The long-run:

Last November, a week after the New York City Marathon, Scott and I decided to commit ourselves to running a marathon in the late summer or early fall of 2006. The NYC race hadn't been disappointing per se, certainly not as an event, but we knew we had a better race in us. We believed we could train smarter, harder, and thus run a far faster marathon if given the opportunity. We looked at our calendars, compared our notes, did some calculations, and came up with Erie

(somehow) based on its timing, its course, and the fact that it would serve as the quintessential anti-New York. Everything we read indicated that the Erie Marathon is a less-than-sizable operation, a small, neighborhood brand of a race, a double loop winding through a state park, with but 450 total marathoners, as opposed to the whopping 37,000 that annually run New York. From what we could discern, it would be about little more than the marathon itself, a quiet group of runners on a decidedly quiet course seeking to give everything they could. By Thanksgiving we committed to run the marathon in September.

We trained for Erie relentlessly. Between March and September I logged exactly 829.56 miles. (Roughly the distance between New York and Atlanta). I ran in the earliest of morning's hours, after work, sometimes late at night. I ran when I could, where I could. I ran in Queens, Central Park, Bethpage State Park, and Van Cortlandt Park. I ran in Cherry Hill, Yardley, Long Beach Island, San Diego, Ocean County, Chicago, Milwaukee, on treadmills, on trails, on tracks, in the rain, while exhausted, while stressed, while exhausted and stressed, on busy days, on days off. I ran to music. I ran to the music in my head. I ran to the endless conversation Scott and I conjured, the sermon ideas and work and baseball history and current events and movie trivia we played and re-played between us for a steady six months.

We did more long runs, more tempo runs, and more strenuous speed work-outs than ever before. By August our legs begged for the much anticipated taper, the three weeks of rest, recovery, and rather minimal running that precedes the marathon. I must say I was thrilled to be able to reduce my weekly mile total at this point. I felt ready. Anxious, but ready.

If preparing for Erie was a trial, and it was, then simply reaching Erie was nothing short of an ordeal. We left Saturday afternoon, or intended to, in that we had work responsibilities earlier in the day.

Lisa, Scott and I (Limor was unable to join us), made it to LaGuardia by 1:30 for our 3:00 flight to Buffalo. To our dismay, however, the plane sat on the runway until well beyond 5:30 however. Our plan to arrive in Buffalo, drive to Erie, pick up our registration materials, have a look at the course on Presque Isle, enjoy something of a leisurely dinner, and make it to bed in time for a full night's rest slipped away as we sat and sat and sat and the sun gradually set and we reconfigured our itinerary every half hour. In the end we indeed made it to Buffalo, stopped for a less-than-fulfilling dinner at an Applebee's on the road to Erie, and made it to our hotel no earlier than 10:30pm, tired, frustrated, our bodies already aching from the full day of travel that was never supposed to be. Then, of course, the neighbors were brutally loud, the bed creaked, and I hardly slept.

So, just to re-cap, on the day before the biggest race of my life I did all of the following: sat on a runway for three hours, attempted to carbo load at an Applebee's, and managed to sleep somewhere in the range of two hours. But we were in Erie! In spite of everything, in spite of all of the training kinks, the minor injuries, the less minor injuries, in spite of the moments of total despair on those seemingly endless runs, in spite of summer heat waves, in spite of travel headaches, the hotel, the neighbors, the anxiety, we had finally, barely, made it to Erie and race day.

Race day: Wake up at 4:50am. Immediately have a bagel, Gatorade and water. Shower. Dress. Make it down to the lobby, dreary eyed, with Lisa and Scott by 5:15. Drive the five miles to the starting line in the park in complete darkness. Erie is silent, asleep. We are literally the first participants to arrive at the race. There is nothing but darkness and a half dozen volunteers just now setting up glow sticks to guide participants through the dark to the starting area. (New York's start, for comparison's sake, was a virtual campus, a mass carnival of volunteers and music and food and people). Pick up the registration materials we had hoped to pick up the previous night.

