Run Long, Walk Short, Move Forever

As We Age, a Little Bit of Kindness to Ourselves Can Provide Tremendous Results.

t the 2004 Napa Valley Marathon, where I was part of the marathon college,

a day-long series of seminars and round table discussions staffed by marathoning VIPs, Dick Beardsley and I discussed our current training regimens. Dick had been interested in my training method and had kept up with my running achievements. He suggested that I might share my way of staying fit and injury free with our running brothers and sisters, especially those who cannot sustain high-mileage training.

Dick, of the famed “Duel in the Sun” with Alberto Salazar at Boston in 1982, had made a comeback in recent years from a terrible farm accident and addiction to painkillers. He knew also that I had come back to racing well from a broken hip (the result of a bicycle accident) in October 1997, which required a pin, plate, and screws that are still in place in my hip.

The Napa Valley Marathon, on March 7, was celebrating its

» Since taking up running at age 55, John Keston has been a top ranked runner in his age group, setting many record and best times.

Photo courtesy of John Keston

26th year and had opened the field to 2,200 entrants. There was a full complement of runners. Many attended the seminars offered by famous runners and writers in the marathon college on Saturday, the day before the race, where they heard experts propound training methods, tips on completing the course, and the various dos and don’ts.

The predominant recommendations were go out slowly, hydrate (but don’t overdo the water), stay relaxed, and hook up with someone attempting a similar finishing time. Camaraderie is helpful along the way.

At the seminars, at chance meetings, or at the marathon expo, various race officials and seminar participants asked whether I was planning to run the race. My reply each time had been: “Well, I’m not in shape at this point to run a marathon, but I’ll see how I feel tomorrow.” I was truthful in my explanation that I was not marathon race ready, but I had that always-optimistic runner’s sense that I could do it.

FOLLOWING MY OWN ADVICE

My running base had been established years ago. All I would have to do is what our panel (including myself) had prescribed for the runners of this year’s race: go out slowly, pick it up easily, hydrate, and stay relaxed.

I would have to be at the start line anyway because I was to sing the national anthem just before the start of the race. I had now done this seven years in a row.

Rich Benyo, the president of the board of the race, had assured me that I did not have to run the race. “Whatever you do, John—run it or not—is OK with us. You’re here to have a fun weekend.” Late Saturday evening, I did tell Rich and a few others that I would try to run the race the next day and went to bed early wondering about my fitness. I had run a 15-miler one week before Napa, my longest run in six months.

Sunday morning, race day, I rode the bus to the start in Calistoga. I walked, jogged out along the course about a mile total, mainly to warm up my singing voice, warbling scales as I went along and out of earshot of the gathering racers.

At 6:55 a.M., Isang “The Star-Spangled Banner,” then made my way to the start line, four rows back. When the starting siren went off, I set off with the others.

I started at a pace that was very slow for me—about a 9:00-minute pace—and then gradually picked it up. At 79 years of age, I finished in 3:43:50, a new singleage world-best time, beating the previous best of 3:49:28 held since 1987 by Ed Benham. I was delighted with my time and record, as were all of my dear friends and the organizers of the race. I had accomplished a similar feat the year before at Napa, running at 78 years old a single-age best of 3:36:41. At 77, I had run the Bend Marathon in 3:19:01, to be the oldest runner ever to break 3:20; and the

year before that, at the Portland Marathon, I had become the oldest runner to go under 3:30, running 3:22:59. All these races I had run with no injuries, using the new training regimen that I had devised for myself.

Thad not told any of the runners at the Napa Valley Marathon seminar about my current training methods because the subject was not on the agenda. What Dick Beardsley suggested was that an article about my training might be an interesting discussion for readers of Marathon & Beyond.

Training plans are published in every running magazine just about every month, and the emphasis is usually on how to be faster and achieve or better one’s goal. My training premise is to enable continued strength, fitness, and pleasure in running forever.

MODIFYING AN ELITE RUNNER’S PROGRAM

lused to read and take for gospel everything anyone ever wrote in Runner’s World when I took up running at the age of 55. I got the occasional injury because I was mostly running workouts for runners of the elite age group. The most devastating running injury and longest to heal was a groin evulsion that occurred during a 10-kilometer race after I had run several marathons, all under three hours, in the 60-64 age group.

It was intense to say the least. A piece of bone was torn from the pelvis by supertight ligaments, and even though I got back to running in about seven months, I was not pain free in that area until three or four years had passed and I was racing well again.

Subsequent years, from 65 on, I became top ranked in my age group and ran many record and best times.

