A CLUB WITH A LIBERAL VIEW OF FINISHING TIMES

The aspect of the club that appealed most to me was that there was no cutoff time for completing each marathon. I could runas slowly as I wanted. (By virtue of a seriously altered training routine due to military field maneuvers, combat-related deployment, and the 13 years of aging since my best marathon, my average time had slowed to about four hours.)

In addition to running the marathons at my own pace, I could also take as long as I needed to run a marathon in all the

states, since there was no A Eddie at the 2006 Grandma’s Marathon in Duluth, Minne-

sota, with his uncle, Bob Hildebrandt, and his cousin, Dietrick

cutoff date. Hildebrandt, who won the Humpy’s Marathon in Anchorage My first marathon in August.

after deciding to join the

group (my 14th marathon at the time) was not in a state, but on Cape Sable Island in Nova Scotia, Canada. The beautiful blue waters and tall evergreen trees began an odyssey that has led me to complete 75 marathons in 27 states, two Canadian provinces, the District of Columbia, Israel, and Greece.

(Operation Iraqi Freedom III in October 2005), and I plan to take on work that has more predictable hours but doesn’t deploy to combat zones. I hope it will provide me more marathoning flexibility.

Continuing to travel gives my Honduran-born wife, Yuri, and our daughter, Samantha, a great opportunity to see America while I complete my remaining 23 states.

Thanks to the inspiration provided by my Uncle Bob, we’ll be able to see America up close and personal. a

And What | Learned From It.

TTAWA, CANADA, MAY 1, 1977—*The pain, I can’t stand it much longer!” Lightning bolts were tearing down the side of my body! Ugly, mean, paralytic, unendurable throbbing rendering me nauseous and reducing my pace to a crawl as I dragged myself past the 23-mile mark. It was awful and I cursed Dr. Sheehan, Runner’s World, and just about anyone else I could contemplate that had anything to do with my entering and running in the 1977 Ottawa National Capital Marathon! I began my journey to that pain-filled moment innocently and without any knowledge of the marathon horrors that I would be enduring in less than two years!

Courtesy of John McGee

The “original” adidas track suit at the start.

“Happy 30th birthday, John!” my wife, Margo, exclaimed, as I tore open my present. There before me was a blue adidas running suit with three white stripes running down both the sleeves and pants. “I hope you like it; it was difficult to find,” she said, as I contemplated the skinny tight legs culminating in little blue straps. “A jogging outfit, just what I’ve always wanted!” I replied, wondering as to her motivation in giving it to me. “Are you trying to tell me something?” I asked, “Do you think I need to get in better shape? Just because I am a little heavy and all those people thought I was Meathead from All in the Family when we visited Nantucket last summer doesn’t mean that I’m unfit. I’m in great shape, you know, like last month I won that ski race, and I’ve just finished a winter of coaching and officiating.” “Yes, John, I know all of that, but I bet you that you can’t run a mile!” she replied with a curious grin on her face. “OK, you’re on,” I said, as I pulled on the track suit and went looking for a pair of sneakers. Famous last words! I made it about 100 yards down the street before I started gasping for air. “She’s right,” I thought as I began to choke, “I’ve got to keep going.” I lasted another couple of hundred yards and was violently ill. I was disgusted with myself and stunned that I was unable to back up my boasts.

After my auspicious debut, I decided to start jogging. Every morning for the next week or so, I would haul myself out of bed, put on the track suit and sneakers, and blast off down the road until I was winded, at which point my speed was dramatically reduced. The problem with my jogging was that I was not getting any better, my feet hurt, and my body was aching all over. I decided that if I was going to run better, I should get proper shoes. So, for the next few days, I visited sporting goods stores, finding nothing better than tennis and basketball shoes. One day I ran into a friend who was a runner. “Where do you get shoes that don’t hurt your feet?” I asked him over a beer. “There is a little hardware store on Elgin Street, and it sells Nikes and Tigers,” he said.

