runner.

Never bicker with a race director over these matters. Even if you have someone following you in a car, and are willing to take responsibility for yourself, you should quit when ordered to do so by the director. Why? You may not be aware of arrangements made before the race. For example, the director might have promised the police that all athletes would be off the course by a certain hour. You and your handler can become a traffic nuisance after that time.

Always defer, with grace, to the wishes of the race director. If you have other thoughts, you are showing poor sportsmanship and no class.

Handlers

While international rules forbid the use of handlers in marathon races, handlers are permitted in the ultramarathons. In fact, some race promoters insist that each entrant provide a handler so that his needs will be adequately met. By pouring your drinks, handling your towels, providing directions, etc., the handler will save a runner precious time that can mean a place or two in the race. Even on a track, the simple act of being handed a drink, rather than reaching for one on a table, will save time.

Your handler should be very familiar with the way you race and your probable needs. Long before the race starts you should sit down together and discuss every detail of your preparations. You should provide him with all the necessary drinks and containers. Alternate shoes and clothing for potential changes in the weather should be available. A complete first aid kit with band aids, tape, petroleum jelly, and foot pads is a necessity. It is also advisable to discuss your prerace strategy; your handler can assist in letting you know if your pace is consistent with these plans.

Most important, you must be able to quit the race at any time should fatigue of a serious nature develop. Of course, there is no problem in quitting on a track or small road loop. On courses that take you many miles away from the finish line, your handler should be available every few miles if a rescue becomes necessary.

In road races, handlers should not stay with their runners on bicycles or in cars, for this can create a traffic hazard. The handler should drive ahead of the runner by a few miles, pull off the road, then stand and wait for you.

Finally, unwritten rules of sportsmanship dictate that any runner should be helped when help is requested. While your handler is “your man,” he should give assistance to others when called upon, provided that it will not detract from his primary concern, which is to assist you.

Psychological Preparation

Whether you are a novice and hope to run and walk fifty miles in twelve hours, or a world class runner shooting for under five hours, you should be willing to retire from the race should fatigue become excessive. This is not marathon racing where a “blood and guts” attitude will probably do no lasting harm. The potential for damaging the runner’s health is far greater in ultramarathons, and neither the runner nor the sport is served by unwise acts of so-called courage. The athlete who would drive himself to the point where he gives a degrading display by tottering about the track looking half dead should recognize that he is a nuisance to others. In particular, he becomes a problem for officials who must worry about his well-being. Mature athletes should not subject spectators and handlers to such needless worry in order to satisfy a perverse view of sport. If running yourself to death is your thing, then do it in training where no one else need watch.

In planning for these races, as with shorter races, I find it convenient to divide the race into thirds. Thus a six-hour fifty-mile race is conceived in distinct phases each lasting two hours. My psychological attitude toward and within each of the three phases is different.

During the first phase I imagine that Iam not running at all. Ideally I would feel as relaxed as if I were sitting at home in a chair. If even the slightest fatigue is felt, the pace must be reduced, more walking employed, or rest periods begun.

In the second phase I expect to be fully aware that Iam running, but I should still be moving in comfort. Some small effort might be employed here to maintain the pace, but it must be slight. In this phase remain non-competitive. Should a runner challenge and try to pass me, I do not pursue him but will reduce my speed momentarily to let him pass.

The race really starts in the final third. Some discomfort can be expected here as I start working towards the finish. For the first time I allow myself to be competitive and will “race” if challenged. While I have planned the entire race to be run comfortably, it is likely that the final hour of running will be somewhat unpleasant as fatigue sets in.

While the effort put forth in each of the three phases feels different, the pace within each phase will hopefully remain. Here, as in shorter races, a steady pace is preferred.

A 50-Mile Track Race

I will now describe two fifty-mile races based on entries in my training diary. The first is a trace race, the second a road race.

August 6, 1977

Itis early morning. This evening at 6 p.m. I will be running the Fort Meade 50Miler. This is the third consecutive year that I will have started this event, which is run on a 440-yard, all-weather track for 200 laps. The first year I set the meet record at 5:49:14. The second year I quit at ten miles because of a leg injury inflicted by a piece of broken glass.

For breakfast I have a bowl of spaghetti. This is certainly not my usual breakfast, but I won’t be able to eat much later because of the late start of the race.

