myself, was most important two nights before a marathon. Nobody sleeps well the night before.

At 4:30 a.M., the alarm rang. I awoke anxiously, ready to face the day. John drew the drapes to see what it was like outside. To my horror, we looked out upon one of the ugliest days I have ever seen for a road race. Conditions were horrendous, like a tropical rainstorm. We were looking out at 70-kilometer head winds, torrential rains, and below freezing weather. In short: cold and miserable.

A TIME FOR REASSESSMENT

Panic set in. I scrambled through my luggage looking for warmer clothes. What do you wear on a day like this? John handed me a couple of garbage bags he had tucked in his suitcase. He’s always such a great packer. He smiled and reassured me that once I got going, I’d forget about the rain. I wanted to believe him, but it seemed a stretch.

Time was unrolling very quickly. A line of buses was waiting to pick up runners at 5:00 a.m. to drive us to the start at Folsom Dam. The race was scheduled to start at 7:00.

Iquickly downed my token cup of coffee and grabbed my PowerBar for the ride. As John walked me downstairs and outside to the bus, he reassured me once again that the rain would probably stop once I got on the bus and that I had run in conditions like this before. He’s always so positive.

The bus filled up almost immediately and departed. Travel time from the hotel to the race start was roughly 30 minutes, during which time the weather showed no signs of letting up. I stared out the window, praying for the rain to stop. Trying to distract myself from the conditions, I rehearsed every positive phrase I had ever heard. But I hadn’t spent my visualization time visualizing what I saw out the window! As expected, the 30-minute ride felt more like 5 minutes; too soon we were being disgorged at Folsom Dam.

Luckily, when we rolled in, the race officials led some of us to a nearby condo they’d arranged for the elite athletes. I remember how terribly guilty I felt as we made our way to the warm, dry condo, passing other athletes as they stood outside in the pouring rain waiting for the race to start.

Inside the condo, male and female athletes were stretching and making their final preparations for the race. Again, that phrase—elite athletes—popped into my head. Everyone looked so fit, so fast, and they all seemed to know each other. I knew no one. I told myself to relax and focus on my race. They all had to start somewhere and were probably at one time in my shoes, just beginning the process of moving up in the ranks.

One of the female athletes came over to me and asked who I was and what my personal record was. I dreaded that question.

Moments later, we left the condo and proceeded to the starting line. The rain had stopped, and a sigh of relief went up from the assembled field. Suddenly, smiles appeared all around, and I could tell that I wasn’t the only one whose spirits had been dampened by the wet weather. A moment later the gun went off, and the race was under way. At last, the moment I’d planned for was finally here—it was time to run.

During the first few miles, everything went according to plan. I felt light on my feet. [had a couple of girls within striking distance, which is what I wanted. I knew if I lost touch with the lead pack of women, I’d never be able to catch them again.

Then, suddenly, it started to rain again. It escalated to a downpour. The winds picked up. This was Part Two of the storm that had started early that morning. I persevered through the next couple of miles, refusing to let the weather break me.

NO PLACE TO HIDE

By mile 10 I felt strong and was running in a pack of men. We ran single-file, each sheltering the other from the elements. We each took our turn in the barrel.

By mile 13, the group I had been running with began to pull away from me and disappeared over the horizon. I was unable to keep pace and felt disappointed at losing the comfort of the pack.

By mile 15, I began what felt like a death march. My legs ached and felt like uncooperative stumps. They had never before betrayed me like this. I knew I was in trouble. My positive spirits vanished; the uplifting self-affirmations I had practiced shattered like china on marble.

By mile 18, I was beginning to notice other runners dropping out. I let the thought of quitting enter my consciousness; for the first time in a race I questioned whether I would be able to finish. I admitted the unthinkable to myself: I wanted to quit. Iremember distinctly giving myself permission to drop out of the race: “You can stop. Other elite runners are dropping out.”

I’d never quit a race before and didn’t want to start now, but I’ll admit that T have never hated running so much in my life as I did during that race.

By mile 20, I saw a GU station where they were handing out supplements to help people through or around or over the wall. I had hit the wall, but I was so beat and my focus was so narrow that I didn’t even bother taking GU. AllI wanted was to finish.

By mile 22, I was just plain mad. I was not having fun and desperately wanted the race to end. ButI pushed on. I felt on familiar ground, as I had jogged this part of the course when John and I went out for our easy jog. I knew the end couldn’t be much farther. I dug down deep within myself, deeper than ever before, and pushed myself to the finish.