LEARNING THE LINGO

I wondered what Greek gods and animals had to do with shoes as I walked down Elgin Street looking for the store. Eventually, I found it and went into the main area, where I observed nothing other than hammers, saws, rope, and paint. Just as I was about to leave, an old man asked if he could help me find something. “A friend told me that you sell Nikes and Tigers,” I confidently replied, not expecting a positive answer. To my surprise I heard, “Yes, we do, come with me,” and he led me over to a dark corner containing a stool and piles of brown shoe boxes. “Which would you like?” “I don’t know which to choose,” I replied, and then inspiration struck: “Go with the Greek god!” “Nikes, I guess.” “Good choice. They have just come out with a shoe called the Waffle Trainer, and we’ve received our shipment,” the man said, as he wandered off among the shoe boxes. While he

was searching for my size, I wondered about the connection between the gods of Grecian times and good old waffles with maple syrup. Eventually he returned with a brown shoe box emblazoned with “Nike” and a sort of check mark on the sides. As he took them out of the box, I saw a pair of rather flimsy-looking blue shoes with yellow check marks and soles that looked like my mother’s waffle iron. “Try them on. They’re the latest” said the old man.

My commitment to running was confirmed by the payment of the princely sum of $35 for the shoes. “You know, if I’m going to improve in this running thing, I’ve got to lose some weight,” I told my wife after I had been plodding around the neighborhood in my Nikes and track suit. She didn’t say much, merely nodded “I’ve heard about a diet called the drinking man’s diet, and maybe I should give it a try,” I said. The next day I bought the Dr. Atkins diet book and started on the low-carbohydrate diet, complete with scrambled eggs made with water, ketosticks, and a switch from beer to martinis!

Icouldn’t believe just how quickly my weight started to drop. Within a couple of weeks, I had shed about 20 pounds and running was becoming easier. I was able to run a mile without too much effort. Every morning I got up, put on my Nikes, and jogged a route around the neighborhood. It was almost becoming enjoyable, particularly as the days began to get longer and warmer. I was able to get out of the running suit and into a rather dashing pair of adidas shorts, complete with the stripes, I had purchased at the hardware store.

I didn’t have the faintest idea of what I should be doing. I just ran every day, going a little bit farther each time.

About two months into my running career, while in Vermont on a hiking and skiing trip, I discovered a book called Dr. Sheehan on Running. It changed everything I was doing, because I had, in his words, become a runner! Over the next couple of months, I read the book assiduously, and Dr Sheehan taught me about running, its philosophy, and lots of practical hints about important things like changing clothes in a Volkswagen, urinating in public during a race, honest sweat (no shower needed), belching, running as play, and many helpful tips for me as the running neophyte. I must have read that little book 20 times!

FROM THE BOOK TO THE MAGAZINE

Dr. Sheehan introduced me to a magazine called Runner’s World. After searching for it at most of the magazine distributors in Ottawa and Toronto, I decided to write to the publisher of the Sheehan book, World Publications in Mountain View, California. Eventually, I subscribed to the magazine and was very excited to receive my first copy shyly wrapped in plain brown paper.

Runner’s World opened many new aspects of running for me. In its articles, I learned about training plans, techniques, shoes, clothing, and much more. Now

that I was equipped with the knowledge imparted to me by Joe Henderson and others, I was able to design a more reasonable running program, and my running activity and enjoyment increased on a daily basis.

By a year later, I had dropped almost 100 pounds and was quite regularly running about 10 miles a day. I had discovered a thin running version of the old sedentary me. Although I missed signing the autographs, people no longer were mistaking me for Meathead. I was the runner that Dr. Sheehan had written about. Thad arrived!

As my running improved, I began to look for more in my running. For most of my life, I had been a competitive athlete—not a very good one, but very determined to do my best. I had played hockey and football and had spent many years skiing at competitive levels. I wanted the same from my running.

