Marathon I

While my smile belied the toll the miles had already taken on my body, my gingerly gait out of the walked water stop told the real story.

It was my first marathon. Or, more accurately put, my third attempt at finishing one.

Instead of running the first one in Phoenix in January of 2007, I ended up at a funeral of a dear friend instead.

During the second one in Chicago in October of 2007, I stopped at my charity’s tent just past the halfway point. The heat and a virus I had been fighting (complete with a rash from head to toe) beat me down that day.

My third attempt would be in Duluth, Minnesota with My Love entered into Grandma’s Marathon (a rather famous one that began 32 years ago).

We drove up on Friday from Chicago, cutting 7 hours north and a bit west through the entire state of Wisconsin and just crossing the border into Minnesota.

Duluth is a macho port town softened by sweet people and quaint architecture. Jagged granite stones and boulders jut out the hills rolling down to Lake Superior. Huge structures of seafaring commerce line the shore, a massive steel bridge that famously rises to let the ships pass, enormous storage facilities and unloading machines. All constructed over the decades to mate with the bloated boats coming in with their wares from the ocean through the lock system into the great lakes.

The drive was very pleasant marred only by one exchange.

My Love was starting to talk about a friend of hers that had a little work done, just a touch up, you know, and was having trouble remembering the name of the procedure.

“Something for her face,” she said.

“Microdermabrasion,” I said.

There was silence accompanied by an unpleasant glare from My Love which I could fully sense even though my eyes were on the road.

“Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you,” she said.

It is not the first time she has questioned my masculinity and why she is dating a “fancy lad”, and sadly it won’t be the last.

Anyway, we ate and drank the whole drive, nibbling on turkey and chicken salad sandwiches prepared the day prior by My Love for the journey.

We wanted to make sure we were properly nourished and hydrated for the run. This was also in part to make up for the fact that we hadn’t trained properly. Despite the fact that I have been basically training for a marathon for 3 years, and this would be the forth one for My Love, we neglected to follow the proper regimen.

One is supposed to do a series of “long runs” once a week, growing in length from 10 miles to 20, then back to 10. We ran a 14. Once. And a few 10 milers. That was it.

Back to proper hydration, a quick jaunt through the downtown convention center to pick up our packets and My Love and I were perched on a barstool outside on the patio of Angie’s Cantina. This restaurant is in the heart of the thriving night life area on the shore, and is right next to the finish line of the marathon and gives one a view of the hulking steel bridge I mentioned earlier.

We ordered our customary one beer (helps ease any anxieties and ensures a good night sleep before the race). The waitress asked whether I wanted a small one or large one.

I consider this a stupid question. In my opinion, beer should typically come in one size only; “beer size” which is the Imperial Pint. Just enough to keep you from having to call the bartender over too often, not too much to get warm in your hand or remind you of a “Big Gulp” from the local 7-11. (For those of you not familiar with a Big Gulp, may I congratulate you. This is a large plastic cup used in a convenience store to purchase an enormous quantity of artificially flavored fizzy sugar water. There is the Big Gulp, Super Big Gulp, Giant Gulp and so on. The largest ones come with handles on the sides, so you can waddle out of the shop clutching your refreshment in both hands like a loaded trashcan, a huge hose-like straw jutting out into your gullet. They also come with a catheter; convenient for road trips.)

For my second beer (oops, rule violation) I ordered another large “Long Hammer” (local micro brew, very nice). My Love, thankfully, intervened, “Actually, he’ll have a small. He is running tomorrow.”

We went back to our dormitory room and prepared for the 4:45AM wake up.

Dormitory room? One unique aspect of Grandma’s is not only does the marathon sell out in a few days (thus the reason for me registering us at 5AM this past January after it opened just past midnight) but also lodging is booked a year in advance.

Luckily, the University of Minnesota at Duluth (UMD) lets out dorm rooms and you can either opt for a regular one with shared bathroom or a “suite” with a private one.

You can imagine which one I chose. Suite, baby. This turned out to be a spacious two bedroom with living room and kitchen. Each bedroom was equipped with two single beds kept apart by a heavy metal dresser drawer.

Apparently, this is how they keep unwanted pregnancies down on campus.

We designated one “The Love Room” and the other room was for sleeping.

Two nights, two beds, no maid service. You get the picture.

We slept with the windows open (no A/C, but a nice cool breeze off the chilly great lake). I say slept, but that was after some serious single-bed-creaking-love that most likely gave the other residents in the building something to think about during their 26.2 miles the next day.

The next morning I thoroughly cursed myself for not brining up my Senseo as there was no coffee machine in the room and not a Starbucks for miles.

Nonetheless, we were both able to accomplish our morning elimination routines and drank Red Bull as a substitute for our morning java.

We walked to the bus stop to line up for the shuttle at 5:30AM. There was a long line full of anxious runners including some dudes in short shorts wearing no shirts.

Ok. We get it. You’re fast. Now put on a shirt. Your shivering is giving me the willies.

Anyway, we loaded the school busses and off we went to be dropped off in Two Harbors, Minnesota, conveniently located 27 miles away from Duluth up the lakeshore.

As I sat next to My Love with my knees in my mouth (slight exaggeration) I began to get nervous about how far we were being driven out. It was then the distance we were about to run really started to sink in. It took this bus about 45 minutes to drive that far, how long was this going to take to run?

Standing in a large grid of runners waiting in the middle of two perpendicular rows of porta-potties we soaked in the scene while the scent of the product of nervous stomachs wafted over us in the gentle morning breeze.

We made our last pit stops, washed our hands using the baby wipes I had brought in a zip-lock baggy (baby) and made our way to the start.

It was then we passed the table of lubrication.

Otherwise known as the table of lost shame.

Here men and woman grabbed great gobs of goop and slathered it on various private areas in a rather public fashion. There were young ladies with their hands up their shorts and dudes with freshly lubed nipples glistening in the rising sun.

Boobs lubed and ready to move, the 8,000 assembled in the starting area for the gun and run.