Chicago Marathon: I do believe in you, and I know you believe in me

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 37^th 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 29^th 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.