Inap for an hour at noon, then leave at 2 p.m. by car for Maryland with my running partner Bob Zazzali. I hate driving, and Bob graciously agrees to drive the entire distance while I try to nap in the back seat. We arrive at Fort Meade at 4:15 p.m.

The track has a carnival atmosphere. A 24-hour relay race started at noon and there are hundreds of runners on the field. Tents, cots, and lounge chairs dot the area inside and outside the track. As soon as I see all these athletes I start to get nervous and excited. This is bad because the race doesn’t start for almost two hours.

Itis very hot: ninety degrees, sunny and humid. I find a tree away from the view of the track and lay down on a blanket in the shade. I stay there alone, trying to relax and forget the race.

Several friends from South Jersey arrive. Some will race and others will serve as handlers for the entire group. At 5:10 p.m. | assist them in setting up the “rain machine,” a large galvanized tub which we keep filled with ice water and sponges. It is placed on the infield just off the curb of the first turn. This will be our “handling station.” The sponges will be used to douse our hands and backs with ice water. This is a remarkably effective way to stay cool and will

allow a runner to race under the most torrid conditions on the track. Multigallon containers of various drinks are also available. I have one gallon of iced tea containing my standard two pounds of sugar. In addition I have a gallon of ice water, which I use if the sugared tea starts to bother me. The handlers will also be busy counting laps and recording lap times. Several lounge chairs have been brought for their comfort.

I dress at 5:30. Plenty of Vaseline is applied between my thighs to prevent chafing. I wear nylon shorts and a cotton sleeveless shirt, and will use a visor until the sun sets.

Iam told that Nick Marshall is here. He won this race in a fast time last year, as well as the Lake Waramug 50-Miler in May. Park Barner is also here. Park is always a threat, but he often runs slowly in hot weather. I suspect that Marshall is the man to watch. I am in good condition and plan no walking. I should be able to maintain a seven minute mile speed for the entire race; at that rate, I should finish by midnight.

At 5:50 p.m. I leave the field house and walk to the track. I have deliberately remained clear of my competitors. Meeting them will make my heart beat faster, and I want to stay as calm as possible.

The Start

We are called to the starting line. I see Barner and Marshall for the first time, but we don’t even have a chance to say hello. There are twenty-eight starters, all in three rows on the outside of the track to avoid interfering with the relay.

The starter’s pistol is fired, and I trot easily towards the inside lane. There is no hurry. This is phase one, and must be run with genuine ease. Someone is running like crazy in front of me, and I’m roughly in tenth place. I can’t see Barner, but Marshall is about thirty yards in front of me.

The sun is incredibly hot, even though it’s early evening. I pass the first mile in 6:30, and my head is beginning to feel uncomfortably warm. I ask for my first sponge. It is dripping with ice water and I place it over my head and squeeze. The water pours over my scalp and down my neck. Truly instantaneous relief. I slowly accelerate, I carry the sponge for one lap, and then throw it back into the tub.

Shortly after the first mile I pass Marshall. I’m not trying to pass him; my legs are running without any real direction from me. During this first segment of the race, I like to think I am distinct from my legs. They run, and I sit on them and take a ride. In this way I don’t force the pace.

I go to the sponge every mile for the first ten miles, which pass in 1:05:35. The pace is too fast, but I am not concerned because I don’t command my legs; they move freely, of their own accord. I am now soaked with water, including

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my shoes, but it is this water that saves me from the tremendous heat. I drink twelve ounces of sugared ice tea every half-hour.

I don’t really know what place I’m running in, since there are so many runners circling the track. I can distinguish relay entrants from fifty-milers because the former carry a baton. I have been lapped several times by some fool who is running at world record pace. I keep my eyes on Marshall and forget everyone else.

Shortly after ten miles, Marshall passes me. I am trying to remain noncompetitive, but the sight of him spurs me on and I pass him in turn without trying.

I pass fifteen miles in 1:38:54. Suddenly Marshall makes a dramatic move, shooting past me looking very strong. I am running at 6:45 pace, and am no longer in the mood to give chase. If Marshall can sustain this pace, well, good for him; I certainly can’t. I relax and notice that my pace seems slower. Have I been running too fast? Phase one will be over shortly and I will “take control” of my renegade legs.

Phase Two

At8 p.m. [have run eighteen miles and the long second phase has begun. I take stock of myself. My legs no longer have that tremendous zip that I enjoyed at the start, and my pace has slowed to 7:15 per mile. Nevertheless, I feel no real fatigue and look forward to passing the marathon in good time.

