(And What | Learned From It)

S AN JOSE, CALIFORNIA, November 4, 2007—Another late-fall early morning in Northern California. As usual, we are avoiding the cold of much of the country and the wet of the rest. Sunday-morning free parking is ample, and perhaps best of all is the end of daylight saving time. I can get an extra hour’s sleep before setting out on yet another long-distance race.

It is time for me to run the Silicon Valley Marathon (SVM), Version 10.0, as it is called in this high-tech mecca. It is my sixth visit to this race and my third on its newer course. The stars are all in alignment, and everything is set for a wonderful outcome, possibly (though I dare not say it aloud) a PR. What a perfect day!

ee ES ou TAIN VAINWAS

svmarathon.com

A With high hopes and strong legs, the marathoners begin, crowded among half-marathoners, palm trees, and the tall downtown of San Jose. The author is back there somewhere, behind the front-runners but ahead of the porta-potties.

I began running long distances in 1999. I had made some boastful comments to friends and family about my intended exercise regimen, which was based on a lot of miles that I was going to put on my feet and on my bicycle. The number of miles I was going to rack up over the course of 12 months would be the equivalent of traveling across the country.

Several months later, when I hadn’t run a single step and had ventured out on the two wheels only a couple of times, most of the folks I had told had forgotten all about it. A few mocked me. My father-in-law said, “Yeah, I thought that sounded like an awfully ambitious goal.”

For some reason I was incensed. How dare he doubt me! It was the perfect storm: I fumed for a day or three, then I caught some running event on television, and then I heard about the Silicon Valley Marathon coming six months later. It was the third annual event, and though it started and finished just a few miles from my home, I had never heard of it. Not very odd I suppose; why would a nonrunner be keyed into neighborhood running events?

But now that I was to be a runner, I had six months to train. I read copiously in books and online to study various training programs. I made a beautiful spreadsheet on the computer to track my miles and then left the house on my first run.

It was a mile run, and I can’t claim to know how long it took, but I vividly recall looking up at my wife from my spread-eagle position on the living room floor after I had returned and collapsed. “You’re going to run how far?” she asked.

“Twen…tee…six…,” I heaved.

“Hmpf,” she said as she walked out of the room.

“.. point two,” I concluded.

Eo * * Since 1999, I have completed a reasonable number of marathons. Every once in a while I would set a PR, and many went well even if that milestone wasn’t reached. Others have been near-catastrophic failures. Silicon Valley remained a perennial favorite. I ran it the next two years before skipping it in 2002 for a family vacation.

In 2003, the race was canceled. The organizers had tried a new course in 2002 that took the race away from the stale and empty office parks and onto a creek trail that passed through greener and grassier parks, but it wasn’t enough to sustain momentum. After the year off, the race was taken over by Evolve Sports and returned to the creek trail for 2004. Unfortunately, that year my kids wanted me to run the associated 5K with them.

When I ventured forth on the next couple of SVMs, it seemed as though the race had continued to decline in size. The crowd of competitors was smaller, the festivities at the start and finish were less impressive, the race expo was changing venues annually, and I would swear that there were fewer booths every year. In this time of increased marathon participation and stories of megamarathons that

fill the streets with tens of thousands of runners, I wondered what the future held for my homegrown race.

For 2007, I knew that I had to return. It was the 10th SVM, and the organizers unveiled a stylish new medal that continued the circuit-board motif. There was still the aspect of sleeping in my own bed and rising at 7 a.m. for a good-weather race. My wife, Kristin, drove me to the start while our three teenagers slept in. The kids had been very supportive of my running over the years, traveling to many races, cheering me on when they could find me midcourse, and rushing for whatever sustenance I required at the finish line. Their enthusiasm had waned recently, and when they all begged off seeing me start this time, I understood. Mostly.

