It's always runny in Philadelphia

I want to make sure I document my marathon ventures as I take on this great country one state at a time, but it’s tough to get it all down.

How to begin this newest race report. . .

How about favorite running signs?  There were the usual ones:

“You think you’re tired? I have to stand here and watch you!”

“Worst. Parade. Ever.”

My favorite was new to me: “Why do the cute ones always run away.”   

My second favorite: “Hey random stranger, I’m proud of you!”

Random strangers, random kindness. There was a lot of that in this city of brotherly run and sisterly endurance. Yeah. That was the race motto. Brotherly run. Sisterly endurance.  Notice that instead of love it says run. For me, the substitution works because run and love go hand-in-hand. I like that the race organizers think that way too.  And how can I not adore that the race folks took one of the finest character traits out there – endurance – and combined it with a female descriptor?

Sisterly endurance?  Perfect.

We left in the wee hours of a frigid Saturday morning. There were three of us, me, my friend M, who was running her third marathon, and G, another runner who hasn’t yet bitten into the marathon apple.

The road trip was the best kind: uneventful and pleasantly fast. We arrived at the marathon expo just about 5.5 hours after we started. The expo was meh. No weird products. No drama. Not overly exciting. No offense intended, Philly. It’s just that I’ve overindulged way too many times at Boston’s, and I’ve yet to visit an expo that can compare in terms of noise, chaos, amount of vendors, and abundance of goodwill. 

Only bought one item, the book “Marathon Man,” by the legendary Bill Rodgers who was kindly signing autographs and chatting with each of us like we were long lost relatives -- the kind you want to find, not the kind you want to hide from.  When I told him about my quest to run all fifty states, he told me I wasn’t nuts, then started talking about some of his favorite races, including a ten-miler he used to do in my hometown. I got an endorphin high just listening to him. 

By the time we left the expo, my head was spinning. Given the early morning wake up, the long drive, the pre-race jitters, I was done. After a brief visit to the Reading Terminal Market, an indoor riot of bakeries, delis, florists, veggie stands, butchers, you name it, we hit our hotel. I was in bed by 8, and tossed, turned, and checked email for the next eight hours. Four-thirty could not come fast enough.

Next morning, G dropped us off at the race start well before six. Me, M, and another runner friend, N, huddled on a curb near the start, and in the gray light of dawn watched other frozen runners shiver past us. I’d brought a garbage bag to use as a poncho, but had foolishly opted to leave my gloves in the car. By the time we got in line to use the portable toilets one last time, I was shaking pretty badly and was worrying that I’d be worn out before the race began.  

We got to talking to the folks nearby. Where are you from? Doing the full or the half? Ain’t this cold a bitch?  Around us, loud speakers blared your typical starting line music. The sun was finally rising. We were just a couple of yards from the Philadelphia Museum of Art's iconic Rocky staircase.  When the woman in front of me said her name, I recited its Irish meaning. T has the same name as my sister.  T said she was from Philly and was doing the half. She gave us some tips on running the full. It was obvious she was familiar with the course. 

They were calling for runners to line up, so we started saying good-bye to this new friend.  She took off her gloves and handed them to me. I said no, I couldn’t take them. It was my own stupidity, my own fault that I was cold. T, this new sister, insisted. She turned the gloves inside out, and showed me the hand warmers inside. I again said no, I couldn’t. She said they only cost her a buck at CVS. Your hands will warm up right away, she said. Please, take them.

Finally, I did, blubbering something about the marathon motto and brotherly love and sisterly endurance. First thing I did with those gloves was wipe my eyes.

I jogged to the blue corral and my five-hour-plus marathon family, to the left of the Rocky stairs and the Rocky bronze statue, which was decked out for the day in a Philadelphia Marathon race shirt. The trumpet fanfare from the Rocky soundtrack was blasting over the loudspeakers. The front runners in the first corral had already crossed the starting line.  

I met up with two new friends in my corral, Kevin and Kim, both from New Jersey. I told them this was going to be marathon eighteen for me, and I was thinking I was kind of nuts to be there. Kim said she’d run her eighth just a few weeks back. Kevin was running his seventy-first. 