In my 70s, a year before the bicycle accident, I had modified my training to running long one day and jogging short the next. Long runs were from eight to 16 miles (although I would do only one really long run during the week) and my jogs were done in two sessions of three or four miles in the A.M. and two or three in the p.M., making my jogging days six miles total.

I maintained 45 to 55 miles a week with this regimen. Race weekends, I would modify the previous training days so that I would not do a hard workout two days before any event. With this regimen, I felt that I was merely plodding and not being as dynamically race fit as I had expected. I hated running slowly and had always taken umbrage when any nonrunner would ask, “Oh, you’re a jogger?”

But here I was, jogging to improve my running. The bicycle accident necessitated a totally different approach to running and competing. I wanted to be in the sport for the rest of my life like some of the veterans 90 and older: Paul Spangler, Ed Benham, and others. Paul and Ed are since deceased, but their running feats are legendary.

Getting to the point of this treatise: “We can run into extreme old age.”

With body-saving training techniques you can keep cardiovascular, musculature, and skeletal components in tiptop working condition and remain injury free while racing dynamically and attaining personal bests through and into each new age group. My idea to achieve this begins with an explanation of my current training method developed from an enlightening discussion I had with my son

He had been a water-skier with the British team. Something he explained to me made a lot of sense, especially since I was recovering from the broken-hip surgery of late October 1997.

We were talking about superathletes of all disciplines, and Philip had asked me about my routines. I told him that I ran every day and that I did speed work twice a week. Some days were easy and some hard. I was following those old Runner’s World workouts still but on a less-intense scale.

APPLYING BODYBUILDING THEORIES

Philip told me that to be strong and to sustain the strength and flexibility he needed to accomplish water-skiing speed jumps off the ramps, where skiers leap 100-plus feet, landing upright at 30-plus miles per hour, he had to work out with weights. He further explained that bodybuilders and all serious weightlifters never work the same muscle hard, except every 72 hours, because that muscle or group of muscles should have time to heal from the exertion and stress, repairing microtears and adding new muscle fibers.

I knew about the premise, but I had never associated it with my running. All of a sudden I found myself thinking clinically and analyzing the regimens that had been my norm for years.

Because of the successes I had had collecting several age-group records and always finishing first in my age group at races in the United States and abroad, I had considered my training methods effective. But I was discounting the inevitable consequences of getting longer in the tooth and the ravages of running 2,400 miles and racing as many as 40 times a year.

Successful hip surgery now allowed me to consider a continued athletic future. The professional prognosis was that I could definitely run and even compete again, but I was advised to come back slowly.

I probably wasn’t as patient as I had promised myself I would be, because two months after surgery I was mountain climbing with my son Michael in Scotland, using a walking cane and gradually running short distances.

After 4 1/2 months, I ran my first postinjury race, the Shamrock Run 5K in Portland, Oregon. My finish time was 26:55—an 8:39 pace.

Six months later, over the same distance, this time in Corvallis, Oregon, in the Fall Festival Race at Oregon State University, I brought my time down to

20:29—an improvement of 6 1/2 minutes. I was pretty well healed now, and the hardware was working for me with no further harm done by coming back so quickly. But I was getting too intense again, and I had not yet adopted the program that I thought would keep me running fit forever.

that although I had improved all year from the surgery, the older regimen of a long run one day, the short, easy jog the next was giving me only 48 hours respite between hard runs. (I consider a long run of eight or more miles a hard run.)

When I ran long using this program, I was finding that I came into each long running session tired. I was not doing what the weightlifters did in allowing 72 hours between working the same muscles hard. I felt tentative and afraid to use the training I had devised after talking to Philip because there was the nagging sense that I might lose speed and endurance.

IT TAKES COURAGE TO CHANGE

It was almost a year since I had figured the workouts for myself, but I hadn’t yet had the courage to try them out. It was a big struggle for me to give up a program that had been working reasonably well during the healing of my left femur and hip. To try out a program that had not been devised and proven by an expert was a radical step to take, and no one that I knew had done anything like this before.

Printer: Insert Athens Marathon ad

Thad figured that if I ran long one day, eight to 16 miles, then walked the next two days, six miles each day, broken into a morning and evening session, I might come into my races with fresher legs.

The 72-hour respite predicated on the bodybuilder’s regime seemed sensible enough, but I was still scared to give it a try. The day came when, after a 13-miler at 8:30 pace, I was by evening time stiffer than usual, so I resolved to just walk the next day. I woke the next morning still feeling quite stiff, so I went for a walk at 16-minutes-per-mile pace downhill from my home to a turnaround point and then back up the hill at 18-minute miles to complete four miles.