Marshall laps me. It’s somewhat depressing, for he looks very fresh and is not drenched with water as I am. How can he run that dry in this heat? I let him go without a fight; too many miles remain. Marshall passes the marathon distance in 2:53:00 and I in 2:56:30.

But at thirty miles my lap counter, Mike Brasko, rushes down to the side of the track. “Marshall is off the track and you’re now less than one lap behind him!” Perhaps Nick is cracking and I’m back in the race! The excitement generated by this good news brings my next mile to 6:54, even though my last few miles were all over seven minutes.

My enthusiasm is short lived. A few minutes later Marshall passes me again. “Blisters,” he says, “I had to change shoes.” Not only does Nick look great but, more significantly, his voice reveals no sign of fatigue. I settle back to an easy 7:30 pace, hoping to reach the finish line without too much difficulty.

Iam not uncomfortable, but my legs know that they are working. Soon I shall reach thirty-five miles and the third and last phase of the race will begin. Marathoners often say that their race begins at twenty miles, but fifty-milers say their race starts at thirty-five.

Phase Three

I pass thirty-five miles in ten seconds under four hours. I feel slightly weary, but should be able to move well for two more hours.

Suddenly Marshall leaves the track again. This time he takes off his shoes and just sits in a lounge chair on the inside of the track! To my amazement, and delight, he is out of the race. Blisters, not fatigue, finished him. The race is now mine. What a glorious feeling! All I need to do is run around the track for less than two hours, without concern for the opposition, and I will win. This time, the unexpected excitement does not cause any acceleration in my pace.

My complacency is short lived, for a few laps later I am passed by a slender young man looking very smooth and strong. He is not carrying a baton… must be in the fifty! My God, who is this? I rush up to catch him and ask, “Are you lapping me? What place are you in?” His reply is short: “I don’t know.” I get very angry. When runners are fatigued, it takes little to cause their tempers to flare.

Icall my lap counter, Mike, to the side of the track. “Find out who that guy’s lap counters are and see if I’m behind him. He looks too good!”

A few minutes later Mike returns with bad news. The phenom is Jim Czachor, running in his first fifty, and he is one lap ahead of me. Damn it! Not only will I not win, but I’ll be beaten by an unknown!

Now Czachor is lapping me, and I am growing fatigued. I take the sponge every lap, but Czachor laps me for the third time, still looking great. “Keep rolling and the track record is easily yours” I shout to the impressive conqueror. He wins in 5:44:30, a superb time given the hot weather. I finish almost one mile behind him in 5:51:13.

It is best to keep moving after such extended efforts, so I go to the outside lane of the track and begin a brisk thirty minute walk. In the past I have learned that this exercise will reduce tomorrow’s leg stiffness. After circling the track several times, Mike Brasko walks over and points to Czachor sitting in the stands, because he can’t stand up. Well at least he had to work to beat me. One month later Jim Czachor proved that his victory at Fort Meade was no fluke. He won the National AAU 50-Mile Championship in California in his second race at the distance.

Bob Zazzali and I leave Fort Meade at 2:30 a.m., and arrive home at 5 a.m. I sleep until 7 a.m. but no further.

Post Race Recovery

Before this race I had felt I might be getting a cold. After the race I did develop a cough which lasted for three months. Hard ultramarathon races, in which the runner does no walking, are very hard on the athlete’s overall health.

Tom Osler THE ART OF THE ULTRAMARATHONER 147

Ihad some leg soreness in my thighs for three days, and was able to resume normal training in one week following the race.

A 50-Mile Road Race

Shortly after the Fort Meade 50-Mile Track Race described above, I accepted an invitation to speak and run at the annual “Michigan Fifty” at Copper Harbor, Michigan.

Kathy and I were the guests of Professor and Mrs. Otto Rueher of Michigan Technological University. Otto agreed to serve as my handler, and we discussed race plans and filled the back of his station wagon with drinks and other provisions.

I gave my lecture on Saturday, and was troubled by coughing as I spoke. This cough had hounded me since Fort Meade and I seriously wondered if I should be racing here at all. But since I don’t get invited to race that often, I reasoned that I could simply ease up on the pace and take a good workout.