The start was again at the corner of Park Avenue and Almaden Boulevard in downtown San Jose. Kristin found a parking spot just a few minutes’ walk from the start. The weather was mild; a bit of a breeze prompted me to wear my sweats and gloves for a while. Kristin and I walked around and marveled at the empty streets. Just a few weeks earlier, we had been at the same place and had been surrounded by countless half-marathon runners for the Rock ’n’ Roll San Jose Half. Today it was a veritable ghost town.

We found an empty bench that was upwind from the porta-potties and watched as more runners arrived. Several large groups of charity runners were boisterous and cheerful. Kristin is a real people watcher and enjoys reviewing the outfits, the attitudes, and the accents. She tells me her observations, but I tend to go inward before a race.

Soon enough we learned why the bench had been available. After sitting there for four or five minutes, we were suddenly shocked out of our seats by a blaring loudspeaker tied to a lamppost above our heads.

“Welcome to the 2007 Silicon Valley Marathon,” the voice boomed. It set my ears ringing, and I couldn’t understand much more of what he said. We vacated our newfound rest stop and moved closer to the start.

The running crowd grew larger, and I was happy to see that participation had not noticeably shrunk, as I had feared based on the size of the expo. With just moments left, I threw off my few extra clothes into Kristin’s waiting arms. I gave her a kiss and a wave.

“See you at the finish!” she said as the countdown reached zero and we runners headed south. There were a number of good spectator spots, but Kristin and Thad decided that she would just head home for a few hours, rather than trying to hunt me down along the course. This was just another clue that the marathon business was becoming a little monotonous for the Baxter family.

ok Eo * Heading south and west, I felt pretty good. My warm-ups usually consist of nothing more than a handful of halfhearted toe touches and perhaps pulling up the

feet (one at a time, of course) toward the buttocks. Many people have mocked my prerace stretching routine. I consider the first mile or two my true warm-up, and this day was no different. Like my warm-ups, my training had been atypical. My race calendar had included nothing longer than 13.1 miles since late April, and I had practically ruined myself during the recent summer break from my elementary school teaching job when I had doubled my mileage without proper preparation and racked up 600 miles in 10 weeks.

The first miles wound through the small-town atmosphere of Willow Glen, itself an independent city before being annexed by San Jose in 1936. My legs were stretching out well. We ran through some older neighborhoods with residents congregating at the edge of their driveways, coffee cups in hand. Small children had noise makers. After turning west, we needed some police control to cross Minnesota Avenue, one of the major thoroughfares through Willow Glen.

Around mile three, I caught up to a friend, Steve Ode. I knew he was somewhere on the course, and usually he gets off to a better start than I do. He is also much more consistent with his pace.

Steve told me he was going to strictly follow his plan of walking for 50 seconds at each mile marker. He has been at this marathon business for a long time and is feeling the effects. Steve is fond of saying that half-marathons are a much more civilized pursuit. He was just coming out of his third mile walk, and we ran together for a while, catching up on topics of interest.

When we reached the fourth mile marker, I decided to walk with Steve. Never having reduced my pace so drastically and so early in a marathon, I felt entirely uncomfortable. I had read of such a strategy, and Steve swore that it was saving him in recent races, but I wasn’t so keen on it. By the time he was done explaining his pacing, it was time to run again. The walk break was a mere blip on the stopwatch. We ran some more and talked about our kids and possible upcoming races.

With the fifth mile marker upon us, I decided to keep running rather than slow for another walk. I am really not much of a social runner, and though Steve and I had passed the last 20 minutes or so pleasantly, I didn’t want to run for four hours with someone else. As Steve began his walk, I called back that he would no doubt catch up to me toward the end as he had at the last SVM.

The next eight miles were along the Los Gatos Creek trail. Regular access at a variety of parks and playgrounds allowed for plenty of aid and a smattering of crowds. I knew I couldn’t expect to find anyone I knew, but I would scan the spectators just in case. If anyone was holding a “Go Dad!” sign, I pretended it was for me. If I heard anyone call out for Matt, Dad, anything that sounded like Matt or Dad, or any generic shouts of “You can do it!” or “You’re my hero!” I

assumed they were directed toward me. Eo * *

From the very start, the race climbs almost imperceptibly. By the time you reach the halfway point, you have climbed 400 feet. Then you get it all back on the return to downtown San Jose.