Later that afternoon, I walked another two miles, one downhill and the other up. The stiffness of the morning was considerably less, and by late evening I was feeling comfortable.

Next day, I was ready to run again but decided that now was the time to experiment with the 72-hour-respite regime. I walked again, just three miles in the morning and two miles in the afternoon. That evening I was totally loose, free of pain, and looking forward to running the next day.

Next morning, I completed the 72-hour respite and so set out to run eight miles. I felt very fluid and comfortable, and after running three miles at 8:30 pace, I kicked in four bursters of 90 seconds, with three minutes of easy running between each one. Finishing the run marginally less fresh than when I started, I got back home; and after an easy 10 minutes on my exercise bicycle, I stretched my lower limbs gently. I was feeling energized and content. The question was What should I do tomorrow—jog or walk? Courageously, I decided I would walk.

Make no mistake about it, it takes courage to change a program radically when the result as yet is uncertain. I made the day after that one a second walking day. At 9:00 a.m., I had made up my mind. This was my second walking day, and I was committed to the new training regime of

Day 1—walk

Day 2—walk

Day 3—run eight to 16 miles

Repeat cycle over and over for at least one month.

Racing season was not yet in full swing, so I hunkered down and stuck to the program. After the one-month trial period, in which I found my body much less physically stressed, I concluded that this would become my new mode of training. It was now early 1999. For me, 1998 had been a year of recovery from the femur fracture, and with my regimen initiated, I was resolved to continue it.

GOOD RESEARCH WITH MORE WEIGHT WORK

Because at 79 years of age, with 80 fast approaching, I had noticed a loss of muscle in my upper body and arms, I concluded that I should make weights a part

» With the success of his new training regimen, Keston looks forward to December when he enters the 80-84 age division. More single-age and agegroup records no doubt await him.

of my running program. I decided that it was necessary to work those parts of my body on a regular basis on the walking days. After the first walking day, I work my lower legs with weights by doing leg extensions, hamstrings, calves, and groin exercises. Then on the second walking day, I lift weights for my upper body. As a result, my lower limbs are stronger, and I am benefiting by developing more erect running in my upper body.

There is no doubt that this program works for this aging person, and I expect to continue racing well and getting more single-age and age-group records in the future, especially after December 5, when I go into the 80-84 age category. >

For any aging, or even young, ll runner who might find running . every day too wearing, it might be worthwhile to consider a more restful and body-saving training routine like old John Keston uses.

Ihave stayed injury free since I adopted my own program. I modify the training to accommodate weekend racing. If the distance is 10K or longer, I will make sure that there are two walking days preceding the race. For lesser distances, I might do a short run, with some fast intervals two days before the event; but the next day I will be sure to only walk two miles in the morning and another two in the afternoon.

To be specific about the success I enjoy with this program, on August 14, 2004, Tran a 5K race in 22:12. The World Association of Masters Athletes’ (WAMA) age-graded table for a 79-year-old computes my time of 22:12 as the equivalent of 14:25—a 4:39 pace per mile—for a young elite racer. I would have won the race overall with that time (age graded), since the winning time was 17:30. It was a low-key event with age groups through 60 plus in which I won first place. There

Photo courtesy of John Keston

were two other runners over 70 whose age-graded times were in the 16-minute range. The 22:12 is a single-age world best for 79 year olds.

Recapping my program simply, with which one can race well and remain injury free, ensuring longevity in the sport:

Day 1: Walk six miles at one time, or break it into two sessions of three miles each or four plus two.

Day 2: As day 1.

Day 3: Run eight to 16 miles, with some pullouts (faster intervals) after 20 minutes.

Day 4: As day 1.

Day 5: As day 1, but this can be cut short, depending on next day’s race distance.

RACE-DAY REGIMENS

Day 6: Race. Arrive one hour before the race in order to register or pick up your bib number, hobnob with other racers, and warm up easily. Warm up about two miles at 2 1/2 to three minutes slower than expected race pace. Stretch the lower limbs very, very gently for 10 minutes or so. Ballet dancers spend an hour warming up by stretching in the slowest way I’ve ever seen to avoid risking the slightest pull of any muscle before making those explosive leaps in performance.

After the race, cool down for about 15 minutes at the warm-up pace, and then put on your fleece warm-ups for the lower limbs (even in summer), keeping them toasty while waiting for the awards. You’ll be protecting your legs as do the ballet dancers who, every time they come offstage for more than three minutes, don their woolen leg warmers to keep their muscles in top working order for their next dynamic entrance.

Day 7: If a race day, do as day 6.

