Fred Ebrahimi THE SECRET MARATHON @ 59

The new race was to be called the Oklahoma Marathon-Tulsa.

I was in charge of the nuts and bolts: measure the course and handle all the mundane race directing stuff. A friend of The Mule’s from Kansas City volunteered to bring his company’s employees to town for the weekend to handle the water and aid stations, banners, mile markers, clocks, tables and chairs, and all other assorted paraphernalia necessary to pull off a marathon.

The course ran along the Arkansas River, which meanders through Tulsa, including a greenbelt that features 10 miles of running/biking trail.

It was looking as though we had ourselves a marathon after all.

NO RED TAPE, THANK YOU

The most important part of the event was to keep it a strict secret so that we would not have to deal with the usual red tape from city hall. If we had to jump through those hoops, it would be well into the 21st century before we would be able to fire off the starting gun.

The race was designed to be as low-key as possible: no publicity, no local advertisements, and perhaps no local participants. Just The Mule and his pack of friends. The Legend, however, could not keep the secret. He sent several of his running buddies information about the race, a mistake which inked (rather than penciled) the event and set its own flight plan.

The race was scheduled for Saturday. The preceding Wednesday turned out to be a very bad day for The Legend and me. The River Parks authorities, the USATF representative, and the local running fathers swooped down on us like pelicans diving for fish in a bucket.

We were told that the sheriff’s deputies were ready to stop any congregation or organized gathering on race day. Wow! We were criminals, and we didn’t even realize it. Beginners that we were, we had bungled things and let the cat out of the bag. Our marathon now had roughly 50 entrants and no course.

How could we stop the long-distance travelers from getting on their scheduled flights? Some of the road-warrior zealots were already on the road to Oklahoma from their previous weekend’s marathon. In the meantime, a line from National Lampoon’s Animal House was repeating in my mind: “Toga!”

Thursday saw The Mule arrive. He joined the three of us, and we sat around trying to figure out a “new” course. The best we could come up with was to pace off 26.2 miles along a stretch of highway outside of town and tell the participants to pay their own fine if they were stopped by a state trooper.

Around 9:00 p.m., we were invited to dine with another friend of The Legend’s at The Polo Grill, a very fine eatery in town. The proprietor, Robert, is an old friend of mine and stopped by our table for the usual pleasantries. He could not help but notice the thick, sad, funereal atmosphere hovering over our table. He inquired about all the long faces. We tried to tell him that the problem wasn’t important to anyone but us, but he would not accept that answer and insisted on sharing our misery. Then he ordered us another bottle of fine cabernet, and it all came together. Robert listened to our tale of woe with a smile on his face. When we finished our saga of misery, Robert threw a glance at the next table and said, “Your solution is having dinner over there. Let me introduce you.”

Our host introduced me to Doug, son of a prominent Tulsan who just happened to be the chairman of the board of Tulsa River Parks, the proposed site of The Secret Oklahoma Marathon. Doug was sympathetic. In fact, he was truly saddened by the sorry state of affairs to which things had sunk and thought it would be quite an embarrassment for the City of Tulsa if our long-journeying guests were denied the right to run through the park. He promised that his Dad would be alerted to this sorry situation without delay.

TOASTS TO SUCCESS

After numerous toasts to the impending “resurrected” race, our adjacent tables were the last to empty from the Grill that night. When we walked out into the cold November night, The Mule, The Legend, and I looked at each other and tried to figure out when we were going to meet to measure the new course.

On Friday morning, the day before the race, I was getting ready with tapes, marker, the Jones wheel, and a few other items to go out and measure a new course. The phone rang.

“This is the chairman of the board of River Parks,” the voice said. “My son told me about your problem. You don’t have a problem. Just clean things up after the race and go to the park’s office on Monday and pay the park’s usage fee. Oh, and don’t forget to pick up an application for next year’s event if you care to do it again.”

I was speechless—a circumstance that occurs about as often as Saturn circles our sun.

TOGA!

What a pasta party we had! Legend opened his house to the public. There were runners, runners’ spouses, and water and aid station workers. We even got brave enough to invite some media types.

Our secret marathon was no longer a secret. Now all we had to do was explain to the locals why we couldn’t advertise it.

Saturday was among the most glorious November mornings ever: cloudless sky, no wind, perfect conditions. The gun went off precisely on time, as did some 50 runners.

Five hours later, everyone had finished, including The Mule, The Legend, and five boys and girls from Cal Farley’s Boys’ Ranch.

The participants, mostly 50 Staters, came from Maryland, New York, Indiana, Kentucky, Michigan, Texas, Oklahoma, New Mexico, and California. Ages ranged from 15 to 69. Some of the 50 Staters were on their second or third 50 Staters’ circuit, not being satisfied with a single go ‘round.

Monday morning arrived soon enough. With check in hand, I walked into the River Parks office. I paid the park fee for the previous Saturday, picked up an application for the 1999 race, and thanked the folks there for their hospitality. As I was leaving, the park manager asked, “What was so special about this event that so many people dropped everything to get here on this date just to run?”

I looked at him as seriously as I could and answered, “These people are not joggers; they are not runners. They are marathoners. Mark off 26.2 miles at any place on the surface of the Earth, and they’ll come to take a measure of it themselves.”

I could tell that he was impressed. The Mule concluded his world record setting marathon journey at number 200, which he ran at the Methodist Healthcare Houston Marathon in mid-January.