Race Day September 18, 1977

The course for this Michigan Fifty is one large loop within Copper Harbor, a small mining town on the shores of Lake Superior. The first half of the course rolls gently along a narrow traffic-free road that gives a continuous view of the lake. The remainder of the loop moves inland and is very hilly. The prerace entry form described the course as “rolling,” but you can never trust these descriptions. What is “rolling” to a mountain man is like crossing Everest to athletes from the plains. Although there are few hills where I live, Idon’t worry about racing over them. Experience shows that a good runner on the flats should run well over hills. In the words of the great Australian coach Percy Cerruty, “A good runner can run anywhere.”

l arrive at the starting line twenty minutes before race time and use brisk walking to warm up. The fields in ultras are usually very small; nineteen men are at the start today. Most were from Michigan, with other entrants from Chicago, Georgia and New Jersey. It was cloudy and fifty-five degrees—ideal racing weather.

Just before the race started, Bob Olson, the race promoter and an entrant himself, unveiled a large wooden sign that read “Tom Osler Mile,” to be placed at the forty-nine mile mark! I am always responsive to flattery, but this is beyond all imagining. My heart rate accelerates even more.

The gun is fired and we are off. I quickly take the lead, which my better sense tells me is bad. Out of nineteen runners there should be someone willing to go faster than I. I have not planned to walk in this race, and while I didn’t recognize any of my fellow starters, I had been hopeful that an easy run in six

hours and fifteen minutes would win the race. That time requires an average of 7:30 per mile, a pace I feel I should be able to sustain despite my cough.

The sun rises late in Copper Harbor, and itis a bit dark as I stride by the onemile mark. An official drives by and says “You’Il slow down a lot later.” Does he know something I don’t? I try to relax, for I am in phase one of this race, in which my body should be taxed only minimally. I try to enjoy the beautiful views of Lake Superior.

At the five-mile post I get my first clocking—I am running slightly faster than seven minutes per mile. Good. I can slow up a bit later.

At eight miles reality begins to unfold. Ken Rogotzke and Larry Swanson draw even with me. Ken looks great and begins to open ground; Larry starts a running conversation. I don’t like to talk during races, because talking expends valuable oxygen and slows the pace. When I tell Larry that I’d rather not talk, he seems insulted and accelerates his pace. In a few miles both of them are out of sight.

Otto Rueher, my handler, stops every two miles and meets me with my favorite drink of sugared tea. He keeps telling me that I look strong, but I’m worried. I have no zip. Every time I run up even the slightest incline I feel the strain of the climb. For arunner in phase one of an ultra, I’m being taxed far too heavily.

My wife is riding with Otto, who is now tour guide as well as handler. Even though it’s chilly out, I begin to use cold sponges to wipe my head. A few more runners pass me. I can’t find a pace that is sufficiently easy, but I don’t want to walk. I’ve never walked in a fifty before, and I should be able to survive running.

At twenty-five miles we turn left and leave the pleasant lake shore. Now there is a steady two mile climb, and I’m beginning to fall apart. My thighs are really laboring, and my pace feels like a crawl. I pass the marathon in 3:11. Bob Olson, the race director, overtakes me; I’m surprised that he is running so well. I know from personal experience that directing a race is very demanding. I have never raced well in a competition that I had directed. I assure Bob that though I’m in difficulty, I can probably finish. He begins to open ground, moving easily.

After twenty-seven miles the course becomes even more hilly; long rolling hills all the way to the finish. The twenty-eighth mile was a gentle downgrade, but on the twenty-ninth we start back up again. I am too weary. I break into my first walk.

Surprisingly, the walk feels good. My handler seems surprised to see me walking, but I tell him that there is no need to be concerned. He probably was hoping that I could run a swift final twenty miles, but I will feel happy to finish in reasonable shape. I walk briskly uphill for 150 yards. When I start running

Tom Osler THE ART OF THE ULTRAMARATHONER & 149

again I feel better immediately. This is a good sign; if I were really fatigued my return to running would be lethargic. I am now convinced that I can walk and run to the finish without overextending myself.

There are markers painted on the road every five miles. I am now walking every two miles and the markers seem to pass very slowly. However, walking always helps to revive me. I walk up all the big hills.

With four miles to go I catch Larry Swanson, who is walking. “Don’t quit,” I tell him. “You can walk to the finish in less than an hour.” Larry is speechless. I always seem to say the wrong thing to him. Two miles farther down the road I hear someone rapidly catching me. Larry overtakes me and beats me by 400 yards at the finish.

