Wednesday—2 x 200 at 5K, 3 x 2,000 at 10K, 2 x 200 at 5K. I averaged 95s for the entire set of 2,000s. What a difference those few seconds per lap mean. My breathing was good. I felt quite comfortable and in fact averaged a 161 heart rate for the last three laps of each set. That’s right at my tempo, which is 85 to 88 percent of heart rate reserve.

Everyone else was running well, except for Anne who struggled and in fact bagged it after the second 2,000. She has decided to skip the 10K and instead get in a long run. I agree. She hasn’t done much speed and should be careful not to attempt too much, too soon.

During the run, I played with my new toy. First, a little background. It seems that most good distance runners take at least 90 steps per minute. None of the others in our group have a problem, but both Chrissy and I are off the charts with about 82. That is incredibly inefficient. I have always told Chris that if he would only improve his cadence—that is, take more steps—he would be much faster. While my problem is that I keep my feet on the ground too long, Chrissy lopes along, spending an inordinate amount of time in the air. Although Chrissy wanted no part of it, | purchased a simple metronome, which clips to my shorts. I set it at 88 beats per minute and practiced with it for the first time on this workout.

Daily mileage 8

Thursday—Off

Friday—Kevin and I met early in the day and ran eight miles on the rail trail. We had planned on running farther, but since we both felt like slugs we found it easy to cut it short.

Daily mileage 8

Saturday—Super easy on the rail trail. I practiced again with the metronome, which means simply getting used to the slightly faster cadence dictated by the metronome.

Daily mileage 6

Sunday—wWith the focus 10K tomorrow, the entire crew decided to take the day off.

Total mileage 37

Next issue: The Gunks embark on their final 10 weeks of training leading to the SunTrust Richmond Marathon. Which of them will reach their goals? Who will fall short? The i third and final installment awaits.

(And What I Learned From It)

DMONTON, ALBERTA, CANADA, Saturday, June 21, 2003— It’s 10:15 in the evening and nearly dark. It has been raining on and off all night; we’ve been on our feet for what seems like days.

I was absolutely beat, my friend beside me also exhausted.

But as it has each time before, the foggy confusion of fatigue and depletion was suddenly replaced by the excitement of anticipation. We rounded the final turn and looked down the street. Way ahead, lit up like a night game at Fenway, was the finish line of the Edmonton Race the Twilight Marathon.

My job was pacer, adviser, motivator, and mule. Beside me was my running pal Cathy, about to finish her first 26.2-mile race. I had been dispensing wisdom for weeks and talking nonstop for over five hours. I wanted to say to her: “Now, Cathy, look around you and clear your head; remember the next two minutes; cherish this finish line experience; soak in every ounce of feeling from what will be one of the most memorable moments of your life.”

That’s what I wanted to say.

Screw it, I was tired. I turned to her and gave her my last piece of advice: “Wake up!”

With 200 meters to go, her sisters and her friends wildly cheering her from the sidelines, I dropped a few strides behind and joined in the applause as Cathy led us across the finish line.

IN THE BEGINNING

Seven months earlier, over lunch, the conversation drifted to our 2003 goals. Cathy had been running a little longer than I, about five years, but hadn’t yet taken the marathon plunge. She had a ton of half-marathons to her credit, including a 2:15 PR earlier that year. I thought she was ready for the longer distance and gently argued in favor of giving the marathon a shot. Some hemming and hawing ensued, but our attention soon shifted to the meal, the weather, and other subjects that were not the marathon.

Cathy runs for fitness and fun and is famously cautious of anything that might infringe on these excellent objectives. The marathon was, therefore, a big jump, and the increased training commitment was a concern to her. Being hopelessly type A, I saw no reason why she shouldn’t give it a go. If the training didn’t work out, I reasoned, she could just throw in the towel, ease off the mileage, and run the half instead.

Several days later, perhaps in a moment of madness, I resolved to give my friend a little push. By e-mail, I offered to help: I would plan, advise, counsel, motivate, and then ultimately run with her and pace her to her first marathon. At that time, I had a staggering total of three marathons to my credit. Of course, that was three more marathons than she had, so I was a relative expert. Her e-mail response was cautious—she probably wasn’t sure I was serious—but when I followed it up with a repeat offer over our next lunch, the deal was sealed.