Sandy Jacobson MY MOST UNFORGETTABLE MARATHON 121

CALIFORNIA INTE:

FINISH _ ¥ EEE —-

Sandy pushes to the finish of the toughest race of her career.

The end result? A time of 2:50:39, and 11th woman. Not what I’d planned, but I’ll never forget crossing the finish line and falling into my husband’s arms crying with pain and fatigue. I was also really mad. Mad at myself and at the weather. I remember telling him that I never wanted to run another marathon. I blubbered out: “I’ve gone through labor and I’ ve done the Ironman Canada, and this was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Never again!”

Sound familiar?

THE BODY’S BETRAYAL

As soon as I crossed the finish line it was as though all my body functions just ceased performing. I stiffened up immediately; it hurt to walk. John tried to distract me as we walked back to the car. He humored me with stories of how the stands at the finish line kept blowing over and how the volunteers kept putting them back up only to see them blow over again. John is good at distracting me from painful things. But somewhere during the last several hours, my sense of humor had taken a hike.

When we got back to the hotel, I immediately filled the tub with hot water and fell in. I enjoyed every drop of hot water as I’d never enjoyed water before. I sat in the tub for a long time. After I was content and finally warmed near my core, I crawled out.

John and I decided to get dressed and go downstairs for something to eat. It’s funny because usually after a marathon I’m not hungry, but after this one I was ravenous. I think it must have had something to do with my body working overtime to keep itself warm. I remember mentally walking my body through simple steps necessary to getting dressed.

As we left our hotel room and waited for the elevator, we peered out the hallway window. Scores of runners who had just finished the marathon were limping painfully into the hotel. Almost everyone who had completed the race shuffled on stick legs.

We attended the awards ceremony later that afternoon. Ironically, as we walked the pedestrian overpass from the hotel to the conference center, the sun appeared. The sky, so ugly just hours before, was now clear. We chuckled as we discussed how the marathon was like Russian roulette.

The next day, as we waited in the airport for our flight back to Edmonton, we read the follow-up marathon articles in the local Sacramento Bee. I took great comfort when I read some of the following elite athletes’ remarks:

Morocco’s Abderazzak Haki, the winner of the race, said: “The conditions were bad. The rain and the wind in front of us, you couldn’t push.” Reno, Nevada’s Miguel Tibaduiza commented, “It wasn’t a good day at all. Very tough out there, windy and raining. After a while you get this hypothermia. You couldn’t hardly even move. The goal today was to finish.”

See, I reassured myself: Jt wasn’t just me.

And What I Learned From It

NTHE end, it took me the good part of a month to digest this race. | was

so deeply disappointed. | kept beating myself up over and over again because of how hard |’d trained for the race. | felt my training was at a point where | could target a 2:42 performance. Instead, | produced a 2:50:39.

John kepttelling me that this was my best performance yet. He explained that | have a natural gift to run fast, so | have never had to push myself to the limit. This was the first time | had pushed myself beyond a limit | had not previously explored. He was right. This experience opened a door to a new level of inner strength, so it made sense that it hurt like hell to open it.

This race tested my limits and renewed the depth of my passion, desire, and commitment to this sport.

The California International Marathon was the best thing that has ever happened to me. It’s the race | reflect on whenever I’m experiencing difficulty, | know now what I’m capable of when | dig deep within myself. | experienced and learned a tremendous amount from my most unforgettable marathon, and |’d like to share some of it.

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Ry eT =To F- Wobble

ua to Death

A Classic Novel Uncovered: Murder at a Six-Day Race: Part VIII

by Peter Lovesey

Editor’s note: The first seven parts of Wobble to Death appeared in the six

CHAPTER 15

The Press accounts of the race had followed a well-established pattern. For the first day or two it was described as the “Islington Mix”; by the third day, “Herriott’s Wobble”; and at the end of the week the “Cruelty Show at the Agricultural Hall.” As the eventual result became more certain, reports dwelt instead on the state of the blistered survivors. And the more harrowing the details, the larger the attendance. Londoners by the thousand flocked to Islington through fog and sodden streets as Romans once converged on the Colosseum.