For the last thirty miles I have been dreaming about the finish line. My body is weary; I should not have started this race. I’m going to take a long rest after this—a very long rest. My cough was an indication that my resistance was too low for serious racing, but I was not wise enough to read my body’s signs.

As I approach the finish line, I start laughing. I am so tired and happy to get off that road. I finish fifth in 6:29:25. I’m surprised that I could finish so fast with so much walking. I learn that Ken Rogotzke won in 5:48:35, while fortysix year old Bob Olson was second in 6:01:01. These are fast times for this difficult course.

I grab my sweat clothes and walk the half-mile back to the motel room with Kathy. She tells me that I still look good, but I know better. “I’m not going to race again for some time, I need a long rest.”

Following this my legs were stiff for nine days. A few weeks later my left heel began to hurt and prevented me from racing again until February of the next year.

January/February roe sit Sneak ia 4

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Motorola Marathon

The Texas State Capital Hosts a Race Worthy of Its Unique Lone Star Status.

I N SPITE of what you might have been reading in the newspapers and seeing on the news lately, Austin, Texas is famous for more than President George W. Bush’s daughter Jenna competing with Robert Downey, Jr., to see who can have the most runins with the police over purchasing and using substances denied them by law. The press attention to this non-story is what happens when the press finds itself in the doldrums of a slow news day.

Austin itself pays little attention to the doings of Jenna Bush. The city has too much else happening to waste time on that. The Texas state capital is a bustling, vital, energetic, hip city that takes pains to set itself aside from just about anywhere else in the Lone Star State. The city is growing so quickly and changing so radically that the charter bus driver bringing marathon pasta eaters back from the Motorola complex where the official pasta feed was held became lost and overshot his exit by several miles before some runners from Dallas seated in the back of the bus asked if we hadn’t already passed our exit. We had, by more than four miles.

Motorola Marathon

Austin, TX 78768-4587

PHONE: 512/478-4265, 877/601-MOTO FAX: 512/478-4225

E-MAIL: info@motorolamarathon.com WEB SITE: www.motorolamarathon.com RACE DIRECTOR: John Conley

YEAR RACE ESTABLISHED: 1992 CERTIFIED: USATF

TYPE OF COURSE: Point to point, starting far north of the city and winding through the suburbs, then through the urban downtown, then along the river, finishing in a riverside park; loses approximately 400 feet from start to finish.

COURSE CLOSURE: All course supportis removed from the course route behind the runners on a gradual schedule based on an eight-hour finishing time; the finish line clock runs for a total of eight hours; the finish area officially closes at 3:00 p.m.

START TIMES: Wheelchairs go off at 6:55 a.., marathoners and relay teams at 7:00 a.m.

COURSE RECORDS: Open male: Mohamed Naizipov, 2:11:14 (2001) Open female: Elena Paramonova, 2:32:55 (2001) Male master: Eddy Hellebuyck, 2:16:47 (2001)

Female master: Alevtina Naomova, 2:37:46 (2001)

PRIZE MONEY: $90,000 to open male and open female winners. * NUMBER OF VOLUNTEERS: 1,500

MARATHON FINISHERS IN 20017: 4,191 MALE/FEMALE FINISHERS: 64% males, 36% females. COURSE MARKINGS: Every mile, with split times every 5K. FUTURE RACE DATES: 17FEBO2, 16FEBO3, 15FEBO4, 20FEBOS. ENTRY COST FOR 2002: $50; no limit.

November/December 2001 MOTOROLA MARATHON = 153

AWARDS: Monetary prizes to top finishers; awards to top finishers in age-group divisions. Police-Fire Department, Military, and Clydesdale awards also. The depth of the awards is based on percentage of finishers; if men ages 35 to 39 are 10 percent of field, then 10 places deep. Minimum depth is 3.

AREA HOTELS: Lots of choices. Visit the marathon Web site (www.MotorolaMarathon.com) or contact the Austin Convention and Visitors Bureau at 800/926-ACVB or visit their Web site at www. austin360.com/acvb.

GETTING THERE: Austin is not a major metro center, and it is out there by itself in the very middle of Texas; but due to its importance as a tech center, air travel is relatively good, although it can be expensive. Austin is served by Austin-Bergstrom International Airport. The only interstate highway going through Austin is the north-south I-35; Austin is about halfway

between Waco and San Antonio.

