If it was easy it would be called your mom: IMT Des Moine Marathon

I picked that title because it was one of my favorite fan posters along the IMT Des Moines Marathon route. It’s not a poster that’s new to me: “If (insert marathon here) was easy, it would be called your mom."  I’ve seen derivations of the same saying at plenty of other races. Boston and Providence come to mind. 

I got an extra big chuckle from the words at this race, because the poster was held by a conservatively dressed, fresh-faced young woman who looked too sweet and innocent to have even an inkling of the red hot fury on some of my students’ faces when they’ve used the "your mom" phrase. And Des Moines, this small town/ pristine city of bridges, corn, handmade quilts, butter cows, is the polar opposite of the crumbling red brick, spray painted, broken-windowed, gang-infested neighborhood where I teach. 

I had to laugh. It was too cute.

  

I loved the Des Moines Marathon. I loved it from the minute I signed up back in July. Loved it as I overpaid for plane tickets to get me there. Loved it as I roamed the expo for the twenty minutes or so it took me to see everything I needed to not buy. Even loved it at the halfway point, when my legs faltered, along with my confidence, and I decided that if I needed to walk the rest of the course, then so be it. 

I would run Des Moines again in a heartbeat. Why? Because I got to run it with my daughter. She first visited Des Moines as part of a law school internship last year, then decided after she graduated to make this city her new home.  My visit to Iowa was a visit, on several levels, with family. 

I arrived near midnight the Friday before the race. On the last leg of the trip, which originated at O’Hare in Chicago, I was upgraded to first class. Had a pleasant conversation with a woman who commutes a couple of times a month from her job in Boston to her home in Des Moines. She gave me her business card and told me to pass it on to my daughter, in case she needed some connections in order to get a job. What a wonderful way to start the trip. 

The airport was smaller than T.F. Green in Providence. Except for the folks from our flight, it was quiet and empty. My daughter was at the curb when I exited the terminal shortly after departing the plane.  Fifteen minutes of wide, calm streets later, we arrived at her apartment on the western outskirts of the city.     

It took us about four traffic lights and a short stretch of highway to get to the expo the next morning at the local convention center. There was free parking everywhere. My daughter pointed out the glass-enclosed pedestrian bridges connecting most of the downtown buildings. She explained this was so folks wouldn’t have to walk outside during brutal weather. I noticed neat, easy-to-read signs on lampposts at every intersection, pointing pedestrians and drivers to businesses on those streets. 

The expo was a little larger than the one I’d visited two weeks earlier in Portland at the Maine Marathon. There were the usual local vendors, including two local running stores, and lots of physical therapy offices. I chatted with local author Terry Hitchcock, who was autographing “A Father’s Odyssey: 75 Marathons in 75 Days,” a book detailing his heroic journey to raise funds for causes close to his heart, including autism and breast cancer. I picked up a business card from Iowan artist Cindy Swanson, sole owner of CampusTshirtquilt.com, who turns old race shirts into gorgeous quilts. My daughter picked up info on one of her favorite runs involving her all-time second favorite treat – Nutella is first, a chocolate-themed race that gives every runner an awesome fleece pullover, plus, um, chocolate.  

The two of us scratched our heads a bit at the fact that the expo included a Tupperware booth. Seemed a little random but no more random, I guess, than the bath fitter guys and the window replacement companies that seem to show up at every race expo I’ve ever visited.

Guess I should get to the running part. . . 

It took us all of 15 minutes to get to the race start the next morning, no traffic jams, no major road detours. Temps were in the mid-forties, so we scooted into a hotel at the start in order to stay warm. Ten minutes before the run, we made our way to the packed starting line -- about 4,000 total marathoners, half-marathoners, relay runners -- on a low bridge over the Des Moines River.  My kiddo headed toward the nine-minute pacers. I headed toward my people at the back. 

As the race began, a local radio personality shouted out names of some of the runners. Music pounded. The crowd roared. The first few miles were flat. We headed toward the state house, an onion-domed, gilded confection, then turned back toward the city hall, a handsome building straight out of the H.H. Richardson era, crossed the river again, and started up a broad tree-lined avenue. We passed the city art museum, and many sprawling thick-stoned 19^th century mansions, then entered into a winding, narrow-laned neighborhood of Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired prairie style homes.    

   

Lots of folks wore Marathon Maniac gear and 50 States shirts. I ran with one woman who’d run all fifty states four times each. She was maybe in her seventies and wore red, white, and blue tie-dyed calf sleeves. We talked for a bit about her crazy journey. As I passed her, I called out, “I want to be you when I grow up!” She called back, laughing, “and I’m broke too!” 

Ran with another 50 Stater and asked him how long it took him to get them all in. His reply went something like this: “ten days seventeen hours and twelve minutes.” I must have looked confused because he laughed and added, “Well you asked me how long it took. That’s my answer.”  

