Running 26.2 in Chicago
Having family and friends in Illinois is the excuse I use each fall to head back to Chicago for the annual LaSalle Bank Chicago Marathon. This year, it was Sunday, Oct 7. I spent Saturday night at a friend's apartment downtown, only five blocks from the start in Grant Park. A short walk to dinner, and the rest of the evening was spent hydrating and fussing with my gear.
I was up early the next morning, stretching and drinking, going over the pre-race checklist, pinning and re-pinning my bib and gel packs. About 35 minutes before race start, I headed down to join the runners straggling across Michigan Avenue. Remembering past years, I headed for the runners chute right away; it was much easier to navigate than the crowd of milling, shifting spectators. I reached the front of the open area in another five minutes, where I learned that although my bib number was green, it wasn't a low enough number to qualify for early entrance to the final corral. But ten minutes before the start, we were let in anyway, and I rode the wave to a starting position that ended up being about 13 seconds behind the start.
I knew I was running this year's race with less preparation than in past years. Irregular training, some poor race performances, and a crowded summer schedule meant I would have to rely on experience and mental trickery to make up for what my legs might not be able to deliver. Or so I tried to convince myself, standing in the warmth of the other runners as the pre-race ceremonies began. A moment of still silence, as 40000 runners and even more spectators paused to remember the tragedies of only a few weeks before. The anthem, some more words,and then the horn.
We surged forward and filled the street as a solid mass, legs kicking and hands out to part the waves of people ahead. Through an underpass atop which people were packed denser than we were, all yelling,waving, cheering. Within the first half mile or so, it thinned out enough to start thinking about pace. I'd just hit 6:42 for the first mile, probably too fast considering the slow start and my plans of a ~3:00 finish, but I couldn't hold back the energy the crowd continued to feed us.
Thirteen minutes in we saw a bank sign with temp and time: 38 F. I was warm and in a groove, but still hitting 6:40's instead of wiser 6:50's, picking up splashes of Gatorade and water almost every two miles. At mile 10 we were back near the starting area, but a few blocks farther west, and the crowds once again swelled, screaming support. And I was at 66:03. Reached for the first gel pack, tore off the end, fumbled, and dropped the whole thing. Reached again, being more careful with this single "spare." The crowds thinned out again as we headed away once more.
I hit 1:27:00 at the half, and then knew for sure that I would be needing help for the final miles. I was drawn into a small group at mile 15 that planned on "just breaking 3 hours." Whatever the talk, they were running a comfortable pace, and I knew it was time to start looking for people to hang onto as the race wore on. As the group fragmented, I stuck with "John," who wanted to break 3:00 for the first time today.
The crowds roared once more as we headed through Chinatown; at mile 18, there was free PowerGel, and I snagged an extra one for the long stretch ahead. John was ready to stop for a "quick stretch" by mile 20, when we'd slowed to a just-under-7:00 pace. I urged him on as entered the three mile stretch of Wentworth Street, which I consider the ugliest part of the course: paralleling a busy freeway, the enormity of "20 down, but still 6 miles to go" begins to really sink in. We finally reached the southernmost point of the course, crossing I-90/94 and heading back north toward the finish line. But still 3 miles to go. I was fading fast, and now it was John's turn to drag me on, until I couldn't keep up any longer at mile 24. He moved on out of my suddenly-narrowing vision, and I lost contact with the people around me. One foot, then the other, repeat. 7:33 at the end of mile 24, and I fuzzily computed that if I stayed under 8:00 pace, I'd still break three hours. But people were now passing me on all sides, those same people who'd wisely reined in early, who knew what control, pacing, and planning meant. This time, I was on the learning end of those lessons.
We headed into a long tunnel under McCormick Place, the fluorescent lights lining the walls blending in with the spots I was starting to see in the corner of my vision. Loud music echoed from some large speakers, but I couldn't really hear anything anymore. Emerging into the sunlight again, at mile 25, I found the clock and my wristwatch: 2:50:10 total time, but I'd just finished a 7:53 mile. Much slower, and I wouldn't make it under 3:00. Rounding a long curve, we made it back to Columbus Drive for the final mile, the crowd going wild,increasing even more as we closed in on the final straight stretch. 8:10 for mile 26: slow, but I still had 109s to run what was less than a quarter---I had to do it, I just had to. Had to finish this marathon under 3:00. As other runners blew by, I reached down inside one last time and started shuffling a little faster. The finish clock came into view; I knew I had 13 more seconds than it promised, but it wasalready showing 2:50:30 as I brought it into focus. And then, finally, I was over the mats, 2:59:43 by my watch, just a few seconds under 3:00 by the big clock.
As I brought my body to a ragged stop, a stupid smile came to my face and I began the long hobble through the acres of mylar, food, and drink. I never saw John again. But we shared the journey from miles 15 to 24, and that experience alone made this marathon special.
-- Tom Meyer
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