The building frenzy in Austin is supercharged, and the signage directing drivers around and through the area is far inadequate. The only plus side of taking an eight-mile, out-andback, out-of-our-way trip with the wayward bus was the reassurance that just because we were out-of-towners didn’t mean we didn’t fit right in with what was going on around town— pleasant, starry-eyed, good-natured confusion.

The one place everyone seems to find with little trouble is Sixth Street, the rockin’-rollin’ jazzin’-jumpin’ heart of downtown (and one of the places where under-aged Jenna Bush goes when she wants to chill with her friends and down a Prohibition brewskie). It’s also where during Mardi Gras week, the local college crowd mixes with the motorcycle gangs and the tourists to see who can

get arrested first for disturbing the peace. In some ways the storefronts along Sixth Street are very much like but totally different from the colonial townhouses in Alexandria, Virginia: 10 feet wide and 100 yards deep so that anyone walking into one of the hangouts has to walk sideways and hold his drink close to his chest.

Yet a half mile away from Sixth Street are tree-shaded residential neighborhoods where life is peaceful, nearly bucolic, but where the sound of traffic on nearby thoroughfares is becoming intrusive.

Austin suffers most from its own success, a problem that periodically faces cities “discovered” by insiders and industry. Austin is host to Motorola (and some 10,000 employees, known as “Motorolans”) and has been since 1974. Fortunately for its economy and unfortunately for its

November/December 2001

Must See/Must Avoid

ustin is a bustling but pretty benign city, although we’re told that you

take your life and limb into your own hands when you venture down to the Sixth Street area during Mardi Gras. Normal cautions after dark prevail, although you’re more likely to get hit by a car being driven by someone gawking around trying to find a street sign that isn’t there than you are to be imperiled by someone up to no good.

GO SEE IT

University of Texas. You almost can’t avoid the UT campus if you visit Austin. The campus is supposedly the largest in the United States, covering 357 acres that host some 50,000 students. Local Texans are unusually proud of the massive stadium, a tribute to the university’s football team. We’d someday like to visit a university campus where one of the local boosters takes us by the library and brags about it. The campus does house some impressive research centers to balance out the sports-nuttiness: the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center, Texas Memorial Museum, and the LBJ Library. The campus is certainly worth visiting, but if you go, give yourself more than one day.

Steam Trains. Okay, so they’re big and noisy and they pollute a lot, but we’ve got a weak spot for steam locomotives and Austin hasn’t got one— it has three of them! And the trains not only run on a regular basis but you can take trips on them. The Hill Country Flyer runs on Saturdays in the winter and summer and on both Saturday and Sunday in spring and fall, taking passengers on a 33-mile journey to Burnet, departing from Cedar Park. The locomotive is the old Southern Pacific #786, an 82-year-old monster. The Twilight Flyer, also departing Cedar Park, runs on selected weekends and certain holidays and makes a two-hour trip. The River City Flyer makes two 90-minute runs (1:00 and 3:00 p.u.) on Sundays, taking passengers ona tour of historic Austin; it leaves from Fourth and Trinity Streets. For info: 512/4778468. : Congress Avenue Bats. This attraction isn’t for everyone, certainly, but for those of us who’ve marveled at the bats in Death Valley as they come out at twilight to feast on swarming insects, this is just the ticket. More than one million Mexican free-tail bats set out each night between April and November from under the Congress Avenue Bridge. This is the largest colony of urban bats in North America. You can watch from near the bridge at Town Lake or, better still, get a window table at one of the nearby restaurants and watch the show. For more info: 512/327-9721. Really, if it weren’t for bats and birds we’d be wading knee-deep in insects.

November/December 2001 MOTOROLA MARATHON 155

RunTex. This isn’t a blatant plug for RunTex, although they’re one of the best running stores in North America. Austin is such a runnable city (with an estimate of about 25,000 runners) that it would be a shame to visit it and not take advantage of the paths and trails available. And one of the best ways to get the right info about where’s best to run is to go by one of the three RuntTex stores (Townlake South, Gateway North, or Central Park) and get pluggedin. The phone numbers of the three stores are, respectively, 512/ 472-3254, 512/343-1164, and 512/454-WALK.