I ran for a bit with a fellow Marathon Maniac who was finishing up her fifty state quest. Iowa was her last state. She was surrounded by a fan club of marathoners, all cheering her on the whole way. 

I saw lots of runners wearing two bibs, one for the Des Moines Marathon, and another showing that they were part of the I-35 Challenge. Interstate 35 runs through both Des Moines and Kansas City.  Des Moines was their second marathon in two days. They’d done a marathon in Kansas City the day before. 

Ran for a few miles with one young guy who asked me all kinds of questions about Boston. My pants, top, and hat were all souvenirs from my love, my Boston Marathon, so my Mass stood out a bit. He was obviously having a tough time, even at mile 8. His pants and t-shirt were soaked through. He was limping. He’d run Kansas City the day before.  

A part of me wanted to stay with him and help him finish the course. But we all have to run our own races. I left him around mile 9, but saw him later on at one of the several out and back spots where faster and slower runners get to meet up and smile at each other. I pointed to him and yelled out, “Hey Kansas City, you look wicked awesome.” He gave me a grin and a thumbs-up.  

Met up with my daughter when I was at mile 10 and she was at mile 14. She gave me her sweat-laden windbreaker and I wrapped it around my waist. It had warmed up by then. I was used to carrying packs and jackets on runs. She was not. Helping her out seemed like the mom thing to do.

By the time I hit mile 14, I was done. My legs were worn out and I was walking more than running. I’d just made it up an endless, sneaky incline which had started at Drake University, where we’d run for about a mile. We ran on the blue rubber tracking around the stadium and got to see ourselves on the Jumbotron.  

It was then that I saw that silly “your mom” sign and where I met up again with Dale, a runner I’d talked with a bit around mile five or so. He’d told me then that he was running his first marathon. He looked strong and left me behind after awhile. By the time I caught him again, he was walking, shoulders slumped.      

I reminded him of something I’d been telling myself: Getting to the starting line is a victory in and of itself. We talked about why we were running, about not wanting to settle, about our desire to never stop exploring. I eventually had to say good-bye. I'd started feeling better. 

Mile 16 I felt reborn. We were on a downhill entering a gorgeous bike/running trail. We passed horse farms, streams, wildflower fields. I ran for awhile with a younger runner wearing a great quote on the back of her t-shirt. I kept repeating some of the words as I ran: wild, precious, life.

My new favorite never-stop mantra.

Still, by mile 19 I wanted to die. Still on the trail, and could see behind and ahead of us how it meandered and seemed to take us nowhere. I was Sisyphus, pushing the same boulder over and over. Though at one point my brain got all muddled and I couldn’t remember if Sisyphus was the guy with the intestines that birds kept eating. My stomach was bothering me by then.

I was no different from any other runner out there. We were all struggling.  I saw a two-story high plastic cow, and met a fellow teacher wearing a green shirt that said The Long Walk on the front and 3-14-14 on the back. She taught American Lit and every year has her students read that story by Stephen King. Then the entire group goes on a 23-mile walk.

I ran the last few miles with a woman wearing a winter jacket and a wool cap. Don’t know how on earth she was comfortable, but she moved steadily and I did too.  Got passed at mile 25 by Jennifer, one of the I-35 Challenge runners. She was fast.  I yelled out that she looked good.  Her response, yelled back: “I can’t feel shit. I just had four beers and a Mimosa.”

Finished the run on the same bridge where we started. Met up with my daughter, who’d crossed the line 90 minutes earlier, gone home, showered, changed and come back to meet me.We celebrated with free pizza and chocolate milk from one of the marathoner food tables the next bridge over.

That evening, we drove to Ames, university town about a half hour away, and met up at Hickory Park with the parents of my daughter’s boyfriend. Barbecue never tasted so good. They’d driven 150 miles to visit with us. They said that in Iowa driving that distance isn’t a huge deal.

Post-race heaven in Ames, Iowa.  

  

My daughter mentioned the big plastic cow, near the mile 22 water stop. The dad asked what kind of cow. My daughter shrugged. “It was black and white.” 

“Ah, a dairy cow,” he replied. Then he named the particular type, but that information is lost to me now. I was busy licking barbecue sauce off my fingers and wondering what it would feel like to be able to say I ran two marathons in two days.  

Next morning, my daughter dropped me off at the airport and I had some time to kill. I wandered the corridor a bit, thinking maybe I’d grab a coffee. I was wearing my new race shirt, a half-zip, peach-colored technical deal with the marathon logo emblazoned over the heart. I met another woman wearing the same shirt. 

D is from California and as of tomorrow, when she finishes up the Marine Corps Marathon, will have seventy marathons under her belt. She’s shooting for one hundred. We got talking about Des Moines, Marine Corps, and other races. I never did get that pre-boarding coffee and almost missed my flight.

As I rushed off, D gave me her business card and we promised to keep in touch. She's hoping to do Boston someday. 

So yes, I would run Des Moines again. I love visiting with family.

Marathon:17
State: 8