Approaching the halfway point, you encounter a bunch of 90-degree turns, a wooden bridge leading to a steep decline at the end of a highway overpass, and then some uneven terrain on the campus of Los Gatos High School. We encountered the largest crowds we would see at the high school, primarily because this was where the half-marathoners would peel off to a victory cheer and a comfortable bus ride back to the start. The course continued on the school’s track, and after one lap the marathoners left to return to the streets. We could hear the cheers of triumph as others finished their race.

The race had gone well for me so far, just over two hours for the first 13.1 miles. Unless I pulled off my very first negative split, I was not going to be able to PR, but I still figured I would have no problem beating my secondary goal of 4:20, so everything seemed promising. Something was nagging at the back of my mind, though. It was almost as if I could willingly walk over to the buses and hop a ride back to the start rather than getting there by foot. Whether a DNF or a half-marathon medal would be my reward didn’t matter.

One of the signs of impending doom was that as I left the track, I saw Steve entering the loop. For him to be within one lap on the track of me at this point meant either that he was doing spectacularly or that I was quickly fading. He looked to be strong, and I knew his pace had likely continued to be measured and controlled. He would not have been putting out any extra effort, so clearly it was I who was in the wrong place.

I didn’t pull myself out of the race, but it was a tough call.

Leaving the campus, we encountered a short, steep hill that led to quiet neighborhoods with no spectators and hardly any volunteers for traffic control because of the lack of traffic. Onto the busier Los Gatos Boulevard and Blossom Hill Road, and we runners were suddenly nothing more than beasts of burden corralled into the bicycle lane behind an endless row of little orange cones. We ran two miles of these streets before we returned to the creek trail via a U-turn on a down-sloped patch of dirt. I hadn’t been on the trail for 60 seconds before I looked above to my right where runners behind me were winding their way down the street and saw Steve continuing to gain.

“See you soon!” I called out. The foreboding continued.

Through Vasona Park, a cheerful aid station, and abundant geese. Yet another short, steep rise and I slowed again for my painful quads. This was discomfort I was not familiar with, not during my summer of too much running or previous periods of overracing. My quads were on fire. I could not lift my legs high enough to continue decent running form on the incline. I slowed to a walk.

Steve caught me near mile 16, a full seven or eight miles earlier than in 2006. I was doomed. He patted me on the shoulder and offered forgotten words of encouragement. We spoke again on the course only when he began another planned 50-second walk. When I saw him slow 30 yards ahead, I reached deep down for a little energy and ran to catch up. That 15-second run tired me out, so I was happy to walk along with Steve. I told him that I felt good overall, but I was fading in my quads and mentally as well. Steve said he was having a rough day also.

I thought perhaps we could enjoy a nice long stroll together, but Steve has the fortitude to stick to his plan. His 50 seconds were up, and he picked up the speed. “Come on, Matt,” he called, and I tried. We ran side by side for a hundred yards or so, but I couldn’t do it. I was dying. Steve looked back, and I waved him on.

Passing through the greenbelt on the return was lonely. Most of the people I saw on the creek trail were just out for a little weekend exercise. Hardly any had numbers pinned to their shirts. | was embarrassed to be doing so much walking in a footrace, so I wouldn’t look anyone in the eyes. Even at the aid stations, I would grab only a cup or two and mutter a quick thanks before continuing. I did not allow myself any human contact, perhaps some sort of penance I was paying for my subpar effort.

Ahalf mile before the trail ended, we approached the Bascom Avenue overpass, where there was a convenient exit from the trail. I could have walked up to the road above and been less than two miles from home, all through quiet neighborhoods. Whether I hitchhiked or crawled at that point, I knew I could end the pain of trying to finish. I worried about Kristin at the finish line, though, wondering why I wasn’t coming in near to when I said I would. I worried about the rest of the finish line spectators, wondering whether they should actually applaud for such a pathetic excuse of a runner. Perhaps I should spare everyone the misery of watching me finish.

