Oh yeah.
Thank you Chicago, for welcoming me, my daughter and all the
other 44, 998 dreamers and doers to your epic skycraping, knee-shaking, heart-quaking,
endorphin-making runnerfest.
It’s been two weeks since the marathon, but that’s not why I’m
having trouble writing this post on my experiences. The fact is, when I wasn’t spending my time
watching my footing and trying to maneuver my way over the course, I was mainly
looking up. After all, this is the city that put American architecture on the
map: Frank Lloyd Wright, Mies van der Rohe, Frank Gehry, Charles Atwood, Daniel
Burnham, John Mead Howells, Louis Sullivan and on and on. Geez.
My only regret going into the race in addition to the usuals
-- wishing I’d trained more, lost that
extra ten pounds – is that I didn’t bone up on my architecture history. I have
the books at home and everything, ancient, dog-eared relics from way back in
college when I was obsessed with learning everything I could about art and
architecture.
During the marathon, I’d be trotting along thinking, “Gee I’m tired. Wow those marathon fans are
awesome. Ugh. Why do these runners insist on stopping suddenly and walking four
across, right in front of me? The heat is killing me. This sucks. I will never
qualify for Boston at this rate (quick chuckle, dripping with sarcasm).”
Then I randomly look up and BAM, it’s 8:30 Friday morning
1981, O’Kane Hall. I’m in Professor Kurneta’s
Architectural History Part 2 class, and I’m taking notes on that very same
building I’m running by in present time, only in my head it’s shining in all its
glory on that movie screen right in front of hung over, overly caffeinated twenty-year old me.
During this latest 26.2 mile trek, I didn't spend as much time noticing
the crowds and the course as I did trying to remember architectural facts. So please forgive me if my info on the marathon
goes slightly astray. The Willis Tower made me do it.
First, just getting into the Chicago Marathon was a stroke
of incredible luck. Because so many folks want to take part in this
world-renowned event, one of the top marathons in the world, a raffle application
system had to be instituted several years ago. Last spring, I entered both myself and my
daughter and – lo and behold! – we both got in. What are the odds, right?
As soon I got word we’d been accepted, I booked a room at
one of the marathon-sponsored hotels, located
just ten minutes from the Grant Park start and finish. The hotel also offered a free shuttle to the
marathon expo, and hosted a pre-marathon buffet dinner. Perfect.
The morning of the
race, the kid and I threw on our running gear and topped that with matching
vanilla-scented garbage bags. The day
was supposed to warm up to high seventies -- terribly warm for running marathons, but it was still just in the 50s when we left the
hotel. Garbage bags, by the way, are standard pre-start gear. They keep out the wind and provide a bit of
warmth. You toss them away when you’re ready to run. The scent? An extra bonus.
I’d forgotten to bring bags from home. My daughter remembered and brought an
extra for me. Apparently she likes her garbage to smell sweet.
The kid and I had scoped out the five marathon entrance gates
the evening before, while taking an after-dinner stroll down Michigan Ave, one
of the park boundaries. Bridget needed
to enter Gate 3. I would be entering Gate 4.
Like any good mom sending their child off to preschool, first grade, high school, college, I walked the kid to her gate on race
morning and took some photos of her wearing her standard race gear, her
hallmark marathon outfit: faded blue-checked Race Ready shorts, torn Run for
Research Boston Marathon singlet.
Then I walked a few steps to my gate and waited in line with
a bunch of similarly tired-looking folks, with the exception of one: a tall
runner wearing a Tom Brady face mask and a Brady Patriot’s jersey. Taped to the front of the jersey, under his bib,
was a paper with “Deflated?” scrawled across it in black magic marker. He
juggled three slightly deflated footballs. We got to talking. Yes, he was from Massachusetts.
Yes, he was planning on juggling the footballs while he ran the entire 26.2
miles.
Once through the security chute I started looking for a
bathroom. Not that I needed it right then. It’s just that I know enough about
the process by now to know that it’s never a bad idea to find a spot in a long port-a-potty line a half hour or
more before a marathon starts.
In line I had the pleasure of meeting up with Claude from Oregon,
a fellow Marathon Maniac. He was running his 37th marathon and his
first Chicago. We spent nearly the entire twenty minutes in line comparing
notes about where we’d run and where we were heading next. He mentioned he hoped to run some marathons in
a kilt, and asked me where I got my running skirt, which is a yellow, black,
red Marathon Maniac plaid. He said he wanted one and I believed him. There was
no joking in his voice.
By the time I got to my corral it had filled up, so I lined
up in the back with a bunch of wicked neat people. Irene from North Carolina was running marathon
#155. The college kid next to her, Chris from Chicago, was running his first marathon and
was nervous because he was injured.
“My training didn’t go as well as I planned,” he said.
Irene and I looked at each other and smiled. “Does it ever?”
I said.
Irene, who looked to be at least ten years older than me so
she had to have at least three decades on this nice kid, patted him on the
back. “You’re going to be just fine,” she said.
I got talking with a woman my age from Washington state, who
was running her first marathon and was already limping even though we had yet
to cross the start line. I met a kind 80-year-old experienced runner who was initiating
his granddaughter, age 30, into the marathon cult.
