sunday morning coming down

Things looked bleak in Mile 3.

I could not get my mojo working. My first two miles are always ugly, but it was now well into the third mile of the half-marathon, and I was the next-to-last participant. It’s hard to say what was the most enervating: the cold weather, the pain in my legs or the baleful stares of the Birmingham police officers who were itching to re-open the downtown intersections.

The official pace person was long gone, and one volunteer apologized for getting in my way as he took up the orange construction cones. Yes, they were breaking down the course around me.

I had spent part of the previous day writing out my half-marathon goal: to finish. No matter what the time, no matter what my condition, just finish. I wrote out what I needed to think about if I were in fact the last person on the course. But deep in the despair of Mile 3, I was mostly thinking about what I would say if they came and swept me off the course in Mile 4, as some of the race materials hinted might happen.

What would I say when I went back to the office on Tuesday, or to my parents, or to JMS, or my B'ham pals, or to my three weblog readers? Mostly I wondered, what would I say to myself on that short, bitter ride back to the starting line?

I decided there would be no ride -- even if they kicked me off the course, I’d walk back. And I would just keep going until someone physically ordered me off the course.

I thought about the note my brother had sent to me, and the talisman he sent me to carry. I thought about the coldest, worst walks I’d ever taken and how this surely was easier than those had been. I thought about JMS slogging through his own half-marathon at that very minute. But I kept wishing I’d chosen another way to spend my Sunday morning. Hunting with Dick Cheney seemed a more attractive option.

While I remember nearly every detail of the Nashville half-M, there are two distinct things I remember about the B’ham event: Before Mile 4.5 and After Mile 4.5.

At Mile 4.5, the little switch finally flipped on. I had energy, I could breathe. And when I came to the massive hill at Mile 5 -- the segment of the course I had most feared -- I hit my stride (and passed seven people).

The rest of the course was one happy blur, fueled by an iPod full of Jason and the Scorchers (if that music doesn’t turbo-boost you, nothing will). By Mile 8 I loved everyone. I met two very cool women from Atlanta, and we talked and tag-teamed through Mile 10. Then I broke away and figured I’d make my best time on the final flat miles. A woman from Huntsville caught up with me and asked if we could walk the rest of the way together to help keep her mind off an old injury that was flaring up. We had our picture taken together after we got our medals at the finish line.

I finished at 3 hours, 38 minutes, about 16 minutes off my Nashville time, which I consider a downright miracle given the terrain and my dismal start.

JMS finished in a personal best -- under 2 hours. Since I spent most of the time before the race whining that I’d never be able to finish in under 4 hours, he had gone back out on the course to try to find me and root me on -- only to be surprised when I called his cell phone and said I was at the post-party, where was he?

By the time we finally met up, I’d shared a toast with my Atlanta friends and taken up permanent residence near the beer tent. We had a wonderful chat with a very sweet man named George, another northerner who was used to the wind and temps. But even he admitted, this course was a tough one. He had run the entire marathon (which included a second Heartbreak Hill at Mile 18) and leads a running group in Ohio.

“I try to explain that running is a metaphor for a lot of things in life,” he said. “You just gotta keep going. For a lot of things like this, it just takes a lot of heart even to show up. To get here and be at the starting line, that’s a big part of it.”

But he said it’s all worth it in the end: “It’s all about the bling,” he said as we admired our medals. It was such a strange thing for me to stand and talk about the race with someone who obviously is an exceptional athlete and dedicated to running (whereas I was dedicated to my position alongside the beer tent). At JMS' request, George gave him training tips for the Chicago Marathon, which is JMS' next big race.

I have no idea when my next one is. I’m just savoring the fact I finished, period. And that we got to be at the beer tent. As JMS and I stepped away for our post-race barbecue sandwiches, we bid farewell to our new friend. George gave us two-handed handshakes and said, “God bless you.” I wanted to hug him and say, “God bless you, George, because you are amazing.” And if you think about it, he kind of gave us the sermon for the Sunday morning.

Today I read the Birmingham newspaper coverage of the marathon and who should be mentioned but our new friend George! In his humility he neglected to mention that he was the masters division champion of Sunday’s race! That’s more than just bragging rights -- he also won $300. Apparently it's all about the bling and the bucks.