To all of my friends and supporters who have been following my quest for the marathon over these past 4 months, I hate to post this, but I was unable to finish the full St. Jude Marathon yesterday. It was very disappointing and I was so discouraged I didn't even want to enter Auto Zone park to cross the 1/2 finish line. And I really didn't want to accept the 1/2 marathon medal. As I crept along miles 9 through 13, I felt nothing but failure. My plan was to tell a race official at the split that I couldn't continue on, give them my d-tag and then walk down Union Avenue in shame to the stadium to get my bag from bag check, and then slink to my car and head home in disgust. I didn't even want to wear my light blue bib number in the stadium, indicating the full marathon, in case someone saw me and thought I had run the full in 3 hours.
My downfall began on Sunday night, just a week ago from today. I awoke in the night with a tickle in my throat. I coughed just a bit to clear it, and thought, "that's odd." But then I went back to sleep and didn't think too much of it. The next day, I felt "OK." I debated on whether to run that day, or wait until Tuesday. I felt slightly out of sorts so I decided to run Tuesday, and then Thursday to make those the final runs before Saturday's marathon. By Monday evening I knew I was in trouble. A full blown cold had taken hold of me.
For me, a cold borders on the flu. I just don't get mild colds that Alka-Seltzer Plus can knock out and allow me to go out and quarterback a Super Bowl winning performance. I read every now and then about guys with the flu who score triple doubles in the championship game, or others like Matt Kutcher who won a golf tournament earlier this year. Not me. All I can do is curl up, and hope I don't blow away. My head hurts, my throat feels like I'm gargling with a cactus; my limbs ache and I feel like I've got a ships anchor tied to me as I try to drag it along with legs that feel like rubber. But all week I tried to be brave, and I tried my best to kill the thing with massive doses of vitamin C, zinc, chicken soup, and Norman Vincent Peale-type thinking. Come Friday night I was "ready." Or so I tried to make myself believe.
My equally run-crazy in-law family came up from Mississippi to meet us for a carb-loading dinner at Macaroni Grill on Friday night. Along with my family, and a few friends we met to discuss strategy and pump each other up for the next day's event. My nephew and I were running the full; my brother-in-law, my son, and my friend Steve, were running the half; and my nephew and his wife were running the family 5K. All together we had about 20 folks gathered together in the corner talking running and racing and the plans for the next day. Afterwards, some of us were coming back to my house to watch "The Spirit of the Marathon." All evening I strained to talk. My voice was thick and heavy. My vocal cords seemed like trans Atlantic cables. I could see the strain even in the faces of those I was talking with. "Gee Tim, slow down, you don't need to use that strained voice of yours so much, " their expressions seemed to say. But, "I'm fine. I'm doing great. I've turned the corner on this darned cold," I kept thinking to myself. I was "some of the people, you can fool some of the time." And then we saw some other friends in the restaurant; the husband was doing the full marathon and we had talked about this being my first attempt at the full, so they knew about my training and quest. His wife looked aghast as we visited for just a bit. I read in her face: "you poor deluded soul. Go home, get in bed, and don't get out until you are better. And for God's sake, do not try to run a marathon tomorrow morning!"
Dinner service ran a little longer than expected, but since we had a larger crowd and some late arrivals, the restaurant wasn't completely to blame. But it did make us later getting home, and we decided to skip the movie. After a few stories and last minute preparations, we all headed to bed. I felt lousy but wouldn't admit to anyone, not even myself. I took some kind of night-time decongestant and got into bed. As my head hit the pillow I was hoping for a last minute cure. "5 days," someone had told me earlier in the week. "5 days is how long his cold had run." Tomorrow morning would be my 5th day...maybe I would wake up and it would be gone. I knew I'd be weaker from the week; and I hadn't run a yard all week long. But if I could be rid of this cold, maybe, just maybe I could make it all 26.2 miles.
When I awoke Saturday morning it was still there. The scratchy needle piercing throat, the sinus headache, the overall malaise; the tickle in my throat that made me want to cough, but I tried my best not to because of the intense pain it would cause. It didn't miraculously leave me on the 5th day. So now I had to consider: do I stay home in bed...by far the most sensible thing to do. Or do I go ahead and run? I considered what a great story it would make if I ran, with the cold, and finished with a sub 5 hour time. It would be one of those Matt Kutcher-type stories I could tell, and would be told for years to come. But more likely I just thought, if I could just finish. That would be a great story too. I wouldn't know, if I stayed in bed. I had put 4 months of hard training in for that day- I didn't want to leave that in bed, and not even give it a try. So, my feet hit the floor, and I proceeded to ready myself for the run.
In the kitchen everyone asked me how I was doing. I strained to say, "ok, about the same. " I could see in their eyes the look of, "you poor deluded idiot...we love you, but 'for God's sake, do not try to run a marathon today'. But they knew they couldn't tell me that. If they were in my Asics, they would be doing the same thing. Too much time, energy, emotion had been invested to not even give it a try. We ate and pinned and tied, and packed in silence. Maybe the way kamikaze pilots prepared for their missions.