In fact, the scenes on this Friday evening were less distressing than they had been on the previous Monday, before an altogether smaller audience. Those remaining on the track were mostly experienced pedestrians, the “distance brigade,” veterans of many campaigns. But in the race’s early stages there were novices to this type of race. Their greenness had been painfully evident after only a few hours. The one notable “tenderfoot” to keep going was Billy Reid. By now he was half a day’s walking down on the leaders, but his spirit was indomitable.

“A bloody sight pluckier than most lads,” was Chalk’s comment, as he and Williams watched Billy hobbling back to the track from the tents. “When I’m done with this caper, and sets up as trainer, that’s the mettle of lad I want. ’E’s the wrong shape for a stayer, of course. You can’t carry too much top ’amper for very long. But blimey, ’e’s no namby-pamby.”

“That’s true,” agreed the Half-breed. “See some of them characters weeping buckets after only ten hours? Don’t matter ’ow pretty a man’s shape is. You can’t do nothing with a party that pipes ’is eye.”

“Beats me ’ow ’e does it, with that brother of ’is badgering ’im all bloody day. ’E give ’im an ’ot bath this morning to liven ’im up. Fairly made the boy

sing out, that did. If any bloody trainer tried that with me Id land one on ’im, I tell you.”

“Never agreed with bathin’ meself,” Williams confided. “Softens the soles of your feet, that does.”

The main interest on the track that evening was provided by Chadwick and O’Flaherty, who moved at a positive trot, the Irishman within a yard of the Captain. But the pace was being set, surprisingly, by Mostyn-Smith, determined to win back his lost time. This trio remained locked for lap upon lap, and the crowd urged them noisily to go faster, desperately hoping that one of the two leaders, both heavily backed, would crack. For the rest of the field it was a challenge to keep upright, mobile and awake. None had the strength or inclination to “mix.”

“Nippy on his feet for a nark,” Williams remarked, indicating

Mostyn-Smith. “’E’Il bloody lick us on this showing. What’s’e going full bat for? Still another ruddy day to go.”

“°R’s no nark,” Chalk corrected him contemptuously. “Bloody crank. That’s what ’e is.”

“T seen ’im talking with the Law,” maintained Williams. “That’s no ped. Inever saw ’im onatrack before in my life.”

“You ask Feargus about’im, mate. ’Ereckons Double-barrel fixed Charlie Darrell and Sam Monk, and ’ad a go at ’im.”

“Feargus!” Williams spat generously over his shoulder, not bothering to see who was following. “Squint-eyed bloody Irishman! Thinks anyone that comes near ’im’s after is blood.”

“Come off it. O’Flaherty’s pretty near ’im right now. ’E don’t mind using ’im as pacemaker.”

“Don’t you believe it,” said Williams. “Only one reason why Feargus keeps close behind Double-barrel. Makes sure that way ’e won’t get stabbed in the back!”

ANDY YELENAK

They trudged on, amused, but a shade embittered by their colleague’s singleminded efforts. Earlier they had enjoyed delaying Chadwick so that O’ Flaherty could gain ground. Now that the Irishman aspired to honours they felt resentful without admitting it to each other.

There were hoots of delighted derision from the stands as a portly figure in an overcoat joined the leading trio. It was Thackeray, as unmistakable a member of the Force as one of Punch’s plain-clothes constables. He had been instructed to talk with Chadwick, and since Chadwick had no intention of leaving the track, Thackeray had to conduct another interview in motion, only in less discreet circumstances than his last one. He could scarcely make himself audible above the whistles and mock applause as he lengthened his stride to keep pace with the leaders. A well-aimed apple dislodged his bowler and he snatched vainly in the air for it as it fell to the track. He decided to keep going without it.

Chadwick inclined his head towards him, but said nothing.

“T’m Constable Thackeray, sir, of the detective police.”

There was no comment, so he went on, between gasps for breath.

“T think—you may be able—to assist us, sir.”

Chadwick did not look as though he intended to.

“T do not employ a trainer,’ Chadwick observed icily. “I presume that you mean my assistant.”

“We can’t find him—sir. The Sergeant—wants to—question him.”

“Tsn’t he in my tent?”

“Then I cannot help you. I have no idea where he can be. I am not a detective.”

Thackeray drew up, and the crowd feigned a unified howl of disappointment. He ignored them, and walked back to retrieve his hat before it was trampled upon.

Sergeant Cribb had denied himself a second look at Thackeray in action. Time was desperately short, so he had sought out Sol Herriott while Thackeray performed for the crowd. The promoter was in his office with Jacobson, checking the previous day’s takings.

