Chuggin' Up and Down at Steamtown

At 6:58 AM on Saturday, October 8, the quiet, early morning peace was disturbed by a sound barely audible at first, then growing ever stronger in intensity until any remaining tranquillity was gone and there was no doubt a new day had begun. Touching down in a dew-covered field nearby the small high school of a sleepy Pennsylvania town, several official-looking people hurriedly exited the black vehicle bearing markings that identified it to be the WNEP News Channel 16 helicopter. As I watched from the still-mercifully-short waiting line for a nearby porta-potty, I thought to myself, "Wow, this must really be some event!"

Only moments earlier, Jenny and I had arrived at the small gravel lot that a sign proclaimed was "Marathon Parking." The lot adjoined the grounds of the Forest City High School, the location of the start of the 5th Annual Steamtown Marathon. I had first read about the Steamtown Marathon in the National Running Center's "Start to Finish" brochure back in 1998 while I was still living in North Carolina. Right then I knew this was a race not to be missed. I had participated in the Pocono Century Tour bicycle race several times in the past, so I knew the raw beauty and natural charm the Scranton-area countryside held this time of year. Add to that the friendliness and support of local residents, a mid-sized field that would be big enough to be exciting but small enough to quell the fear of being trampled, and a course with a net elevation drop of 955', and you have all the ingredients for a memorable and enjoyable marathon experience.

As fate would have it, a mid-summer knee injury dashed my dreams of running a marathon this fall - my role in the event this year was to act as support crew for Jenny, who would be making Steamtown her second marathon ever. We worked our way through the crowds of competitors to the registration desk and then to the school gym for the usual pre-race preparations. The anticipation of what was to come was shared by all present, and it was contagious. The excitement I had reluctantly tucked away weeks ago when I realized I wasn't going to be able to run the race this year was stirring despite this - I could feel it.

At 7:45 AM we made our way to the starting area. Big signs posted several yards apart acted as guides for racers to line up according to their expected pace. Racers, spectators, children, clowns, photographers, and officials were everywhere. Despite the current 38°F temperature and forecast conditions only nominally warmer, about half the field opted to wear just a singlet and shorts. The other (i.e., sensible) half was wearing everything from liner gloves and tights to jester caps from King Arthur's Court (did I say sensible?). The mayor of Forest City got on the PA system to welcome everybody to the race. I took that as my cue to wish Jenny good luck and take up a strategic position from which to best witness the start. The excitement was growing.

As the mayor, the event organizers, the sponsors, and the parents of all of the above gave their greetings and made their last-minute pre-race announcements, I could hardly stand still - and I wasn't even racing! Finally a loud gunshot shattered the invisible barricade holding the mélange in check and the colorful mass began to pour down the hill. First came the police cars with their flashing red-and-blue lights, then the motorcycles, then the news van with a photographer hanging out the back. Where were the runners? I began to wonder if the runners had started down an entirely different road. Then they came - all 1500 of them. Some came bundled up, others wore almost nothing. Some moved fast, others more moderately. Some were colorful, others more neutral. They came young and old, tall and short, men and women. It seemed every segment of society was represented, and the one thing they all shared: the excitement and anticipation of the adventure on which they had just embarked.

They had almost finished passing my position along the starting stretch, the roar and commotion of shouts of encouragement and the pounding of thousands of feet dissipating into the distance, when I cracked. The energy and enthusiasm had been building, unconsciously at times, ever since we stepped out of the car, and now suddenly it was being rudely yanked away from me at the rate of 6 to 13 minutes per mile. I was like an alcoholic in a bar and I JUST COULDN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE! I sprinted back to the car to hurriedly change into something more conducive to running than a down vest jacket and hiking boots. I had to get more!

I shot off down the hill, feeling naked without a race number but powerless to do anything now but run. Families, fans, and small business owners alike lined the Main Street style roadway that was the main thoroughfare of Forest City, watching in earnest and cheering on the racers. As I worked my way up through the field, I realized that although the media attention was focused exclusively on the front of the pack, it was at the back where most of the fun was happening. In the back there was laughing and joking, crazy outfits and water guns. No one seemed to be in a hurry to get anywhere. One guy even had a whistle, which he blew incessantly as he pointed and gestured to signify his appreciation to every local who had come out on the sidewalk or even just out onto their front porch to show their support.

Mile 1 came and went. I found Jenny and pulled up along side her. She was surprised to see me, but excited to have me there. I told her about all the action behind us she was missing, then looked up and saw nothing but people coursing up the small rise ahead. Mile 2. Leaving Forest City, the road opened up into a scenic country highway lined on both sides with beautiful hardwoods in full fall splendor. As we crested a rise, we were given a perfect view of the ribbon of runners, heads bobbing, snaking along down the highway ahead of us as far as we could see. A quick glance rearward showed the same scene behind. Mile 3. Coming down a steep hill, we passed one local resident who did more than just come out on his front porch to watch the racers - he also moved his whole living room stereo system complete with 5' high loudspeakers out onto his front lawn to give the racers some racin' tunes as they passed by.

Mile 4. We were now getting into the groove that characterizes the long, steady effort required in endurance events. The race progressed through the beautifully colored countryside, passing through the occasional small town. All along, local residents were out cheering on the racers, some even offering aid in the form of unofficial food or water stops, and in turn the racers would cheer on the residents, which made for a truly heart-warming feeling for everyone involved. Mile 5. I said goodbye to Jenny and wished her well for the remainder of the race, casually mentioning that a 3:40 finish would be a good target.

The plan for me now was to run back to the car, drive to the finish area in downtown Scranton, then work my way on foot again a mile or so back up the course to meet her on her final push for the line. For the next two miles after I turned back, about 200 well-intentioned racers felt compelled to kindly offer me some racing advice when they misinterpreted what must have appeared to them to be a clearly ineffectual racing strategy. "Hey, you're going the wrong way!" they would say, as if thinking that would deliver a clearer message to me than the sight of 900 people running in the opposite direction.

Finding my way to the finish proved to be an easy task - all I had to do was just look for the helicopter circling overhead. The final mile was lined with spectators, race marshals, and a number of high school marching bands and cheerleading squads that provided a well-deserved non-stop fanfare for the racers as they headed in to the long-awaited finish line. And at 3:30, there she was, salt-caked face and everything. One band...two bands...and then it was over. Final time: 3:38:34, a full 25 minutes faster than her previous marathon finish! She managed a weak smile and a comment about how great a race it was, then asked for my help to step up onto the curb.

When I asked Jenny to describe the 20 miles of the race I didn't get to see, her only response was, "I really liked the downhills!" More would come later, but now she was off to get a wonderfully-relieving, complimentary professional massage. The consensus: We'll be back. And next time, I may even get to run the whole thing, race number and all.

-- Steve Darrow (and Jennifer Stevens)