Anxiously wander around the starting area and large pavilion that is used as home base for the race staff and athletes. Try to stay warm in that it's 55 degrees at the most. Keep drinking Gatorade. Put on the ipod and try to tune out. Finally begin to stretch as more and more runners arrive. In time there is an excitement that comes, an excitement which seems to come prior to all marathon starts. Kids attempting to bolster their father. Husbands trying to reassure their wife. Everyone's anxious. Ready, but anxious. The sun's coming up over the Lake. The fog's lifting. It's happening.

At the last possible minute, just before the start, we peel off our layers, line up, and are off. We were determined to run the race in three distinct phases. Phase one (miles 1-16) we wanted to run with patience, staying within a 9:10-9:15 pace, even if it meant holding ourselves back. Phase two (miles 17-22) we wanted to run with focus, staying within a 9:00-9:10 pace, even if it meant straining. Phase three (miles 23-26.2) we wanted to run with everything we had, holding back nothing, giving everything, even if it meant suffering like we never had before. We were absolutely determined to run under four hours.

All of that said, here are our mile splits:

1. 9:21
2. 8:49
3. 9:25
4. 9:00
5. 9:28
6. 8:50
7. 8:41
8. 9:35
9. 8:47
10. 9:15
11. 9:05
12. 9:18
13. 8:55
14. 9:06
15. 9:11
16. 9:02
17. 9:24
18. 8:48
19. 9:06
20. 8:17
21. 8:47
22. 7:55
23. 8:33
24. 8:16
25. 8:10Z
26. 7:50
.2 1:22

What with all of the planning and strategizing, from the first moment we were on the course we felt strong. Excited. Even very late in the race, we felt quite strong, though we still quietly feared that some of the earlier miles, run too fast, might all of a sudden sap our energy and threaten our chances for finishing well. There are stories of people literally colliding with the proverbial wall at miles 24 or

25 and walking the rest of the race from there. We still had our legs at miles 20 and 21 were confident we had put ourselves in position to push, rather than crawl, to the still rather distant finish. We had a lot left in us. We knew we had a lot left in us. This was hardly like New York where, coming down Fifth Avenue, miles 21-23, we were hanging on simply to make it into Central Park and begin the stretch to the finish. Now we were still very much in race mode. And, as hoped, we soon found another gear. We flew through miles 22-24.

(Mile 22, on a very difficult stretch of the course, very late in the race, we clocked in 7:55). Everything was working in our favor, even the weather. It was overcast and never warmer than 65 degrees.

Nevertheless, by mile 25, after more than three and a half hours of running, real running, my legs were screaming. My calves were ready to explode. My back was on fire. I was not going to stop however.

No matter what. And somehow that last mile wound up being the best, in various ways, of the day. Certainly the hardest fought. And the fastest run. Definitely the most savored. I was thrilled to not only reach my goal of finishing in under four hours, but finish nearly eight minutes below four hours. (I officially came in in 3:52:25, with an average pace of 8:53 / mile). Scott, who finished eight seconds before me, and I, in spite of rather dire pain and exhaustion, were elated. I could barely stand and could hardly breathe and had no idea what exactly to do with myself in those first few minutes following the finish, but I was elated. We were both elated. It was the sweetest of sweet. I kept on looking at my watch. My legs were crying but I was laughing.

And Lisa was elated for me. She has been, of course, over this training process, as she always is, my greatest support. She has dealt, incessantly, with my running schedule and my nagging aches and all of the extremes that come with preparing for an event wrapped in extremes. Today was no different. She was right there on the course, even after running her own early morning 5K, with not only her camera, but extra food and water for us, and a certain unending willingness to will us to the finish however she could. She was nothing but positive and nothing but love, today and always. And I cannot thank her enough.

Eventually the three of us ate a late morning breakfast at Eat 'N Park. (I had blueberry pancakes). The service there, in keeping with the problems we've had with customer service and thwarted itineraries, left us wanting. By 2:30 we were on our way back to the Buffalo Airport for our 7:30 flight. By 7:00 we found out that our flight to LaGuardia was cancelled. By 7:15 we were booked on a 10:40 flight to JFK which, as I write this, is said to be thirty minutes late. I'm now sitting on the floor in the airport, my legs in shambles, but I'm fine. I have not a single complaint. (I'm now putting the finishing touches on this write-up Monday morning, having arrived home at 1am.

I'm a little sore and a little tired, but no complaints).

Everything's fine.