“You don’t mind, sir?” Cribb asked Jacobson. “A few discreet inquiries, you understand.” He was already on his way out, characteristically withdrawing at the first opportunity. He nodded at Cribb, and left.

“Doing well, sir?” Cribb asked.

Herriott replaced the coin-bags in the safe, turned his ample frame and faced the sergeant. On the wall behind him were oleographs of Smithfield prize fatstock.

“Yes, all things considered,” he cautiously replied.

“Good crowd in there tonight. Best yet.”

“Funny really, you know. Got a killer loose in there somewhere but it don’t keep the crowd away.”

“Evidently not,” said Herriott. “Do you smoke?”

Cribb did not, except as a tactical gesture.

“Thanks. I wanted to getmy mind clear about last Monday,” he said. “Thought if I came to see you I’d get a good account of what people were doing the evening before Darrell was killed.”

“Fine. Chadwick first. I suppose he was on the track all the time.”

“Oh yes,” Herriott remembered. “And he was running, to everyone’s surprise. He has always walked every yard of the way before.”

“He kept going till one o’clock?”

“Yes. I’m sure of that. Darrell went to his tent at the same time.”

“Good. Now Harvey, the trainer. What was he doing?”

“Ah. He would have been attending Chadwick. He doesn’t often leave his side. He’s probably under orders to be constantly in attendance. A soldier has to take his orders seriously.”

“He wasn’t in the tent, then?”

“J don’t think so. He followed the race closely from the trackside.”

Cribb tapped his cigar on the silver ash-tray on Herriott’s desk.

“Now what about Mr. Jacobson, sir? Where was he?”

Herriott reflected. His waistcoat front started to quiver over his belly at some amusing recollection.

“Poor old Walter! Yes, he was here, Sergeant.”

“What’s amusing you?”

“Well, I dined out earlier in the evening, and left Jacobson in charge. He’s not exactly a man who welcomes responsibility, you know. Before I left I jokingly told him what to do if a fire started. Damned if we didn’t get one in the kitchen! Small affair, but it ruined his evening—and his suit, I may say.”

“What time was this?”

“A few minutes after midnight.”

“Where did you have your dinner, sir? Pardon the question. I must know everyone’s whereabouts.”

“At my club—the London Sporting.”

“And you dined alone?”

Cribb turned to another matter.

“T’d like to ask you about the way this race was first arranged, sir.”

“Certainly,” beamed Herriott. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, sir.” Cribb drew deeply on the cigar, and extinguished it with great thoroughness before going on. “What interests me is that you are not known as a promoter of foot-races. You’re more of a turf man, I believe.”

“It must have meant quite a gamble, organizing this affair.”

“In a way, yes,” Herriott agreed. “But I’m a gambling man, too, you know. And, of course, this isn’t the first six-day race. It has been done very successfully before.”

“What puzzles me, Mr. Herriott, is why you employed a man like Jacobson as your manager. I hear that he knows no more about pedestrianism than you do. Why didn’t you take on a man who knows the game?”

“Aren’t you impressed with my manager?” Herriott asked, with a smile. “Now, Sergeant, you mustn’t take my earlier remarks about him too seriously. Walter’s a competent fellow. Just a little reserved.”

“You’ve employed him before, have you?”

“Oh yes, in a similar capacity, a long while back. But really, you know, the job’s asinecure. I do most of the managing myself, as you may have observed.”

“Why take on Jacobson at all, then?”

Herriott shrugged.

“Tneed to get away occasionally, Sergeant, and there must be somebody in attendance throughout. It’s the kind of post that one gives to an old friend.”

“_who’s fallen on hard times?”

“Did I imply that?” asked Herriott. “Well, one likes to offer help where one can.”

“You know Mr. Jacobson is in debt, then?”

Herriott sighed.

“T had a shrewd suspicion that he was in financial trouble. I didn’t inquire about it. One doesn’t, unless the information is volunteered.”

“I ought to say,” Herriott added, “that both Jacobson and I made a close study of six-day events before we embarked on this enterprise. And I think you’ ll agree that the race has been a success, a well-matched affair, in spite of Darrell’s unfortunate death.”

“How did you persuade Captain Chadwick to enter?” Cribb asked, ignoring the last remark. “He’s not one of the Hackney Wick fraternity.”

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