A friend had run the 1976 Ottawa Marathon and suggested that I might want to give it a try. The idea of running 26 miles was somewhat intimidating; however, I decided that I would think about it. At about the same time, I noticed a marathon training schedule in Runner’s World and decided that I would follow it. So, every morning in the dark and cold of the Ottawa winter, I would pull on my trusty track suit together with other cold-weather gear like my ski hat, gloves, scarf, and more; check the schedule; and off I would go to run the appointed distances. There were many mornings I had on so many clothes that I could hardly move! The training runs were experiences. People really didn’t appreciate either my training or presence on the roads and showed their feelings in a number of ways. My favorites were thrown beer bottles and chicken-type confrontations. The animal population had similar sentiments as the drivers: attacks from dogs were common, birds used my bulk as a target, and once a skunk and I had a confrontation with both of us emerging unscathed.

St. Patrick’s Day 1977 was the day before the Coupe de Mont Ste. Marie veteran’s giant slalom race, and I was shadowing the course full-out. I had won the event the year before when I was about 75 pounds heavier and was a little worried about the effect that my weight loss would have on my performance. Suddenly I hit a bump, and my ski came off and hit me edge first in a very sensitive area of my lower anatomy. I went down and woke up to someone asking if I was OK. I wasn’t and had to spend a week in the Ottawa Civic Hospital getting stitched up!

I really didn’t start running again until early April. I was still pretty sore, and running was a little awkward as I tried to resume my training schedule. It dictated that by that time, I should have been doing longer runs of about 18 miles; unfortunately, the best I could do was 10. I was pretty discouraged and contemplated postponing my marathon. I did not know what I was going to do, but I continued training as best I could. I decided to turn the pages of the schedule back to the training prerequisites of two weeks before the accident. That seemed to work,

and as I ran into the warmth of spring I began to feel better, and my confidence started to return. I kept reminding myself of where I had been only a year or so before, when I weighed 270 pounds and couldn’t run even a mile!

THE BIG DAY

Finally the big day arrived, and I lined up together with a couple of friends at the start line at Carleton University early on that fateful May morning together with about 150 scantily clad, shivering participants. I felt good and confident as we stood there in the early-morning sunlight making meaningless nervous conversation and watching some of the other runners in their futile attempts to push over trees. “Have you ever been in one of these before?” one friend asked. “Nah, you know me, up until a year or so ago, the only races I entered were in skiing and chugging beer!” I responded. “You do look a little different,” said another, “‘you have lost a little weight.” “Yeah, about a hundred pounds.”

Arunner standing next to us commented: “I’m from Syracuse and have never been in your city before. We arrived late last night and I didn’t get a chance to drive around the course, and I can’t figure out the route from this map. Can anyone tell me anything?” One of my friends replied, “John, here, was a taxi driver, and maybe he can give you the 25-cent tour.”

I thought about the best way to describe the route to a person who had never been in Ottawa in a way that he would understand and remember it. “The first thing you should know is that the Ottawa River is the northern boundary of the city, and we’ ll be running beside it for most of the race. On the other side of the river is La Belle Province, the Province of Quebec. I understand in the running world this is called an out-and-back course, and if you think of it as an inverted capital “L” with the Ottawa River being the long part and the rest of the course to this point here at Carleton University at the south or bottom of the “L,” it will be helpful.

“I’m not exactly sure of where the mile points are, but I’Il try to provide you with some key points so that you’ll know where you are on the course.” “Yeah, that’s what I really need,” he said. “I’ve never run a marathon before and that would be helpful.” “Once we get out of the campus, we turn onto Colonel By Drive and will be running generally in a northerly direction following the Rideau Canal right to the long part of the “L,” which starts with a left turn onto Rideau Street in downtown Ottawa. The far end of the “L” is in Ottawa’s west end at Richmond Road. There we turn and start going east along a roadway called the Western Parkway, which parallels the trails we came out on. I haven’t been able to measure the distance to this point in my car because the trail along the river is twisty, but I figure the turnaround is just beyond 14 miles. Then we’ ll retrace our steps back here and to the finish line. I hope this helps you a little. I got tired just talking about it!” “Yes, it sure did; thank you, it was very helpful,” our new

g = g S £

A leisurely start with my Carleton buddies (| am second from the left).