I wasn’t feeling like a marathoner. Despite the occasional cry of support from a passer-by, I felt like an impostor. When the trail ended and I began the final five street miles, I changed my strategy. Perhaps instead of denigrating myself for the unexpected fatigue, I should enjoy the time on the open road and pay more attention to my surroundings. I would pass many little stores and could do some window shopping in advance of the upcoming holiday season. Instead of worrying about the lines of cars being held in place by the raised hand of a police officer, I should pick up my pace and run across the street like a champion, like a hero.

Every time I tried that, I crossed the street more quickly, but I had nothing left on the other side—back to walking. I began using any approaching marker as a goal to run to: aid stations, mileage markers, small crowds of spectators, other competitors who had slowed to a walk. Suddenly the miles weren’t as long as they had been out on the trail when I had been beating myself up psychologically. Now it seemed as though I was reeling off another number without time passing by.

Twenty-three, 24, 25. At the last aid station, I joked around with the volunteers about what they had to offer. “Water here, Amino next table!” a nice woman called out. “How about some beer?” I asked as I ran by. She laughed and another volunteer pretended to root around in a cooler looking for a libation. “You’ll have to wait til the end, but you’re almost there!” Everything she said ended in an exclamation point.

Of course, if I hadn’t been hearing “You’re almost there!” from uneducated spectators for the last three hours, it might have been more encouraging.

The last stretch of downtown avenues was mostly free of passing cars. I was passing a few runners and being passed by others. Nearer the end, I saw many marathoners with their new medals already around their necks walking to their bathtub soaks and their massages and their celebratory meals. Only one called out any encouragement to the struggling plodders still trying to come in. We passed under the final overpass and hit the last tricky turns, a 90-degree turn onto the last street and then an even sharper turn into Discovery Park.

There was a much more raucous atmosphere here and of course much more support than I had seen in some time. Regular park visitors found themselves in the emotional embrace of marathon runners and their fans. The slowly curving path edged around the side of a children’s museum, and there was the finish line,

A The glorious finish, where all pain is muted, all disappointment fades, and welcoming hands envelop the victorious runner—as long as he remembered to invite anyone. A camera would have been a good idea as well!

inflatable arch right in place. Yet another left turn off the path and onto the wellworn grass (there was little or no grass left after all the heavy footsteps over the past two and a half hours) and through the finish line chute.

I heard cheering, but it was hard to acknowledge. I couldn’t even raise my hands in my customary victory salute. Just under the arch, I saw Kristin on my right, clapping wildly. I had to leave the finish area before she could greet me. I grabbed a water bottle and a couple of offered food items and crashed to the nearest shaded grass. Kristin approached, and I apologized.

“What?” she asked.

For the slow time and my ragged appearance, I apologized again.

“Don’t be a fool,” she said kindly. She had heard me at the end of many marathons, either vowing never to run one again or carrying on almost unintelligibly about whatever odd thoughts were running through my blood-deprived brain. She knew I wouldn’t be trustworthy for at least six to eight hours, maybe even up to a day.

I showed her the medal and thanked her for coming to pick me up—another foolish thing to say, because of course she would. She is always there for me, even when I try to pretend that I don’t need anything.

We enjoyed the live music for a while and a free energy bar. I don’t know why I still insist on saying I got a free energy bar or other snack and a free T-shirt when, because of the entry fee, they weren’t actually without cost. But it makes the day feel even more special: free goodies, a well-stocked postrace outdoor expo, plus lots of enthusiasm and smiles and love. The finish line of a marathon is an outpouring of love and devotion, from those who have just run as well as those who have come to see them run.

Love, I learn again, eradicates pain.

The holy grail, one of the reasons the author signed up to run
(without the requisite training)—the
stylish and always high-tech SVM
medal, version 10.0. Worth crawling
the last miles for, if necessary.

E E =