It will probably be necessary to juggle the routine, as I do, to accommodate race weekends; but the essential thing is to work the program so that you go into races with fresh legs.

If you are training for a marathon, run and walk only 45 miles three weeks before race day. Two weeks before, cut back to about 25 miles; and then, seven days before the marathon, run a very slow 12- to 15-miler at 2 1/2 to three minutes slower than intended marathon pace. On following days, jog or walk only moderate distances to keep the limbs supple and stretched out, doing no more than three miles of walking either of the two days prior to the event. This program serves me well in racing from 1,500 meters through all intermediate distances, road or track, to ultras of up to 50K. It provides 40 to 50 or more miles of hard/easy training per week with the security of injury-free continuity and provides the base to race most distances. i

Ode to 18

Running Long Is Still Impressive, Especially If You Make It Look Easy.

sit transfixed, eyes locked and set, jaw clenched, legs crossed, arms folded

on my lap, each limb heavy as a steel anvil. My eyes want to fix on the same object even as I blink. My breathing is slow and deep, long inhales followed by quick exhales, as if I am entering deep REM sleep.

Thave finished 18 miles, on the hills, and made it to church by 10:00.

It is the first 18 of the season, a struggle, as 18 miles usually are. The first hour is on the highest hills in the state, long before daylight, dodging the occasional fisherman pulling his bass rig to the lake. The second hour is perfect, flat, magnificent sunrise, cool temperatures, and a cloudless sky. The third hour grows progressively difficult, aches and pains sprout like jonquils on a spring day. Finally, it is over, and there remains less than an hour to shower, eat, and drive to church. lam able to keep the facade of normalcy—“Sure, I’m OK, Honey”—until I ease down onto the church pew. I quickly become paralyzed.

I sit, hoping that I am portraying the perfect picture of reverence, my mind working at sub-6:00 pace, my body frozen. I am pleased to hear the announcement for the prayer, and I quickly and thankfully close my eyes. My head is already bowed. I am jolted upright by a wifely elbow, and I frown at her for having the nerve to think I was sleeping. I regain consciousness less than a minute after the prayer is finished, three globules of saliva glistening on the left lapel of my sport coat. I do not understand my wife’s quiet comment but faintly make out the word “drooling” and react indignantly with a facial contortion.

THE REVOLT OF THE BODY

I hear the dreaded words “Rise for the hymn” and know it is gut-check time. Using the same source of adrenaline frightened women use to pick automobiles off their trapped children, I give it a determined try. I find that by hooking my elbow around the pew in front, then using all the strength in my other arm, I am able to push myself to a standing position. I feel pretty good, erect and proud of my accomplishment, until I realize I am not singing but rather staring at the long word at the end of the second line: “Ga-li-lee.” I find the wherewithal to join in.

Perhaps a latent drop of GU entered my bloodstream. I sing in a firm and strong voice, careful not to miss a single word or note on the third verse. Unfortunately, the remainder of the congregation is finishing the fourth.

Plopping back down onto the pew, I reenter my slight coma. The sermon is beginning, and I strain to hear the three points the pastor is to discuss. I hear him say the points all begin with the letter “S.” I think I understand all three words: siesta, silence, and sleep—although I could not be sure. After that, I kind of lose track. I did, however, determine that I can positively sleep with eyes wide open.

Part way through the sermon, the carbohydrate depletion resurfaces. I visualize a Coke Classic—not the Diet Coke I always drink but a full-flavor, full-bodied Coca-Cola containing sugar! I can hear the can pop open and, as I pour the caramel-colored liquid over the ice cubes, feel the fizz jump onto my face as I sniff the bouquet of the delicious, dark drink. From the elusive Coke, I move to the half-eaten bag of Chocolate Morsels stashed in the bright yellow bag at home on the pantry shelf.

Ican smell the chocolate and feel the surge of energy that comes from that wonderful combination of sugar and caffeine. The visions end but the carbohydrate craving continues.

An idea surfaces from deep within my brain. Using superhuman strength, I lift my right hand and get it into my front trouser pocket. Quickly my fingers locate what I am praying is there. A Starlight mint! I quietly remove it and start the unwrapping process. The cellophane is brittle and noisy. Crinkles echo in the silence of the sanctuary. I

feel my wife’s disapproving glance. I ignore her and

work silently but feverishly. The small boy in the pew in front hears the noise, and his

Ted Veach

head pops over the back of the pew like a tortoise’s head extending out of its shell. His eyes focus immediately on the mint, then our eyes meet. No way, kid! You ain’t getting this!