American friend replied. “Hey, listen. They’re making some announcements. I wonder if we’re going to start.”

Indeed, we were. When the gun went off, there was a great commotion. The faster runners were sprinting away from the rest of us. In fact, they were pretty rude about the way they pushed us aside, yelling, “Get out of the way!” and “Make way for the faster runners!” By the time the quicker runners got onto the route, not many of us real people were left. I checked my venerable Omega Seamaster: it was 8:00 A.M., and we were starting right on time.

The first stretch from the university was at a leisurely pace as I jogged along chatting with my friends, joking about the lovely purple brick buildings at our alma mater, Carleton University, and gossiping about the goings on within the Ottawa legal community. They really didn’t seem all that interested in going much faster. I remembered from my reading that running too slowly early on could tire out a faster runner. With that in mind and having no real idea as to what was ahead of me, I decided to leave my friends. They didn’t seem to mind as I excused myself; as one of them said, “We’re only going halfway anyway!”

I drew away from my friends and was running at a nice pace toward the center of the city. I felt wonderful as I ran along the relatively smooth tree-lined Colo146 | | MAR/APR 2007

nel By Drive with the calm green waters of the Rideau Canal on my left and the Peace Tower of the Canadian Parliament buildings appearing in the distance. I thought about one of the taxi-driver lines I employed to get tips from Americans as I drove them from the airport to downtown: “The canal was built back in the 1830s by the British to protect Canada against an American invasion and provide an alternative for shipping on the St. Lawrence River.” It always worked!

Iran under the Bank Street Bridge at three miles, looked across the canal and saw Landsdowne Park, and savored the memory of our Ottawa Rough Riders Grey Cup football championship last fall.

I skipped along under the Queensway, Ottawa’s only throughway; passed the ancient Pretoria Bridge at the five-mile point; and had to restrain myself from singing “Marching to Pretoria” out loud! When I reached National Defence Headquarters, Canada’s Pentagon, I was alone. I could see a number of people ahead of me and could hear the chatter of the few runners behind me. I felt light and smooth.

The sharp left turn off Colonel By Drive onto Rideau Street brought on memories about all the times I had driven through that intersection when I drove a taxi during my law school days on my way to drop passengers at the Chateau Laurier Hotel. I had never imagined that I would be running past the same places, much less in a marathon, and only four years later! As I ran up the slight uphill past

Courtesy of John McGee

No sign of Pierre Trudeau at the Parliament Buildings.

the Chateau Laurier Hotel, I reflected on seeing my hero, Dr. George Sheehan, who was there the night before. The audience had listened, enraptured, to his enlightening account of Morton’s toe.

Going slightly uphill in easy long strides, I breezed past Canada’s War Memorial and came upon the Peace Tower and the three limestone masonry blocks of the Parliament buildings, wondering whether Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau was in the cheering crowd!

As I was passing the Supreme Court building on Wellington Street, I heard a woman’s voice coming from behind me. “Hi, how far do you think we’ve gone?” she asked me. I looked at my watch, saw that it was just before nine o’clock, and replied, “I don’t really know. We’ve been running about an hour, so I guess we have gone about seven miles.” “That’s great,” she said. “Do you mind if I run with you for a while?” “That would be nice. My friends quit a ways back and I’ve been on my own,” I told her. We chatted as we ran all the way out the trail beside the Western Parkway along the shores of the Ottawa River. This experience of running with another person was new to me, and I enjoyed her company. She was a very good runner and did not appear to be having any difficulty in matching my pace. I was so engrossed in our camaraderie that I hardly noticed passing through the next six miles of my marathon journey.

A DESERTION AT THE TURNAROUND

I must say I was really disappointed as we did the turnaround at Richmond Road and she told me that she was leaving the race. “I only planned to do half the distance,” she said, as she waved me on, “Good luck!”