We agreed on our local race, the Edmonton Marathon, in June. For the second year in a row, it was being run in the evening. The race would coincide with the summer solstice, and we would be treated to daylight deep into the night. The first edition of the event in 2002 was a disaster for organizers: it ended up on the hottest day of the year, and runners slogged through 90-degree temperatures. We reasoned that there was no way the weather could be that dreadful again. We wanted a race that was close to home and a route we could train on. Edmonton was it.

A plan started to come together. Cathy would join the Running Room store’s marathon clinic, follow the prescribed schedule, and participate in all of its group training runs. I would plan the race-day requirements and offer all of my wisdom (gathered over those three whole marathons) on training, eating, sleeping, and anything else I could think of. To get used to the pace and to our mutual running needs, we would run one long training run together. And then on race day, I would tun every step alongside her.

COMMITTED TO FIVE HOURS

At some point, it dawned on me that I had committed to a five-hour-plus marathon. Later in the year, I was planning an assault on the Victoria Marathon, aiming for a 3:15 Boston qualifier. Some of my friends saw these as incompatible goals: “How can you run so slow?” “Won’t you be tempted to just take off on her?” “Won’t this ruin your training for Victoria?” Don’t know. No way. Hope not. Training started in January and continued through the standard northern Canadian winter: snow, ice, cold; repeat until spring. Cathy did her runs with the marathon clinic and completed her prescribed program. For my part, I had a half-marathon goal race planned for May, four weeks before our Edmonton adventure. I reasoned that I could train for and run my half-marathon without interruption, fit in two 20ish-milers after my goal race, and still be ready for June 21.

Have I mentioned I’m hopelessly type A? I relished the task of planning for race day—copious lists and schedules and charts all laid out in intricate detail. I would plan for everything and forget nothing. I drove the race course twice, plotted the aid station locations, and developed race-day packing lists. For added support, I enlisted my wife and Cathy’s two sisters to resupply us in three locations midrace (strategically located, of course).

Our one training run together was a perfect dry run for the course. With four weeks to go, joined by two of Cathy’s running buddies (Brenda and Cathleen), we ran the last 29K of the race route. We synchronized our start to the same time of day that we would reach the 13K point during the race so that we would be mimicking the conditions as much as possible. We stashed extra water on the course,! learned the locations of the hills, visualized the finish, and successfully completed the route for a confidence-building training run.

THE AGE OF ANXIETY

The week before the race was a jumble of nerves for both Cathy and me. She was hopelessly frantic like most first-time marathoners, but even I was anxious for the day to come. Although it technically wasn’t my race, I felt a sense of ownership of the result. If she failed, then I failed, and that was not an option. We met for lunch a few days before and plotted the final strategic details. I had a checklist of

A Prerace calm: Cathy and Lorne just before the race.

everything to bring: what Cathy would carry, what I would carry, what her sisters would bring with them for on-course delivery. If the race was canceled, we could invade Switzerland instead. Really, we had thought of absolutely everything. Now all we had to do was, um, run a marathon.

Saturday, June 21, arrived cool and cloudy, with a threat of rain. The 5:00 p.m. start was my personal anxiety. I don’t run in the evenings, ever, and my stomach always gave me trouble when I did—which is why I don’t run in the evenings. I found it difficult to decide whether and when to nap or when to eat. I finally settled on a schedule that copied as much as possible what I would do for a morning marathon, except 10 hours later.

The race’s start and finish is the same point on the University of Alberta campus, in and around the athletic center. My wife (Jane) and I arrived early, meeting Cathy and her sisters (Anne Marie and Barb) and Cathy’s friend (Joyce) near the start. We had coolers and tubs and backpacks and, wow, lots of stuff. It was amazing—all piled up, I had no idea that the packing list would look this big when it came together. We were supplied for days, if not weeks!

As the start time neared, I pulled out a silly motivational item. It was a temporary tattoo, the Chinese symbol for strength—one for each of us. Really, it was a horribly cheesy idea. Take a symbol you’ve never seen before from a culture you know nothing about, paste it on your leg, all to help you run stronger and better? Daffy. On the other hand, I would wear a pink tutu if I figured there was a chance it would help my marathon performance.