The energy in the mint carries me to the end of the service and the next big challenge, which is getting out of the church. Using my newly developed method of rising, I slowly attain a standing position and plant my feet firmly. I fortify my thinking to make sure it knows my legs will soon have to move and shuffle out into the aisle.

YOUTH! WHY HAST THOU ABANDONED ME?

Isee her coming, prancing across the sanctuary like a show pony—young, tanned, fit, and blond. She is a new runner, home from college for the weekend and full of enthusiasm for running. She is unaware of the horrible temporary conditions it can cause and hero-struck at people, regardless of age, who can run for long distances. I know she is heading for me. My response is immediate and spontaneous—primal—my shoulders go back, head rises, stomach pulls in. I look away nonchalantly, cool, calm, aloof, and very athletic.

“Hi,” she says.

“Well, hello. I didn’t see you.”

“Tran five miles yesterday.”

“You did? Fantastic! That’s great. Is that your PR?”

“Pardon—?”

“Ts that the first time you’ve ever run that far?”

“Yeah. I ran with Sean. We had a great time!”

Sean is the twerp with the spiked hair and the earring in his eyebrow. How did that dork make five miles?

“How about you? Did you have a good week?” she continues.

“Yeah, got in a few miles. I ran this morning, before church.”

“Yeah? How far?”

“T got in 18.”

“Eighteen miles? How can you possibly run 18 miles?”

“Ah, you know. It was a great morning for running. You know, it just takes one step at a time.” I flash a smile.

“Wow! I can’t see how anybody can run that far. I’m amazed—and impressed! Sean! Hey, Sean. Come here. I want to tell you something.”

I walk away before Sean arrives, ignoring the girl and without speaking to the preacher. I do not want, among my other transgressions of the morning, to lie about how good his sermon was!

My prayer is that I am out of her field of vision before I have to descend the front steps. tt

3 x Jack

Insights Gained From Running Could Be Applied to Real Life If We Let Them.

Pennar 40-Miler

Every Runner Ought to Try at Least One Ultra. Yeah.

NE PEARL of wisdom that I have recently learned is “Never run an ultra

on a whim.” Of course, that is the only way I would run an ultra, because, if I actually thought about it, I would probably sleep in and watch reruns of The Love Boat.

THE PENNAR 40-MILE FUN RUN

After years of encouragement from my local track club’s ultrarunners about the benefits of real pain, I was finally persuaded to run the Pennar 40-Miler in Pensacola Beach, Florida. This race could easily have been called the melanoma marathon, as it is held annually in the oppressive June sun with no hope for shade unless you are lucky enough to get run over by a truck. The crowd support was nonexistent unless you like hermit crabs, the water stops were sparse unless you like salt water, and the nesting terns were so territorial that it made you feel like you were in an Alfred Hitchcock movie. In addition, the hotel manager thought I was a drug dealer when I requested a 2:30 a.m. wake-up call. (The race starts at 4 a.m.)

On the positive side, it was an out-and-back course, and it was flatter than four-month-old Dr. Pepper. I did have some Tallahassee support. One local runner, Herb Wills, was especially helpful toting supplies, calling split times, and filling water bottles that would have made a Himalayan Sherpa proud. The clincher was that there was rain in the forecast, and just for good measure, I downloaded a secret Hopi Indian rain dance. I figured that 40 miles of sun might be difficult, but I could handle 40 miles of rain.

When J arrived in the parking lot at 3:30 a.M., I realized that I had made a big mistake. Absent were the fun-loving 25-year-old coeds with their charity T-shirts whom you see at most marathons. In their place were marginally employed roadweary veterans with 20-year-old race shirts who kept referring to me as the new

guy or the ultra virgin despite the fact that I had finished 27 marathons. Another eerie sign was that they all knew each other, and I began to wonder whether I had been invited to run a race or join a cult. One thing for sure, my Hopi Indian rain dance not only made me look silly, it also did not work, as it was 75 degrees with 100 percent humidity and not a cloud in the sky. Come to think of it, I may have downloaded the funky chicken dance by mistake.

WHOSE PACE IS THIS ANYWAY?

Roughly 50 runners answered the roll call, and the gun sounded. Bolting into the lead at a ridiculous sub-7:30 pace was a Tallahassee runner, Jeff Bryan. Curiosity got the best of me, so I pushed into second to see what was going on. I caught him around mile three and asked why he was running this pace. He said he was trying to entice another Tallahassee runner, Dana Stetson, to catch him because he didn’t think Dana could hold that pace for 40 miles. This sort of made sense.

v Rain Dance? Michael Hughes

If Jeff and I could not do it, Dana probably could not do it either. Yet, with Dana safely back in the pack, it still did not explain why we were running that pace. I was soaked with sweat as we crossed the four-mile mark at around 30 minutes, feeling like I had just run eight. A kid passed us, and I mentioned that he looked like a good 10K runner, which may have been prophetic, as he seemed to falter shortly thereafter. (I think he survived to finish 12th.)