One of the main things this cold robbed me of for the race was my joy. I have run this race, the 1/2 marathon 3 times before. And there has always been such a euphoria as I walked to the stadium amongst all the sights and sounds of a major race like this. The happy faces of the runners and their families converging on the stadium and starting line. The heroic families of the cancer patients from St. Jude who line the city streets of the run cheering on the runners like each is a personal family member. The feeling of optimism and anticipation that fills the air. The feel of a big city as I walk beneath the tall buildings -the majestic Peabody Hotel. And that uniquely Memphis experience of the wonderful aroma of charcoal smoked BBQ ribs at 7:00 AM coming up the alley from the Rendezvous. But Saturday morning I felt none of those joys. I felt no joy at all. I felt dread. My only game plan, my only hope was that I had trained hard and long enough that I had the strength in my legs to carry me the 26.2 miles of the course. But at that point, walking the 3 blocks from the parking garage to the stadium bag-check, to the starting line was making me wonder.
Near the starting line, I got in line for the port-a-potties. Right in front of me I saw three young ladies wearing running shirts from a running club from my brother-in-law's small home town. I knew he was a member of the club and surely they would know him -everyone in town knew him. But I was too tired to even strike up a conversation with them. Not a good sign.
I made my way to my corral. I realized it was actually the one ahead of the one I planned on starting with. But I was too tired to try and make my way through the crowd to get to the one behind it. There was high energy and banter all around me and one guy from Arkansas reminded me of Danny McBride. He was pretty funny, but I couldn't laugh because it would hurt my throat and it might start a coughing spell. And then we started to move slowly to the official starting line. With each step and stage closer, the weight of my body seemed to get heavier. The starting line seemed eerily like a finish line: Once I got there, I'd be finished.
I have only run two different major race events -marathon, half-marathon races; the St. Jude, 4 times, and the Music City/Nashville, once. So, I don't have much to base this on, but from my limited experience I will say, the St. Jude is one of the most inspiring and emotionally uplifting experiences one can have as a runner. And as dull and sick as I felt Saturday morning, I still had a wonderful emotional connection to the families who lined the route to cheer us on. These are the families of St. Jude patients, survivors, and sadly those families of kids who didn't survive.
Is there anything so sad as a young child struck by a deadly disease like cancer? St. Jude Children's Research Hospital is fighting childhood cancers everyday...sharing their research...and no child is ever turned away because of an inability to pay. It takes nearly a million dollars a day to operate the hospital. The St. Jude Marathon is one of the many fundraising events held throughout the year to help with this cause. I had to fight back tears many times as I saw these families, waving posters with a bald headed, smiling children's faces, for hours and hours on end, thanking us runners for being part of this day. They called us heroes, but I can't think of anything more heroic than a child and their families enduring the tortuous treatments to rid their small and fragile bodies of the cancer attacking their organs and brains. There were very few stretches in the route where there wasn't a hand reaching out to give a high five in encouragement. I couldn't tap into this energy this year, because I didn't want to share my cold with these brave and enduring souls.
By mile nine, I knew I couldn't make it- the whole marathon. My legs were painful rubber. I was running as hard as I could just to keep a 13 minute pace. Normally that would be almost like walking for me. But it was all I could do to just keep moving forward and I was 17 miles from the finish. The pacers from the groups behind me kept passing by, and the crowd was getting sparse behind me. On this perfect running day, with festive bands playing at each mile, the wonderful St. Jude families cheering, cars lined up along Poplar avenue for miles, honking horns and cheering from open windows- St. Jude Heroes signs waving from the sun-roofs, I had to come to the realization that this marathon was not in me. With this crushing reality, I walked. I trudged. My whole body froze in a clammy sweat, and I achingly walked in disgust and disappointment for nearly 4 miles.
At the split, I told a run official I couldn't make the full marathon. I was going to give her my d-tag and walk down Union Avenue and go into the stadium to get my bag from bag-check from the front of the stadium rather than the finish lines...in other words...drop out. She just told me to go the 1/2 marathon route. So, I figured I'd have this conversation with someone at the stadium. It was my understanding that if you signed up for the full...and finished at the 1/2 it wouldn't count. When I got to the entrance of the stadium, the official there told me to just go ahead and cross the 1/2 finish line...it would be fine. I was weak...disgusted...and demoralized so I just limped along to the finish. I relunctantly crossed the line, took a medal- not the medal I came for, got a bottled water and slowly headed to the bag-check. After I got my bag, I walked around a bit, and called my son. They had finished earlier and were eating lunch at a place a few blocks away. But all I wanted to do was go home and get in bed. So I headed back to the parking garage and went home.
"If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans," the saying goes. My plans for a marathon on Saturday were certainly laughable as it turns out. However, in light of what happens to people all over the world; in light of what happens to the kids and families of St. Jude, how can I be anything but "ok" with the fact that even with this horrendous cold, I was able to finish a 1/2 marathon, had a wonderful time sharing time with my favorite people -family and friends, through the generosity of friends and family raised $765.00 for St. Jude, and lived to tell about it. I was really hoping this event would let me know if I had what it takes to run a marathon. I guess that is yet to be determined. And there will be, God willing, other opportunities to find that out. But my disgust, discouragement and disappointment from yesterday has turned into today a resignation to the fact that our plans aren't always "the plan." And I'm ok with that. I guess the best plan, is to take life as it comes, because you can be assured it's got something planned you never saw coming.