Tats applied and with 10 minutes to the start, our support team sent us off with hugs and good lucks. Cathy and I ambled to the back of the pack, and our support team—armed with maps and charts of when and where to be and with what—stood by, poised for action.

Some of you may be unaware that the first few miles at the back of the pack are largely the same as anywhere else in the marathon—glorious, free, easy miles where you float along without a care for what you’ve gotten yourself into. The first 40 minutes of running were very crowded, as we shared the course with the 10K and half-marathon runners. After the 10K split off, we stayed with the half gang for another 30 minutes before they, too, headed their own way, thinning the course down to lonely little groups of us back-of-the-pack marathoners.

THE CONTROLLED USE OF WALKING

I should explain that Cathy’s training and our race strategy included periodic walk breaks. You might know it as Gallo-walking; however, the practice in Canada is broadly supported by the Running Room store’s training programs and referred to colloquially as “10-and-ones,” implying 10 minutes of running followed by one of walking. And at the back of the pack, it’s a popular method—evidenced by the complete screeching halt that nearly everyone around you comes to,

simultaneously, as each 10th minute passes. I don’t follow the practice in my own running—I prefer to walk when I drink at the aid stations—but I promised to follow Cathy’s training regimen. And if that included a brisk walk every 10 minutes, that was just fine with me.

As we passed the half-marathon split off at around 10K, we started to anticipate the first meeting point with our support gang. About then, Cathy made it clear that a pit stop was needed. The next water station provided the first opportunity. As we cruised up to the porta-potty, a volunteer nearby told us it was occupied. We waited and waited and waited. Cathy paced, apologized for having me wait, and paced some more.

This is a good time to tell you that Cathy is a Newfie. It sounds like a pejorative, but in Canada it represents an affectionate description of residents or former residents of the Canadian province of Newfoundland. As a culture, they are almost certainly the friendliest and most fun-loving of Canadians that you could ever meet—quite simply, warm and wonderful human beings of impeccable character. I should also point out that they are uniquely blessed with a temper that would frighten wildlife.

After pacing for over two minutes outside the porta-potty, Cathy decided to take matters into her own hands. While I cringed at the fate of the seated occupant within, Cathy yanked the door nearly off its hinges and discovered—there was no one there! She swore a horrible blue streak, slammed the door closed with outrageous force, and proceeded to do what she had been waiting to do. To this day, I shudder at the thought of what would have happened had there actually been someone on the pot. I concluded it was best for all of us that it was empty.

OUR OWN MOBILE AID STATION

Just past 12K, we met up with our support gang for the first time. It was a family reunion. They laughed, took pictures, cheered us, refilled our water bottles, and sent us on our way looking as fresh as the moment the race began.”

Shortly after we left the support team, my stomach looked at my watch and realized it was an evening run; just like that, I needed a break. Rather than risk another potentially fatal potty incident, I told Cathy to keep running, while I ducked into a nearby community hall. Cathy was a speck on the horizon when I got back on the course and sprinted to catch up. I have to admit that it felt good to run hard for a while to catch her.

In my (vast) experience, the middle miles of a marathon usually pass uneventfully. This one was no exception. We talked about everything we could think of, compared notes on how we felt, and anticipated the turns and twists of the rest of the course. The weather had largely cooperated. It was a bit windy but pleasantly cool, and except for a little spitting here and there, the rain had largely stayed away.

At around 22K, we met our support team again. This time the respite was a welcome one. Cathy was starting to tire, and seeing family and friends was the boost she needed to recharge. More Gatorade and water, gels and orange slices were on the menu this time. At this stop, my wife discreetly passed me a cell phone, which I tucked into my fanny pack—it was my secret weapon, for later.

I was watching our splits;> Cathy was slowing down and starting to show the wear and tear of the distance. In training, her longest run was 32K. As we passed that marker, it was almost as though we had crossed a barrier—a giant switch had been thrown, and her form and fluidity changed noticeably from that point. It took a few minutes to realize that I was doing all the talking. And our pace was seriously dropping off.