I said I hadn’t slept at all the night before and asked Kevin how long it took for his pre-race jitters to quit. He told me he’d never yet been able to sleep the night before a marathon. I asked him how many marathons he does per year. His answer: usually about fifteen, though 2014 was rough because he’d lost his dad. He’d only gotten in about eight. He pointed to the American Heart Association logo on the front of his singlet. His dad’s name was printed on the back. He said he was in for a tough run because he hadn’t been able to train much. 

The Flashdance song “What a Feeling,” started playing and we began moving forward. The race announcer said Bill Rodgers was with him. We all cheered when he shared this quote from Bill: “These marathoners are the best of America.” I looked at my gloves, and imagined my veins as warm rivers running from my fingers through my arms, all over my insides and down to my knees and it hit me that there was nowhere else I wanted to be right then and there but at that start line.

For the record, Flashdance was set in Pittsburgh, not Philly. But that doesn't take away from the fact that "What a Feeling" is an excellent starting line song. 

When the gun went off we all started up and I nearly got knocked down by the runner immediately in front of me. She stopped short and I smashed right into her.  

I said, “Geez. What the heck, lady?” 

She apologized and pointed somewhere off behind me. She told me I’d just missed the mayor, who was high-fiving every runner.

   

That’s the last important thing I remember from the start. We took off and ran on lots of flat road, all the way down to the Delaware River and past our hotel. Then we turned and headed back into the city. We passed stately brick townhomes, bars, sex shops, restaurants. I didn’t even notice the few hills that folks swore were on the course. We ran a bit through Drexel University and I talked for awhile with a guy who noticed I was wearing a Maine Marathon t-shirt and talked about how he traveled a lot to Portland to visit his girlfriend. We headed out of the city then turned back. We hit the Schuylkill River, which I now know how to pronounce, sort of. 

Sadly, I did not see Paddy's. 

At the halfway point, the art museum, we lost the half marathoners, who veered right to their finish line.  We continued around by my buddy Rocky, and I had to laugh because the announcer was reading off the list of speedy folks who’d already won the marathon. For miles we ran down one side of a road while the three- and four-hour marathoners ran toward us, up the other side. 

I guess some folks might think it’s depressing to be only halfway done with a race when the fast folks win it. I know some people might get frustrated and dispirited when they’re trotting along one direction for miles, while others, so far ahead of them, are coming back the opposite way. Me? I love it. 

There’s a saying that if you lose faith in human nature, you’ll get that faith back and more by watching a marathon.  There’s a ton of truth in that. When I’m out there plugging along, finishing my own race at my own pace, endorphins coursing through my heart and soul, and on top of that I get the gift of watching a marathon too? I don’t believe the word has been invented yet that fully describes the kind of high I feel. It is life-affirming to the max. 

When I finally got the chance to turn around at the far end of the course in Manayunk, where the fans rival Boston in terms of rowdiness and revelry – there were beer tables set up for runners for example – I was eager and ready to finish up the run. I was marveling at how well my legs were holding up. I was slow. I’ve been slow this whole year. But I was steady like I haven’t been in ages. My legs did not falter. Not once.  

I’d been worried about that final hill near the art museum, which had seemed endless on the way down. The last few miles of the course, I’d been so enthralled watching the runners around me and the fans with their signs. It occurred to me, as I reached the mile 26 mark that I’d totally forgotten about the hill’s existence. Somehow, I’d gotten up a half-mile-long hill without even noticing.  I saw the Rocky statue and decided to just go for it and run how I felt. I picked up speed and pounded toward the finish line. I didn’t want to stop, even when I was done. 

All three of us running that day – me, M, and N, had great days. The two younger women both set new personal records. I guess I did too, though unlike them, mine didn’t involve time. But while Philly wasn’t my fastest marathon, it took me to new places mentally and physically. Before this year, I’d hardly ever run more than one marathon per twelve months. This year, from April to November, I ran five.

Makes me think . . . I wonder what else I can do? Wow. What a feeling. 

Marathon: 18

State: 9 

 

Wise words.