Barcelona Marathon
7 March, 2010

A year ago, I bought running shoes and a special shirt that transpires (the kind Athletes wear). I had a notion about running the local marathon. I ran a bit then my knee started doing funny things so I said maybe next year. I don't want to wreck my body on a personal dare.

In January, I began running again. Managed a 1 1/2 hour run before getting a long sniffly cold. On Feb 14, I ran the Barcelona half marathon. Felt good. Two days later, I tried to run without much success, called my dad and said no marathon. Dad agreed with me, and that was all I needed. Rebellion from the parents is a great motivator, even at age 46. I signed up on the last day.

Then I checked the websites for marathon training schedules. I was even further behind in training than I thought. It said to relax the final three weeks. It also said "having run almost a full marathon 6 weeks before will be a big mental boost on the day of the marathon". Hmm, all right, how about I squeeze in a final 2 1/2 hr run, then rest for two weeks instead of three. I did the run with the help of The Stooges on my iPod. I finally wore that special shirt, but it gave me scabs on my nipples. In subsequent runs, though, I found I wasn't so peppy (can I use that word without royalties, Dad?). I started doubting whether I was going to be at full strength on the big day.

The day before, my father-in-law and I went off to the marathon preparation place: you get your bib and time chip, t-shirt, bag o' stuff (mainly city ads of future marathons for the people who see marathoning as a lifestyle), then you end up in a room with 200 stands. What a business! I bought some energy gels -- the websites told me that's what you take during the run.

Night before, I had artichoke stew and spicy fried peppers -- standard diet for a serious runner. Woke up at 3am worrying because I hadn't bought a banana for breakfast. Did the websites say I can substitute an apple? Got back to sleep at 5am, alarm went off at 7am, ate my gooey gray Powerbar and a muffin (no apple), and put on my sweatpants and sweatshirt. No fancy plastic clothes for me. Then I safety pinned on my bib: "12564 Thomas".

Teo was up. He said "You're gonna do it, Dad!" I left the house and took a Bicing bike. I got bike #8, my lucky number: omens everywhere. I got to the starting line and hung out to ogle the stars like I'd done in the half marathon. But the Kenyans and the women in no-air-friction outfits hadn't arrived yet, so I decided to wander to my proper place in the back.

The guy on the loudspeaker got excited, so I guessed the Kenyans et al. had begun. Eight minutes later, the 9000 of us threaded through the starting gate and fnd some space to run. I ran with Spiderman for most of the race. Spidey, like most of the crowd, is not from Barcelona. He'd brought his camera and was getting blurry pictures of all the sights.

At 8Km, I saw the police picking up an older woman. Poor woman must have gotten hit trying to get to the other side of the road.
At 10Km, ate the first energy gel, kinda like squeezing a slug into your mouth.
At 15Km, I gave a shout as I saw my family at the appointed place to cheer me on.
At 21Km, 2hr4mn at the halfway point.

A lot of runners and city-sponsored animators to keep my mind occupied, along with my own thoughts: "If I can get to 30Km, I'll make it." "Hmm, not a single person with sweatpants anywhere."

At 30Km, things started getting difficult. "If I can get to 35Km, I'll make it." I got out my iPod and played Velvet Underground, but it didn't help. By this point, I was getting passed by the people who had trained, and was passing the walkers who hadn't (all young guys -- good to know I'm young at heart).
At 34Km, along the ocean, I gave in to the dark side and walked a bit. My body didn't hurt, but my energy was just sapped. Even squeezing slugs into my mouth was a lot of effort. From then on, I found lots of justifications to take walk breaks. "Almost as fast as running, right?"
At 35Km, there was a water stop. I slowed down to a walk: "It's certainly easier to drink when I'm walking". I'd seen a Dutch guy twice before on the sidelines doing a great job of animating us by berating us. There he was again. He shouted to me "Thomas, this is a race, not a tea party." I would've laughed if I'd had the energy, and started to trudge again in a way that resembled running.
At 37Km, a friend Mireia and her kids spotted me (running!). They shouted out their support and ran down the sidelines with me for a ways.

Would kilometers 37 - 41 be easier if it were a 50Km race? Is it a mental thing? A few other run-walkers were getting familiar to me, as I passed them and got passed by them: "Messi", "Esky Polsky", the German family man, the bright clothes man. I heard a few shouts of "Spiderman", so he must have been right behind me.
At 41Km, I saw the gates of the finish line, so I mustered the resolve to finish the last kilometer running. I repeated to myself "You're gonna make it, Dad". Messi was running ahead of me. At the last turn, the family man saw his wife at the sidelines, kissed her, then sprinted to the finish line to the applause of the crowd. And then I crossed! 4hr30mn and 59 seconds. The predicted rain had held off. I slumped on the grass with my finish-line treats: a gatorade, a banana, and an orange slice. Que frio! My body had stopped trying to heat itself. I slowly got up and looked for a taxi (I know that's against my religion, but principles can be so abstract sometimes...)

Ah, home again: a hot shower, lunch, siesta under lots of blankets. My brain and body was shot, but I'd achieved my marathon goal of no permanent damage to the body, and I'd finished it to boot.

Yes, I'm one of the humans on this earth blessed with an easy life, so easy that challenges must be invented. An egocentric accomplishment, but, well, so what?