Three marathons of experience would turn out to be remarkably useful at this point. Actually, I needed only my first two marathon experiences—the ones that ended in ugly death marches. As we shuffled along, I understood implicitly what was happening to Cathy, how she felt, and more important, what we were in for over the final 10K. Despite my friend’s suffering, I have to admit that it was a decidedly interesting process to observe it happening, having been through it before myself: the slow deterioration of physical and mental capacity; the heavy legs; the sleepy look; until finally, quiet forward motion is the only constant. Way better to watch it than to do it, I thought.

ATTACK OF THE CREEPING DOUBTS

Unfortunately, for the first time, Cathy was starting to doubt herself—verbalizing her fears and struggles—and I was getting worried. It was supposed to be my job to chase away the marathon goblins so that she could run with a clear and positive head, and here things were getting away from us. Normally, I’m a quiet person—shy and introverted, and a horrid, wooden conversationalist. But I forced myself to become “Miss Chatty” at this point, carrying on a nonsensical patter aimed equally at distracting and motivating my friend with the ultimate objective of keeping her in motion.

The last aid station stop with the support team was at 33K. Their grins and laughter were a little more restrained as their eyes passed over Cathy. There was no hiding what was happening. In the world of marathon running, there are two states of being—excellent and awful. The precious little middle ground between those extremes is a shock to the runner and the observer alike. Cathy had moved down the continuum rather suddenly, and her support team was visibly unnerved by it.

Around 34K, I felt like things were coming unglued, so I pulled out the secret weapon. Through Cathy’s sisters, I had arranged to have a special person standing by the phone during the race. After some deliberation, they settled on their brother, Michael, who lives in Vancouver. His job was simple: be there for your

sister; do anything to help. I had sat on this secret for two months—it nearly killed me to keep it to myself—believing it was the magic ingredient to finishing the race strongly. And now my heart was pounding out of my chest—this was the chance to use it!

I speed-dialed his number, and he answered on the first ring. I announced, “This is Lorne on the marathon course,” and handed the phone to Cathy, saying simply, “It’s for you.” She took the phone and then shrieked when she recognized who was on the other end. She laughed, she cried, she shared her experience with her brother. She pleaded for his help, sharing her plight at that moment. They talked for two minutes, but the impact was huge—for 10 minutes after, she forgot about the onset of rigor mortis and focused on the thrill of sharing her experience with a distant family member, right on the marathon course. It was a total success beyond my expectations—the exact effect I had planned for was unfolding! Just thinking about that moment brings a lump to my throat; it was an amazing interaction.

Unfortunately, the restorative effect of the call lasted barely a kilometer. Worse, it started to rain. And it was getting dark. And worse again, there were no more stops with the support team. We knew that we were on our own to the finish. By now, Cathy’s 6:30- to 7:00-per-kilometer pace had deteriorated to 7:00 to 8:00. The wheels, barely hanging on until then, had pretty much fallen off.

IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT

So the rain fell, darkness settled over us, and we slogged on. At 36K, we were stunned to find our support team again. They had navigated the course and decided to stop in and see us one more time before the finish. As the rain poured on us all, we slapped high fives and celebrated how close we were. And when Cathy told them she had talked to Michael, they cheered wildly—being in on the secret must have killed them too, and it was a collective relief to discover the ploy had worked!

At 38K, Cathy turned to me and announced, in so many words, that if I didn’t stop pushing gels and Gatorade on her, she would puke. Being a flexible pacer, I agreed to the new strategy. Apart from slowing down to a crawl, though, we were in good shape: no blisters, no cramps, no showstoppers. I knew we would finish, although the only remaining question was whether it would be on the same day we started!

Throughout the race, I had kept time, marking our kilometer splits and calculating our expected finish time—not for Cathy, of course, but for me. Believing I was funny, I regularly announced: “At our current pace, based on the time elapsed, I calculate with precision that we will finish.” It was hysterical the first 10 times I told it. Really.

High Level Bridge at the 40K mark.

