No Pretentions

The very name of the Cheap Marathon says it all. It’s cheap. If you sign up really early, it’s really cheap; it gets a little less cheap as time goes on, but even then, it’s still cheap. It puts on no airs. For those who recall me ranting about races that see runners merely as cash-spitting ATMs, races that exist for the benefit of the sponsors, and so on, this is not that. This is my idea of a pure, unadulterated race. To be fair, it’s put on by a for-profit, Millenium Running, but a for-profit that stems from the love of the sport. Kudos to them. They keep it cheap and real but still put on a first-class event.

Apparently, a lot of runners who care about running – and not fluff – agree. The turnout was significant to be sure, but the quality of the turnout spoke legions for what this event is all about. I had what I consider a well-above-average day, yet I finished way further back in the pack than even my aged bones would predict (even if I did snag the age-group win). Them folks got game. (Indeed, I’d read later that a third of the field ran Boston qualifiers, apparently ranking this race in the top five nationally on that stat. That doesn’t mean it was easy; that’s just a testament to the quality of the field. This was no jog-fest.)

As you might surmise from the name, you don’t walk away with swag (though, I live for cheese doodles, and yes, they had those). No shirt – unless you want to buy one. No medal, period. Instead, a quaintly charming ribbon – taking me back to those high-school cross country meets – that simply says – you guessed it – “…all I got was this lousy ribbon”. Which, frankly, is fine with me. The medals hanging on my “main” rack – those from marathons and races deemed notable for some reason or another – are at least six to eight deep across the entire span (when will this thing just rip itself out of the wallboard anchors?), and there are two more batches hanging off the shelf on the other side of the basement (much to the chagrin of Dearest Spouse, who keeps asking why I keep them). I simply don’t need any more, nor do I want another mountain or two mined to dig up the ore needed to generate metal consumed for all this stuff. (Allow me to recommend this awesome book about where much of that stuff comes from on the planet.)

But back to that “got game” topic, the cool thing about this race is that you got to see them folks who done got game, and you knew instantly who they were. The whole thing is an out-and-back and out-and-back-again on a rail trail, so you see the leaders (and everyone else) multiple times. And the bib numbers line up with seeding times, so anyone with a group one – 1xx – bib… you know they’re flying and you pay attention (as opposed to us leisurely group five types). Which turned out to be pretty entertaining by itself, and more so because one of my club-mates ran a club-record time. I managed to be in the same place with him only pre-race, since during the event he was soaring… and an inspiration.

And before you think, ugh, out-and-back and out-and-back, the rail trail was just delightful. Other than one stretch that neared the freeway for half a mile, it was lovely woods, ponds, rock cuts, and even turtles (our spirit animals!), quiet, no traffic. (To be sure, I felt bad for the motorists trying to pass at the road crossings, because with runners coming from both directions, meaning very few gaps, they had a long, long wait.) The only unpleasant part of the course was the last two-tenths of a mile when we left the trail and had to climb the only significant hill back to the finish. A classic last-ditch slap in the face. Such is life.

To get more than six hundred marathoners, plus another large batch running the half, onto a rail trail without creating mayhem, the race used a time trial start, firing off a pair of runners every seven seconds. Sounds complicated, but Millenium pulled it off, lining us up with numbered cones. It almost worked, or, it would have worked if the woman in front of me and my start-mate wasn’t inexplicably baffled. Read your emails, people. Be aware. Don’t be clueless. Kind of like knowing what’s going on in this country, if you get my drift. Be aware.

This unique start also created instant friends. If you hadn’t requested a match-up, Cheap Match-Dot-Com lined you up with someone of reasonably similar abilities, or at least someone who self-seeded like you did, and rather than a corral full of such folks where you had no connection to the other hundreds of souls, it was just you and your start-mate heading out on a run. Instant bonding. Which was great, because going into this event, other than the aforementioned Wicked Fast Guy, I didn’t know a lot of people. I came out knowing quite a few.

My start-mate happened to be a very personable soul from a few towns away, far earlier in her marathoning career than I and therefore not entirely confident in what was or wasn’t possible within her realm of abilities. In short, a perfect person with which to chit-chat, share some experiences, and goad into a solid early pace, while she kept me honest so I too would start solidly. Much to my delight, we quickly encountered a few of her friends, and by mile two or so we had a lively mobile coffee klatch going. Indeed, I had a whole bunch of great link-ups with folks I’d never known (and may not know again, but that’s irrelevant); the vibe of this ‘race for runners, not for sponsors or charities’ made for a truly terrific experience.