I got a great photo of a seven-foot tall Team in Training Coach
in a tutu and wig who’d dressed up like that to inspire his team. As I reached out to take our photo he took
the phone from my hand and pointing to his long arms said, “I have built-in
selfie sticks.”
I met Alan from Colorado, who introduced himself as “The
Sweeper,” because he fully expected to be the last runner out there. Chicago
was his 29th marathon. He’s
run some of the most difficult terrain around and completed the Pikes Peak
marathon three times. “I was in better
shape then,” he said. “But I’ll finish today. I know I will.”
I nodded. I
understood where he was coming from. I may not be as fast as I once was, but there’s
a lot to be said for still being out there, and continuing to plug away at your
dreams, one slow, steady step at a time.
“Born to Run” started playing over the loudspeakers as we slowly
shifted forward. I don’t know what it is about that song. I hear it on the
radio and I turn to another station because I’m just plain sick of it. But when
it comes over the speakers at the start of a race, my heart starts thumping and
all I can think is, “Yes. This is exactly where I am supposed to be.”
By the time we started running, sixty-six minutes after the
initial starting gun, the front-runners were already at mile 13. Thank goodness
for computerized timing chips.
I ran into trouble right away. Like, scary trouble. My nearly
new running skirt fell off. Well, almost fell off. I’d taken it out for a test
run on my final long run of twenty miles, three weeks earlier. I’d had no
problems then. But boy oh boy, did I have problems that first mile. As soon as
I started running, the skirt slid down my waist to my hips and kept trying to
travel farther south. I grabbed the waistband and wrenched the skirt up as high
as I could, which was pretty high and probably made me look like a real nutcase
to the runners at my back. As soon as I let the skirt go, down it slid again. Yikes!
I started to panic. I wondered if I’d have to drop out. The
idea of traveling all this way, putting in all that training, and then having
to DNF because of an issue with an article of clothing? I was not happy. I
yanked the skirt up again, and again, and again. For close to a mile I pulled
on that stubborn fabric, to try to get it to stay in place, sometimes with one
hand, sometimes with both. Just as I had resigned myself to the fact that I’d
be spending the entire race yanking at plaid, the skirt settled at my hip and
stayed. I have no idea why. (The skirt company says that maybe I was sweating
by then and the sweat caused the skirt to stick. I emailed them the day after
the race to let them know I was not happy.)
I was just glad the
skirt wasn’t falling off anymore. I had no problems with it the rest of the
race and was able to spend more time focusing on the city, the crowds, the
course.
Spectators lined both sides of the streets the whole way.
Bands played. Cheerleaders cheered. I
ran with an experienced marathoner – Chicago was #28, who’d recently had back
surgery. Drafted for a bit in the hunky shadow of Firefighter Joe, a young guy
running the entire race in full hero gear, oxygen tank and all. Passed around
mile three a couple of Chicago’s finest, decked out in dress uniforms,
including shiny leather Oxfords.
At around the 10k mark, witnessed a sobering sight, an older
runner on a gurney, oxygen mask strapped to his face. I read later that he’d had a heart attack on
the course and had bypass surgery the day after the marathon. He’s alive and
recovering, thank goodness.
The Chicago Marathon takes runners through twenty-nine
Chicago neighborhoods. The one that stands out most in my memory is Boystown,
from around mile eight to ten. Also known as East Lakeview, Boystown is the
first officially recognized gay village in the United States, according to www.chicagopride.com. The entire way,
there was non-stop singing, dancing, bands, and goodwill to all.
The landmark that stands out more than any other? Has to be
the Willis Tower, which watched us no matter where we were, welcoming us when
we ran near its base in the first few miles, and taunting us when we were far
from downtown.
I was on course to finally finish in a time somewhat close to the marathon times I'd hit when I was in my forties. But around mile 18, the heat just plain got to me. The temps were close to 80, not a cloud in the sky. I started getting dizzy and nauseous. I had to stop and walk a bit. I took a potty break. I wasn't experiencing anything different from those around me. The heat was getting to all of us, but we ran when we could, walked when had to. Smiling fans lined the course with hoses. There were sponges every couple of miles for our sunburned necks and sweaty backs. The yells of encouragement were constant. The support was phenomenal.
As I took the turn at Michigan to enter the park, I heard my
name. I tried to locate the kid but couldn’t find her in the crowds, though she
swore later on that I looked right at her and smiled, or maybe grimaced.
As with all marathons, the last .2 passed much too swiftly.
You’d think that after 26 miles, a runner would be glad to be done at that point. But with the
crowds cheering me on and those endorphins coursing through my blood, I was
genuinely sad to end my run, though my tired legs and feet were more than
appreciative.
A lovely Goose Island brew settled my stomach, which was roiling
from the heat and the hours of Gu and Gatorade. I got my medal from the sweetest volunteer
ever. I confess that even after all these races, I still get teary-eyed and my “thank
you” comes out all wobbly as the
volunteer puts the ribbon over my head.
The kid and I found each other. She had yet another terrific race. Marathon # 18 for her. Wow!
We showered, changed, and found a great spot for deep dish
pizza. Then we wandered up and down Michigan Ave. congratulating all the other
folks like us who were walking stiffly, sporting silver medals and who were
congratulating us too.
My kind of town, Chicago is. Feeling stronger every day.
Marathon: #20
State: #11
World Marathon Majors: #3.