My pace began to slow a little as I made the trip from the halfway point back, going east along the parkway to downtown Ottawa. It was much warmer on the road, and I missed the shade of all of the large maples and elms that had protected me on the trail portion along the river. I was beginning to feel a little tired. However, my spirits picked up a lot when I saw my wife, our infant son, and a friend who was acting as my coach for the run. “You’re doing well, Magoo!” he commented as he handed me a cup of water. “How are you feeling?” he asked as he jogged along beside me. “Good, a little tired, but OK,” I responded. “Remember our deal: you’ve only been out of the hospital a month or so,” he admonished. “Aw, come on, the doctor said I could,” I replied. “Well, OK, but if you have any problems, you have to stop!”

After I left my friend and my family at approximately the 17-mile point, I checked my watch. It was just about 10:00 A.m., which meant I was ahead of my schedule. Once again I was alone and running along with the west wind at my back and heading toward Lebreton Flats and the end of the parkway. The knowledge that I was ahead of schedule seemed to give me some more energy, and I was able to resume the pace I had established for myself in the first half of the race.

A Tipping my hat to my family at 17 miles.

Slowly I began to catch up with the group of runners that had been ahead of me for most of that time. As I ran up the hill leading to Wellington Street, I caught up to them. “Have you seen any washrooms?” I asked one of the runners, as I was beginning to feel the call of nature. ““Pardonne? Je ne parle pas anglais,” he replied in French. “Les toilettes, les biffies?” I stammered madly, trying to remember my high school French classes. “Oui, je ne sais pas,” and he shrugged his shoulders and said in broken English, “I do not know.” When I came to the 19-mile marker, the need was becoming a necessity! I didn’t want to stop, but it was either that or embarrassing myself in the middle of Wellington Street! Accordingly, I rushed off the course and quickly obtained relief under the cover provided by the trees and shrubs of the stately Garden of the Provinces!

As I ran along Wellington Street and reached the 20-mile point at Parliament Hill, I began to have a few problems. My legs, which had until then felt pretty good, began to feel heavier. My prized National Capital Marathon race T-shirt was soaked with sweat, and it rubbed against my chest. The heat of the day was making me feel a little woozy and lightheaded. I really wanted a drink, but there was no water in that vicinity. I began to wonder whether I was going to hit The Wall that Dr. Sheehan had discussed in his articles. My memory was that he said The Wall was at 21 miles, and by my calculations, I was not there yet. Thus energized, I pushed on past the Peace Tower and saw that by its clock that it was about 10:15.

IF RAY CHARLES COULD SEE ME NOW

After I passed Canada’s Convention Centre, opposite the Chateau Laurier and going downhill, I turned to the right and back onto Colonel By Drive. It was nice to be back running along the canal. There were lots of tour boats going along beside

Courtesy of John McGee

me on the canal, and I was wishing I could hitch a ride! When I looked over the canal and saw the new National Arts Centre, I was able to divert my thoughts from the increasing pain of running to our attendance at the Ray Charles concert a couple of weeks before.

Despite the reassurances of Dr. Sheehan that I was not hitting The Wall but buoyed by the memories of Ray Charles, I realized I was running into something, and it did not feel particularly good! Pain was developing down my right side. I remembered the advice in Runner’s World and tried stretching and deep breathing, neither of which seemed to help. The chest area of my race T-shirt was spotting blood, which scared me as I had not experienced bleeding nipples before. My pace was slowing, and I could not do anything about it even though my brain kept telling my body to go faster.

By the time I arrived at the Pretoria Bridge at roughly 22 miles, I was feeling pretty awful. All of the symptoms were getting worse, rather than better. The pain in my side was terrible, and each step seemed to increase it exponentially. Then I tried walking and felt a bit better. It was really frustrating and embarrassing: many runners whom I had passed earlier were passing me, and by that point even the people in the rowboats on the canal were leaving me behind! My head was aching. I just did not know how I would be able to finish. I went to look at my watch to find out the time and couldn’t find it on my wrist. I panicked and then remembered that it had started to chafe against me, and | had taken it off and put it in my pocket. When I found it, I discovered that it was after 10:30, and my nimble brain concluded that I had been running about 2 1/2 hours. I was becoming quite disoriented and couldn’t remember all of the mileages I had so carefully memorized!