FOLLOW THE LEADER

Jeff stopped for a bathroom break at mile six, so I rallied to catch the leader and overtook him around mile eight. If I ever possessed any reasoning or logic, it abandoned me at that point as I adopted a new strategy akin to something a kamikaze pilot might develop. I decided to make an early push, build a big lead, hold off the field for the last 20 miles, and steal the race. Like the crazy lone bicyclist who tries to escape from the peloton in the Tour de France, I feared that my strategy was destined for failure.

By mile 15, the sun rose, and my temporary amnesia subsided. I remembered that I had run a marathon seven days before, I had already consumed four of my eight GU packets, and the rain was nowhere in sight. I slowed the pace and yielded the lead to the eventual winner, David Jones, at mile 17. At the turnaround, I was working on a new strategy to preserve second place—and my dignity.

ANOTHER BRICK IN THE WALL

I do have experience hitting The Wall but not with 17 miles to go. At mile 23, I was struggling, beginning to feel nauseated and dizzy, and had an excessive need to urinate. I could only conclude that I was either suffering from the onset of heat stroke or I was pregnant. (Thankfully, it was the former.) Finally, the rain came in torrents, which cooled my body temperature and revived my spirits. I was resigned to plodding the final miles until I encountered a group of ultrarunners coming the other direction at mile 25. They told me the leader was struggling and I was sure to catch him. Pride got the best of me, and I quickened the pace again and made a three-mile surge to the top of a ridge at mile 28. I expected to be on the heels of the lead runner, but when I crested the ridge, he was nowhere in sight. I guessed the runners must have been mistaken. (Later I learned that ultrarunners often feed the new guy false information. To me, this tests the limits of sportsmanship. At mile 25, I am usually so gullible that if you told me Martians had landed, I would probably believe it.)

THUMBING A RIDE

The last 12 miles were a blur, but I did have one highlight at mile 34. A lady stopped her car and asked whether I needed a ride. (I had a race number on, for

crying out loud!) I declined and surmised that I must have looked like death spread on toast. I managed to survive and secure second place. Some local Tallahassee finishers included Jeff Bryan, Gary Griffen, Andrew Maurey, and I. (Dana Stetson retired at mile 22.) All in all, there were only 25 finishers, so the casualty rate was near 50 percent, which put this race nearly on a par with new shows in NBC’s fall line-up.

IN CONCLUSION

People ranking hotels use stars to assign quality, so I will use toenails. I give this race four toenails—literally. I gave the race one toenail during the race, one on my ride back to the hotel, and two more the following week. So will I do it again? Are you kidding me? I’m not that dumb! This is a race that I check off the list and say, “Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.”

Boston Marathon 2003 A Dream Race With a Nightmare Finish.

APRIL IS the time for the granddaddy of all races, the Boston Marathon. The Boston Marathon is to running what the Super Bowl is to football, the Tour de France is to cycling, or Captain and Tennille are to rock ’n’ roll music—simply the pinnacle.

However, unlike the beliefs of local patriots, not all men are created equal, and I’m not talking about the speedy Kenyans. While the rest of us had to scratch and claw our way to a qualifying time for the privilege of joining the masses under the tents in Hopkinton, some people had a different experience. Actor and Saturday Night Live alum Will Ferrell was allowed to run despite a four-plus-hour marathon in Stockholm, while elite runners received a free hotel room, limousine ride from the airport, and their own massage table. So what’s the deal? I broke three hours in a marathon! Where’s my special treatment? Where’s my limo? I want to be pampered!

RUNNING TO THE EXPO

The expo itself is a marathon menagerie with people coming in all shapes and sizes—well, not all shapes and sizes. I think I was the fattest one there. Vendors would see me from two tables over and shout, “Hey, fat boy—don’t eat all my free samples!”

At the expo, we were inundated with advertisements. Of course, there were the more recognizable slogans: adidas’s “Shock, Denial & Renewal” and Nike’s “Just do it” but also messages like “No regrets,” “Don’t go out too fast,” and

“Save yourself for later.” At times, I wasn’t sure whether I was looking at running slogans or a top-10 list of bad prom themes.