A major landmark lay at the 40K mark: the High Level Bridge. It is a high bridge, about 600 meters in length, that spans the North Saskatchewan River. For weeks, Cathy and I had said, “Just get to the bridge,” knowing that once we were there, finishing was in the bag. After all, you could walk that last mile if you had to. As we approached the bridge, in the rain and the dark, I spotted a suffering race photographer huddled under his umbrella, undoubtedly cursing the scourge that was the five-hour marathoner. I grabbed Cathy’s hand and we had our photo snapped.

Gin aay

TPS Sports Photography

At the end of the bridge, there is an unfortunate and steep hill that gets you to the last flat mile of the course. At the summit, Cathy announced a wave of nausea that again precluded my offering a gel. But I was in full enthusiasm mode now: pep-talking nonstop, urging her on to a finish line that was a tantalizing few minutes away.

My own marathon finishes are among the proudest moments of my adult life. I count the birth of my children and my marriage as more significant, of course. The marathon, however, is all mine: the hours of training, the discipline and personal sacrifice, the conclusion of an exhausting journey that is months in the making. For that accomplishment, the feeling of those last 500 meters is unmatched. Each of my finishes is among the most powerful emotional responses I’ve ever experienced. Even now, writing the words, I find myself moved by the memories.

With my own marathons replaying in my mind, we approached the final turn and I ordered Cathy, with some insistence, to “Wake up. Shake out the cobwebs and

» Crossing the finish line.

clouds. Look around, feel the finish, and remember this moment, because it’s gonna be worth it! These next few minutes, you absolutely want to remember!” In the dark, with the finish line lights shining in the distance, it was just surreal. I certainly didn’t need a camera—that picture is captured forever in my mind.

But this wasn’t my race. In the final 200 meters, as we spotted sisters and friends and supporters lining the finish chutes—still there, five hours later!—I dropped in behind my friend and cheered her to the finish.

Our final time: 5 hours, 17 minutes, 22 seconds.

Another marathoner joins the cult.

And What | Learned From It

. Every runner—every runner—who completes a marathon is a marathoner. There is no time cutoff; there are no elitist rules; there are no pace caveats. The preparation, determination, effort, and suffering are at least the same, and in many ways worse, at the back of the pack. These people have earned it.

. The back of the pack is an interesting place to run. You meet interesting and different people. You talk more, and time passes differently. You learn things about yourself that you may not have known before, and you certainly learn new things about others. Everyone should try it sometime.

. Five hours is a long time to run with someone. | don’t have a sharp recollection of what we were talking about in the last hour, but it was pretty desperate conversation by the end. We had run through the usual subjects—the weather, food, politics, music, songs, food (again). I’ve concluded

Jane Sundby

that you have to be a way better conversationalist than | am to survive the fifth hour of a marathon.

4. Finishing a marathon, at any pace, is an amazing experience. This may well be the slowest 42K | ever cover, yet it will almost certainly remain as one of my most memorable, and | will covet it as | do my other marathon finishes. There is no devaluing of the distance just because of the pace—every finish is a great thing.

5. The concept of practicing race-day conditions is an important rule, no matter the pace you are planning to run. Clearly, | wasn’t ready for the 5:00 p.m. Start. My day-of-race preparation was poor, and my in-run hydration and nutrition were way off. | should have had more training runs in the evening, to be better prepared for the time of day and its physiological effects on me.

6. There is no such thing as being too prepared (this is heaven for the type A anal-retentive!). Our aid team had everything we needed and everything we would never need. It was fabulously reassuring to know they were with us and had brought everything with them. If you can enlist friends for support, do it. You never know when it might help.

7. The postrace food spread is mighty thin when the last of the runners slog through. In fact, there didn’t seem to be any food at all. Therein lies a message for all the faster runners: take what you need, eat what you take, but leave some for the slower folks who will be ambling in after you’re already well into your postrun nap.

FOOTNOTES

‘ Full disclosure—the water ended up locked in Cathy’s car, for which she had no key with her! It was the only thing I didn’t personally plan to the last detail! Experiences like this are what make people type A, you know.

? OK, so really, you don’t need a support team for a marathon—there is plenty of on-course assistance to make it through 42K. But to have family and friends meeting you—and better yet, to anticipate family and friends meeting you—proved to be a marvelous psychological boost. E

Type A. Jeez. ¢

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