But back to the race. We’re off. Click, click, click. It’s a rail trail, predictable. According to GPS, deceptively more up and down than I realized (though the race organizers advised that’s not accurate, not really that much up-and-down), and sporting some notable headwinds when heading north (the out of the out-and-back), but still, the kind of course where you can really latch on to a pace. The pace-friendly route was interrupted only by one mini-hill where the trail jumped up, joined a road briefly to cross a stream, and dropped down the other side. Times four, of course, since, well, out-and-back, out-and-back. And of course, turnarounds breaking stride. Not a fan of those, but a necessary evil.

Other than a few less-than-enthusiastic water stops (no, I don’t want to reach onto the table, please hand it to me), and mile markers that mystified till near the end when it finally dawned on me that they were counting down, not up (down? really? …never saw that before), it was the perfect setting to nail a pace. And compared to my crusty training of late due in part to struggles with medications imposed on my life thanks to genetic gifts, I was indeed nailing a pace, all the while wondering if it would last.

Phase One did last for about nine miles till our Society of Friends started to drift apart, but I quickly landed a new partner, who amusingly remarked that once we started chatting, he got a bit engaged and unknowingly turned up the pace. Another ten miles with him, and we were in range of the usual marathon late-miles crash.

But the crash didn’t come. Despite a couple of disastrous long training runs and a subsequent discussion with Recent New Doctor who relented and allowed me to back off on the meds, the miles were clicking in like I hadn’t seen in a long time. Mile twenty came and passed, still holding pace. Heck, even on a good day I’d expect some sort of late-miles agony. Truth be told, this is where being on marathon number thirty-eight bears fruit. I’ve had plenty of high-mile crashes. But I’ve also had a number of races where, having managed the body correctly, combined with a little luck, I’ve held it together. Just knowing that’s possible sets the experienced marathoner apart from the oh-my-god-I’m-gonna-die-at-twenty-one runner. You don’t have those days often, but you know they’re possible.

Mile twenty-one. Twenty-two. Sure, I was well weathered by that point (figuratively and literally, as a surprise cold stiff wind blew in late), and sure, I still wasn’t sure if I had the last few in me, but… Your body can do more than your mind thinks it can.

At twenty-three, I recalled that day at Bay State so many years ago when my companion at twenty-three suggested I wasn’t just going to hold on; no, in fact, he insisted, I was going to speed up – at which point I questioned his sanity, but like an all-too-easily-influenceable person, did just that. And calf-cramped badly. As if on cue while entertaining this memory, the left calf gave a few hard twangs that reminded me not to be stupid again. About this time I also remembered that I’d forgotten to suck down electrolyte capsules, which might have prevented these warning spasms (or might not). So much for that experience; it’s useless if you forget to act on it, right?

A late race photo reveals how inside my space I was; I’ve got this weird habit of curling my forefingers inside my thumbs. Just happens, don’t realize it. I was doing it.

The odd countdown mile markers that we’d complained about early in the race suddenly became utterly brilliant friends. With GPS watches never reading quite right, I knew exactly what was left, even if it did include that last nasty hill. I was truly toast at the end, but notched my best time in two years, which means more when you factor in the whole meds-are-killing me thing. And the post-race nerd analysis compared to a bunch of randomly selected past races confirmed consistency that I haven’t seen in a long time. That cheesy ribbon will actually mean a lot more than a cheesy medal.

Moreover though, it was just a delightful day (I hear you non-runners saying, “What, agony, delightful?”). This was an event for runners, and I truly enjoyed what’s best about runners.

While I don’t usually name names in this blog, thanks to Angela, Matt, Diana, Christy, Erica, Ben, Wyatt, Kevin, Caleb, and anyone I forgot, for turning a day into a grand day. As you rolled in at the finish – and for my start-mate, that roll-in was a big personal best – I shared your joy.

And while the results mean I will probably be back at the Boston dance (airs, pretentions, sponsors, cash, cash, did I say cash?) next year, really, who needs a big expo and fancy medal? I am, at heart, Cheap.