AVOID IT

In speaking with local ultrarunners, they indicate there isn’t any place in town where they have not run. Joe Prusaitis, who’s written for us and who is onthe marathon committee, puts it this way: “| have six children who are all young adults, and they’ve been to all the same places [I’ve run] after I’ve already gone to bed. Like any city, we have crime and other social issues, but it is not focused on any one bad place.” Everyone does advise visitors to avoid |-35 and Mopac during rush hours, as driving there during those hours is a crime. Even Sixth Street after dark is okay, but you’ll have difficulty finding a place to park near it.

quality of life, the city has been discovered by other high-tech companies, including Dell. The area has become known as “Silicon Hills” after the area’s Texas hill country appellation. Some 600 software companies employ 22,000 people in a city with a population of nearly one million.

THE FLUX OF HIGH TECH Unfortunately, high-tech companies

are also extremely volatile and too often willing victims to the world

economy on which they thrive or expire. They and the area in which they function can be in the stratosphere one month and in the crapper the next. When we visited for the marathon, Motorola had just announced a layoff of thousands of employees; and Dell, for the first time in its history, was also imposing layoffs.

Austin is riding, like a partially built boat, with the high-tech swells; its difficulty is that they are trying to build and rebuild the boat while it is afloat. A major chunk of the heart of its downtown has been demolished

November/December 2001

to make room for modern, high-rise high-tech headquarters. Consequently, trying to get from one side of downtown to the other is like playing chess while blindfolded. One-way streets lead to dead ends as construction crews work seven days a week to get the buildings up and the detours out of the way.

At the same time, the city thrives because it is the Texas capital (locals brag that the capitol building was built with an eye toward making it the tallest state capitol in the nation; it’s actually seven feet taller than the Capitol Building in Washington, D.C.; sorry: it’s a Texas thing.); it is home to the University of Texas—Austin (which is huge); and it’s located in what is, hands down, one of the loveliest spots in the state of Texas. If you think of flat and boring, you ain’t never been to Austin, pardner. Austin is a series of plains and hills and cliffs and sheltered creeks, and a river (the Colorado) runs through it.

Situated in the center of Texas geographically, the area is difficult to pigeonhole politically. LBJ’s legacy is housed nearby, yet local folks of differing political persuasions seem to get along just fine. They are apparently far enough removed from the D.C. Beltway to be unaffected by its divisiveness.

Because of its varied topography and the constant construction, you might think holding a marathon here would be difficult. You’re right. Course alterations to accommodate the growing city are almost an annual

November/December 2001

rite of passage—and a constant challenge to the organizers. But the marathon has two very powerful things going for it: Motorola’s continued involvement and a high-profile running community anchored by Paul Carrozza’s RunTex stores.

Motorola, which had some dedicated runners in its upper management a decade ago, joined with local runners, under the direction of Lyle Clugg, to launch the enterprise in 1992. The initial running boasted 1,780 starters, an impressive beginning to be sure; the race featured fiverunner relay teams, prize money, and started at Motorola’s Oak Hill facility; the course was also a bit on the hilly side, running, as it did, through the south Austin region. Leaving the millennium (i.e., the year 2000), the race had 7,012 entrants and was paying $88,500 in prize money.

CONTINUOUS EVOLUTION

The race evolved virtually every year and has done so again. Between 2001 and 2002, Motorola’s role as benign organizer has changed. In the past, a Motorola employee was hired fulltime to coordinate the marathon. For 2002, Motorola is still very much involved, but the baton for running the race has been passed to RunTex, with a board of directors taking more of a role as the official organizers, who are also responsible for picking the nits and oiling the wheels where needed to make the thing run smoothly.

MOTOROLA MARATHON @® 157

The new “organization” is obviously optimistic, in that they’ve announced race dates running to the year 2005. As we go to press, the race course is most likely what you see below. Check the races’ Web site to confirm. We would predict that because of the city’s massive construction projects, the course will never be quite the same twice.

And how about the course? It will never compete

Tex, from a scenic standpoint with Sy

Big Sur or Avenue of the Giants or Napa Valley in California. To avoid dropping into canyons and climbing back out of them in the “hill country” and to keep the course flat to slightly downhill, the course runs through suburban and urban areas and features, at our conservative count, 35 turns, many of them 90 degrees. Yet the course is fast if runners take the tangents through turns and focus on getting into a rhythm early on, which is somewhat easy, in that the start area and the first several miles are extremely wide and runner-friendly. The start area is in the far north of Austin, just off the Capital of Texas Highway, in an area thick with shopping malls and brand spanking f new inn-and-suites hotels— ¥ and, we might add, the North by Northwest Restaurant and Brewery (corner of Stonelake

and Loop 360), billed as “the official kickoff point for the Austin Motorola Marathon” and site of the post-marathon party (featuring all-day happy hour prices, 11:00 A.M. until late). As far as brew pubs go, Austin seems to be on a one-city campaign to turn around Texas’s rather dismal beer sta-

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November/December 2001

tus (i.e., Lone Star and Shiner) by tapping 19 upscale brew pubs.