So Ilimped along alternating between running and walking, with more walking than running. I really thought that I was about to die! “How can I die now, I’m too young!” Then I tried running again, but my Nikes would not move faster than a shuffle. The crowds, which were pretty sparse, looked upon me as if I had escaped from the Royal Ottawa Sanitarium. “Keep going!” and “Just a few miles to go, you are looking good” they yelled, and I knew that they were not really telling me the truth! One person yelled, “Hey! You’re bleeding!” I reached to the bloody surface of my shirt, and he yelled, “Not there, down below.” I reached down to the sensitive area, and it was soaked in blood! I thought that it must mean that some of the sutures were opening up, and that was not a particularly good sign!

Suddenly my coach materialized into my line of vision. “How are you feeling? You look terrible!” Then he noticed the blood on my pants. “You have to stop. Remember your promise?” I didn’t want to quit, as I figured I was only a couple of miles from the finish line. “I’m OK,” I said through clenched teeth. “I really want to finish, I can do it. Look, we’re past the Pretoria Bridge; there’s less than four miles to go. I can do it.”

WHAT WOULD DR. SHEEHAN DO?

My friend pushed himself in front of me and brought me to a standstill. I did not have the energy to go around him. “John, you have to stop right now! You can’t take the risk of damaging yourself; just think of the consequences!” I knew he was right, but I didn’t want to quit as I was remembering what Dr. Sheehan said about finishing races. I must have mumbled something about Dr. Sheehan as my friend said, “Dr. Sheehan is not your doctor, and I bet if he saw you now he would drag you off the course!” I was as exhausted as were my arguments!

He handed me a towel and a Coke bottle filled with water. I took several long drinks of the water and toweled off some of the sweat. Then I went behind some bushes to determine the damage down below. I wet the towel and cleaned up the area. Much to my relief, it was not bleeding any more. Then I went back to the side of the roadway and said, “Look, the bleeding seems to have stopped, and I’m feeling a little better. I want to walk to the finish line. The way I feel it should take me about an hour. I promise that I will not try to run it. I just want to go all the way. I’ve worked too hard to quit now. What do you think?” My friend replied after a moment of thought, “OK. I’ll drive out to the university and meet you there.”

So I started walking along Colonel By Drive toward the finish line. It was pretty slow going. The pain was still present in my side, and anything much faster than a hobble seemed to bring it on again. I was wandering along, lost in my thoughts, when [ heard, “Hey, you, get off the road. The race is over and cars will be coming along at any moment.” I hauled out my watch; it was about 11:30. I wondered what he was talking about as I complied with his instructions and moved from the road to the bicycle path. I couldn’t figure out why the course was being closed after such a short time but didn’t have the energy to question him.

Finally I arrived at Dow’s Lake. I knew I had only a mile or so to go. I thought about using the shortcut along Bronson Avenue to the university, which would have saved a little walking distance, but decided that I was going to do the course and kept going. The slight uphill from the lake to the university felt like climbing a mountain. The wind had moved into my face, and the midday sun and the heat were causing even more discomfort. I questioned my decision to finish more than once. In order to keep going, I started counting my steps. That seemed to help, except I kept losing count and had to start over. At least it took my mind off the pain and the tiredness. It was hard work to focus on both steps and the counting, but it kept me going forward.

After what seemed like a couple of hours, I reached the entrance to the university and limped across the road and into the campus. I could see the finish but knew that it was not a direct route as I had to follow the course through the campus. It was pretty awful. My coach-friend joined me and walked along with me as we wound our way to the finish area. When we finally got there, it was empty! There