PARTY BUS

As many of you know, the race does not begin in Boston, but it does end there (unless you collapse en route, in which case it could end at one of several hospitals along the course). It starts in Hopkinton, a town 26 miles to the west. The pilgrimage begins in Boston Common, the oldest public park in the United States. Until the 1850s, cows were allowed to graze there, but not now. On marathon Monday, thousands of sleepy runners congregate to catch one of the old yellow school buses to travel to the start. It is always interesting whom you meet on the bus. Last year, I talked with an elderly gentleman who said that, since he used to work for Citgo, he did not have to qualify; he obtained one of the few corporate exemptions. After he made that remark, I politely told him to go sit next to someone else.

This year, I talked with a young lady (mid-30s) from California who said that her husband had to stay behind to take care of her two daughters. She had already received a report from a friend that her two daughters arrived at church with their Easter dresses on backward. (Apparently dad was not used to being in charge.) This just goes to show the type of sacrifices others have to make when they have a runner in the family.

THE ATHLETES’ VILLAGE

When we finally arrived in Hopkinton, we saw a morass of circus tents to house the restless runners. It was a sunny day, with entertainment and thousands of people scattered on blankets making last-minute preparations. The sight of this hodgepodge of half-dressed riffraff lubricating themselves, not to mention the background music, reminded me of Woodstock without the illegal herbs.

At the side of the Hopkinton High School was an awe-inspiring sight—496 port-o-lets. It looked like one of those old Johnny Weismuller Tarzan movies where he leads the explorers through the jungle to the famed port-o-let graveyard where all old port-o-lets come to die. There was not enough time for me to try every one, but in a few more years, maybe I will.

THE STARTING BINS

A half hour before the race, we were herded into the starting bins like cattle preparing for slaughter. It was a warm day in Hopkinton, and I could feel myself burning under the sun. As I stood at the start, I thought about my usual marathon goals. The first was to not embarrass myself, the second was to not cry for my mother, and the final goal was to finish without excessive drooling. (I’ve never really accomplished the third goal, but hope springs eternal.)

MCDERMOTT MADNESS

Unique to this race were my surname goals. At the expo, I learned that I was one of five McDermotts who were in the race, so one goal was to beat my kin. I was so surprised by this that I almost expected to find a long-lost cousin in the starting bin. Another goal was to run better than 2:55:10, because that was the time of the winner of the inaugural Boston Marathon in 1897—John J. McDermott. (Of course, that was back when the course started in Ashland and was only 24.8 miles—wimps!)

THE ODYSSEY BEGINS

As we surged out of Hopkinton in the 70-degree weather, the Boston Marathon reminded me of Homer’s Odyssey. Not because the marathon lasts 10 years as it did for poor Odysseus (although sometimes it felt that way), and not even because it takes you through strange lands, with strange people, with lots of strange adventures along the way. It reminds me of the Odyssey because at mile 22 there is always this really ugly woman who could pass for the Cyclops. (Well, no, not actually.) ) )

Michael Hughes

The real reason that the Boston Marathon is like the Odyssey is the enticing downhill for the first half of the race. Like the beautiful sirens in Homer’s Odyssey that encourage the travelers to do something stupid, the downhill can cause the most reserved runner to alter his strategy and run like a madman. I could almost hear faint voices in the wind chanting, “Run faster, Jack,” until I crashed on the shoals of the Newton Hills around mile 18. Boston is a tough race. The hills in the late miles can change the gentlest runner into the Boston strangler in a matter of minutes. Even Olympian Kenny Moore admitted that the Boston Marathon is the only race that ever made him cry.

Icannot possibly catalog all of the interesting sights along the route, but I must make note of a sign I observed at mile 11, before we approached Wellesley College. The sign read, “Don’t kiss the college girls.” It reminded me of going to the zoo and seeing the “Don’t feed the animals” signs. I guess they get fed enough.

THE ODYSSEY ENDS

Icrossed the first half in a blazing 1:26:30, which had my Internet fans convinced I would run a 2:53 and wondering why I bonked. Even my mother called to say, “Why’d you slow down?” Although my good cheer continued through the Newton Hills, my good pace did not. Running in my bright green racing flats, my quads of glory became the quads of gory as I tried to slug out the last six miles without Advil. One thing I did find encouraging was what the announcer said as we crossed the finish line: “Welcome back to Boston.” Unlike most marathons where you spend three to four hours sweating only to end up exactly where you started, a point-to-point marathon gives you the satisfaction of actually going somewhere. It reminds us that running was originally a mode of transportation, not something you do to metabolize doughnuts.

MARRIED LOGIC

You may ask why I wore racing flats in a marathon known for its savage hills. Because Iam stupid? Possibly. But another reason has to do with some advice a friend gave me. She said that before every marathon, I should try something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. I guess she figured my odds of marriage were low and I should probably use this wisdom in some fashion.

