» The author’s self-satisfied grin after his PR at the Mardi Gras Marathon.

Moleskin with her and puts it on whenever she starts to feel a hot spot. I mockingly said, “You should never get blisters because blisters are a sign that your shoes do not fit correctly.” Here I was at the end of a marathon suffering from blisters.

Iran and walked the last mile and a half. With about four-tenths of a mile to go, I saw aheavy guy jogging toward me. He was running the race for the Leukemia Society. It was getting to be quite hot, and here was this guy running all by himself with a half-marathon still to go. His toughness inspired me to gut it up and run the rest of the way. As a result, Tran under 3:45, breaking my PR in what was supposed to be a training run.

I went straight to the first aid tent to have my blisters lanced. Other runners were coming in complaining of dehydration or to get cleaned up from falls. The volunteers looked after each one of us with the care of

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mother hens. They bandaged me up and loaned me a cell phone so I could call my brother to tell him where to pick me up. In the meantime, I had red beans and rice and a Subway sandwich.

An hour later, Andy showed up with Nancy and Molly. It turned out that they had gone to watch me on the course, but I had never seen them. They went where I should have been. They were at mile 20 at the three-hour mark, but I had already passed. They waited half an hour and then went to mile 24, but I had passed there as well.

My daughter greeted me with a big smile at the finish and asked, “Daddy, what was your time?” I proudly said that I had broken 3 hours, 45 minutes. Molly said, “What happened to your training run?” Indeed. I ran the first half of the marathon at 8:15 pace. The second half, slowed by the last four or five miles, was a still respectable 8:58 pace. I have never run a negative split. By using Patti Catalano Dillon’s strategy, I had banked enough time to break my PR.

When I got home from the marathon, there was the registration card from Grandma’s Marathon. What do I do now? Another training run?

There’s More to a Good Marathon Than Fancy Finisher Medals.

here I was, at the appointed time, under the clock tower in Arusha, Tanzania,

to run in the Mount Meru International Marathon. Said to be at the midpoint of Africa between Cairo and Cape Town, the clock tower is where the marathon information directed runners for the start of the race. But where were the portapotties and thousands of people I had come to expect after running the likes of the Chicago and Los Angeles marathons?

I saw only about 50 Kenyan and Tanzanian runners and a small band that inexplicably played music that sounded vaguely like Dixieland jazz. There were also a handful of nonlocals in racing garb. Seeing my puzzlement, one of them approached me and introduced himself as Don Harris, a sponsor of the marathon. He assured me that this was indeed the starting place and suggested I not worry about small things like porta-potties.

He then proceeded to introduce the other three members of his relay team. I was startled when the last runner he introduced said, “You know me, Jim. I’m from Orange County. You even tried to get a donation from me for Chapman University.”

I did, indeed, know John Michler, a local engineer. Because I’m president of Chapman University, it’s not surprising that I had asked him to give to my favorite school. But to meet him like this in the middle of Africa was quite a shock. The poor guy must have thought my persistence as a fund-raiser led me to tail after him all the way to East Africa.

It turned out that John, Don Harris, and the rest of his relay team are members of World Runners. They explained that this group raises funds to further the mission of its parent organization, Global Partners for Development, which provides educational opportunities and supports projects to promote self-sufficiency in developing countries like Tanzania. The team members would run the race knowing that they would be helping to accomplish things like providing educational opportunities for young people and developing clean water systems and nutrition programs for the villages.

At this point, however, my attention was focused not so much on the valuable work of Global Partners and World Runners as it was on my competition. In addition to Don’s relay team, there were 50 or so lithesome African runners who all looked like they were easily capable of a sub-3:00 marathon. And then there was me, a relatively new marathoner, who at age 57 would be happy to complete the race in four to five hours.

Because of my concern, I asked whether the stadium where the marathon ended would stay open for late finishers. They assured me it would and not to worry about it. “Don’t worry about the porta-potties, either,” John added. “There are plenty of places to pee in bushes along the road. Just wait until you get out of town.”

WHAT? NO CHAMPIONCHIPS?

So with that last admonition, I lined up in back of the Kenyans and Tanzanians and told myself it was too late to back out now. In front of us stood two officials, one on each side of the street, with a string held high in the air and pulled taut between them. Suspended from the center of the string was a large piece of paper with the word “START” written on it. For any runners who might still be confused, as I had been, the start line was now clearly designated. A horn sounded, and we were off!