The start is right out front at North by Northwest and covers six traffic lanes. And the starting line temperature for 2001 was about as ideal as it gets: dry, still air and temps in the mid-40s.

Because the race is $90,000 thick in prize money ($10,000 each to the male and female winner), the organizers bring in rabbits to take the lead pack through the half-marathon in smart fashion. With most of the course’s 400-foot net elevation drop coming on the front half of the course, the pacemakers have to work to keep the pace from being too fast early on.

The course winds through flat suburban territory, which gradually changes to urban, going from treelined residential areas to the downtown.

After the halfway point, the course heads west for a spell, paralleling the river but several blocks off it, then hits Lake Austin Boulevard and turns back on itself, queuing into Cesar Chavez Boulevard, which runs closer to the river. The course parallels the river, then takes a 90-degree right at Pleasant Valley and crosses the river, then takes a 45-degree turn to bring it back along the river but on the far side, where it runs along Riverside Drive, a blend of graceful neighborhoods and tight little blocks of congested habitation with a corner mini-mall every few blocks. It is along this portion of the course where Jenna Bush tried to use a fake ID.

November/December 2001

A FAB FINISH

The 2002 Motorola Marathon course will bring the finish back into the familiar downtown park area on the banks of the Colorado River, known to locals as Town Lake. Used as the finish venue from 1994 through 1998, the Auditorium Shores brings runners back into familiar territory, as the post race area is adjacent to the Palmer Auditorium marathon expo site. Many downtown hotels are walking distance from the finish line, and the Austin skyline provides an inspiring backdrop to celebrate completion of the run. There is plenty of parking nearby in the Auditorium parking lot, and the city lot is one block away. The bus stop shuttling runners back to the start is just beyond the finish line. All the necessary facilities are alongside the finish line in a row of tents. Runner “Recovery Packs,” filled with food and water, will be handed to runners as they spill out onto the park area, where there is ample space to sit down and immediately put back every calorie, and then some, that runners have just expended on the course.

As far as weekend marathon events go, one of the highlights is the runner’s expo at the Palmer Auditorium (Friday and Saturday). Dominated by RunTex (whose anchor store is just across the street from the auditorium), the expo features more than 60 exhibitors, well-organized number pickup, and an ambitious program of presentations on the back stage.

Runner’s High/Runner’s Low

Runner’s World has long been involved with the Austin Motorola Marathon, and their presence is evident in pacing-team seminars. There are also presentations by members of the race’s board of directors, who are familiar with the course. They give insights on how to break the course down and use its features to your advantage, as well as marathon morning dos and don’ts, and sports-medicine approaches on how to minimize postrace problems and maximize recovery. RunTex dominates the front of the expo, creating an entire running store under the dome, where they sell their own products, yes, but also the official race merchandise.

If there’s one problem with the expo, it’s parking. There’s quite a bit of construction going on around the auditorium, and some of the potential parking was closed off to expogoers.

The “official” pasta feed at the Motorola Oak Hill Campus is limited to 800 people and is nicely set up in the campus cafeteria, where the pasta is plentiful and delicious and

where Ozarka water is everywhere (itis, in fact, everywhere for the whole weekend; if a runner becomes dehydrated, it sure isn’t Ozarka’s fault). The pasta-feed program is a little Motorola promotion heavy, but they’ ve certainly earned the right to make use of the captive audience. For 2001, John “The Penguin” Bingham was the guest speaker. Pasta feeders pay one dollar for a bus ride from the Palmer Auditorium to the Oak Hill Campus and back, and if you pick the right bus, you get more miles for your money than you expect, as the driver cuts back and forth through various neighborhoods, trying to find Palmer. It’s not as bad as being hijacked—in fact, it’s sort of fun seeing parts of Austin that obviously surprised and delighted the bus driver enough that he kept going back to them.

SATURDAY EATS GALORE

If you aren’t one of the 800 to go to the Motorola pasta feed, you’re not out of luck, other than missing John

November/December 2001