The something old was my lucky compression shorts, which I haven’t washed in three years. (This, in itself, may explain my lack of marriage opportunities.) The something new was my racing flats. The something borrowed was all the towels at my sister’s apartment, and the something blue was the free samples of Viagra that I received after answering some spam mail on the Internet. (Which, in terms of performance enhancement, worked rather well until I saw this cute coed at the water stop at mile 18.)

CONCLUSION

Iran a good race but unfortunately did not get a PR. I also did not better John J. McDermott’s time of 2:55 set in 1897. Not only that, based on my performance (and that of my kin), unless I can somehow manage to marry Paula Radcliffe and father some speedy offspring, it will probably be another 100 years before a McDermott once again reigns at Boston. Until next year—stay fit, and eat your chowda!

How to Annoy Race Directors A Guide to Make You Unpopular.

ONE UNSUNG hero in every local Saturday morning road race is not the overall winner, the age-group winner, or even the oldest finisher. The greatest kudos should go to the unsung hero—the race director. Some race directors have become so skillful at handling minor race-day problems like race bandits, missing finisher cards, and no-show volunteers that managing races has become less of a challenge to these esteemed individuals. Therefore, to make their lives more challenging, I developed a list of “Ways to Annoy Race Directors and Wreak Havoc on Race Day.” The secret is to pretend that you are someone annoying. (For some of us, this is an easier task than for others.)

THE OLYMPIC HOPEFUL

Tell the race director that you are on the Hungarian national team and that you need a 5K qualifying time for next month’s Olympic Trials in Budapest. Hand the race director a jar of urine and say that the race director is responsible for drug testing it within 48 hours.

THE LAWYER

Bring a friend dressed in a three-piece suit to pose as your legal counsel. Tell the race director that your lawyer has found several problematic clauses in the waiver statement on the entry form, and therefore you refuse to sign. Offer to negotiate specific language with the race director. If the race director insists that you must sign or you can’t run, have your lawyer threaten to file a lawsuit for violating your civil rights.

THE GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL

Arrive with several friends in dark suits and sunglasses before the start of the race. Inform the race director that you represent the Bureau of Indian Affairs and that

Michael Hughes

Here’s my urine sample. Rex will be ready soon…

the off-road course runs over an ancient Seminole burial ground. Say that you have a court injunction stopping the race. Hand the race director a crude map of an alternative course that is “roughly five kilometers.”

THE PET LOVER

Run the race with your German shepherd, Rex. Demand that Rex be given a race number. At the awards ceremony, when the over-65 age-group winner is announced, make a scene. Claim that although Rex is 8 years old, he is actually 72 in dog years! Warn the race director that, if snubbed, Rex may get so angry that you will not be able to control him.

WOODWARD AND BERNSTEIN

Tell the race director that you are an investigative reporter for a running magazine, The Flat Foot. Tell the race director that several unnamed sources have confirmed

that some of the race sponsors may be Communist front organizations. Ask the race director for an official comment. Proceed to interrogate race volunteers asking, “Are you, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?”

THE POLICEMAN

For races that serve beer after the race, tell the race director that you are an offduty police officer, and demand to see the running club’s liquor license. Ask whether the race director has been carding underage runners. If the answers are not satisfactory, make a citizen’s arrest.

THE ROMANTIC

Before the race, insist that you must see a list of all registrants. Inform the race director that your runner/ex-girlfriend has taken out a restraining order against you and that you are legally required to stay at least 200 yards away from her at all times. Pretend to find her on the list, and ask the race director for a 200yard head start so you can comply with the court order. Also, request a separate finishing chute.

UNION OF FOOLS

Tell the race director that you represent a local labor union. Bring along two large friends to act as your goons. Inform the race director that you are unionizing the race volunteers to negotiate wages and dental benefits. Insist that all race volunteers fill out union identification cards and tell the race director that failure to cooperate will require your associates Vito and Guido to start negotiating in earnest on your behalf.

THE TAX MAN COMETH

For races that give cash awards, tell the race director that you represent the Internal Revenue Service. Explain to the race director that although the running club is tax exempt, the cash awards are taxable for the winners. Ask the race director to provide proof that all cash winners have filed their W-2 forms and that the FICA tax and federal withholding tax have been properly calculated and deducted prior to the awards ceremony. Warn that if the race director does not comply with this request, you will make a few phone calls and the race director will face a personal tax audit.

In conclusion, I know some of these suggestions seem cruel, but remember

that if you are going to be a race director, you had better have a sense of a humor!