About five seconds into the race, I was all alone, except for some early-Sunday-morning traffic. Evidently, there was no traffic control for the marathon. Carts pulled by people, donkeys, or cows assumed the right of way.

A The author at the “START,” with the clock tower in the background.

» The “Dixieland Band” entertained runners along the way.

Thankfully, I had a secret weapon. I had contracted with a local guide named Martin to drive my wife, Lynne, and son, Adam, ahead of me through the race. They would provide me with water every few miles and also make sure I stayed on the marathon course. Since I had been warned that the route was poorly marked, it was a comfort that Martin knew the way. As I left the city outskirts on the main road, it was a great relief to see the three of them waiting for me. Martin alerted me to a turn I needed to make onto a dirt path bordered on either side by coffee plantations.

Running through coffee plantations may sound somewhat idyllic. Unfortunately, the path was about 10 miles long and filled with huge potholes. Avoiding them required as much attention as I could muster. Once again, I was happy to see my pit crew waiting for me about halfway through the 10-mile stretch. As I ran toward them, Lynne exclaimed: “You were pretty brave back there not quickening your pace with that huge bull charging you.” Since I had been fixated on the potholes and oblivious to the close proximity of any agitated bovine creatures, I replied, “What bull?”

I quickly concluded that to make it to the finish safely, I would have to widen my range of vision and be a little more aware of my surroundings. I noticed, for example, a small doglike creature bound out in front of me. Martin, an incredibly knowledgeable expert on anything flora or fauna, later told me, “That wasn’t a dog. It was a tdik-tdik, the smallest antelope in the world. You were lucky to see one. I didn’t think there were any in these parts.”

After negotiating my way through the potholes, bulls, and tdik-tdiks, I found myself on the main road again, headed back toward Arusha’s city center. People

Courtesy of James L, Doti

appeared along the side of the road and seemed to wave and smile at me. Lynne later explained that my fans were actually making hand signals that communicated their belief that I was mjenga (“crazy” in Swahili). But at the time, I was happy that I was no longer alone. Not only did I have what I thought were enthusiastic supporters, but also in Pied Piper—like fashion, I had attracted a group of kids who joined me in the marathon. While I was running in the latest running gear, these kids ran barefooted or in flip-flops. Amazingly, they kept up with me, and several even rotated their hands in the universal signal to speed up. Since I was nearly at mile 20 at this point, I responded with the universal shrug that said, “Sorry, I’m doing the best I can.” At least I didn’t take the walk breaks I had planned. These kids probably wouldn’t have fully appreciated the efficiency of the Galloway run/walk plan.

WHAT? NO GAGGLE OF LEADERS IN SIGHT?

Nearing the outskirts of the city, I finally saw in the distance an actual marathon runner. Suddenly, I remembered a story Jeff Galloway had told during a running school he had held at Chapman University several months earlier. Jeff related the inspiring story of Dave Wottle, one of his teammates in the 1972 Olympics. Although an injury had hindered his training for his 800-meter competition, Dave was just barely able to qualify for the final race. Well into that race, he was

A The author—the Pied Piper—and his running partners.

40 meters behind the field. Still, he did not give up. Dave decided he wanted to finish next to last rather than in last place. He focused on the runner just ahead of him and overtook him. He followed that strategy, runner by runner, until he was just behind the gaggle of lead runners. Suddenly, right at the finish, there was a parting of the gaggle, and Dave dove through to break the tape and win the gold medal.

My goals were less ambitious. If I could only overtake one runner! Feeling pretty good now that I had fan support and my small running partners, I imagined I was in the final stages of the Olympic marathon. Gaining ground, I soon noticed that I was back in the city. But unbeknownst to the townspeople of a dramatic turn taking place in their city’s marathon, they were going on about their daily business.

It was clearly apparent that Sunday is Arusha’s big market day. The congestion was far worse than earlier in the morning when I started the race. I was now running in traffic congestion that rivaled anything I’ve experienced in Southern California. In spite of that, I ran on, still focused on the runner who was now just slightly ahead of me.

A burst of speed finally got me ahead of a Kenyan runner who looked to be about 80 years old. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t be last, or would I?