By Mark Rahner, Journal and Courier
CHICAGO -- Sunday, Oct. 20, 6:15 a.m.: Ordinarily, I'd just be passing out now, instead of waking up. Cranky.
After searching through my bag the third time, I come to terms with the fact that I have only packed boxers, and will have to run the Chicago Marathon with only the worthless nylon inner pouch thing on my running shorts.
Unbelievably cranky.
Starting Line: I've put off surgery for an old foot injury that often causes me to limp and wakes me up at night. The offending foot will last a final 26.2 miles, or I will stagger across the finish line on a stump. I will crawl across the finish leaving a trail of blood and fingernails.
So it was kind of a shaky idea.
And doing four miles three times a week may not have been enough preparation. Tried 12 miles a couple of times and no bronchial tubes were hanging out of my nose. Except I got lightheaded the first time and limped more than normal the next day.
Mile 1: Roller derby -- 20,000 runners crowding and elbowing and dropping layers of clothing on the ground. A good portion must share my George Plimpton/Robert Conrad complex, a pathological need to try unnecessary things that could hurt.
But that juvenile macho trait alone wasn't enough to land me in the middle of this lemming thing. Not even the friend who offered to pay the $40 registration. I keep replaying the scene in my mind:
Editor: "You know you're scheduled to work this weekend?"
Me: "Huh? I can't do that. The Chicago Marathon is Sunday."
Editor: "You're not going to do that are you? Really?"
Me: (indignantly) "Of course I am."
Mile 2: A nice feeling of cameraderie and eased inhibitions pervades the crowd of runners. Two guys run as a couple, each holding an end of a short, braided rope. Two women dart off just a few yards onto the grass, drop their shorts and tinkle in front of everyone.
Mile 3: Feels good. Ha, ha! I laugh at 26 miles.
Mile 6: A guy is bouncing three basketballs while he runs, like he's juggling. I want to get away from him because I keep thinking the noise is my heart.
Mile 7: Something has gone seriously wrong with my left foot, formerly known as the good one. I am now favoring it by putting more weight on my right foot, formerly the bad one. A positive thing has come from this: I'm ineligible for the draft.
Mile 11: I'm not laughing at 26 miles anymore. And I wish the basketball guy would either speed up or slow down.
Mile 13: People who look like they should have dropped out by now haven't, and it's demoralizing me bigtime. A middle-aged guy in a Road Warrior leg brace is still methodically humping along. Overweight people in obscene spandex are bouncing away -- people whose co-workers at the office tomorrow will look at them and say, "Sure you ran a marathon. Have another turkey leg."
Mile 14: A hunchback passes me.
Mile 15: Granny from The Beverly Hillbillies passes me.
Mile 16: A woman on the sidelines, maybe the hundredth, yells "Looking good!" at me, and I mumble "Shut the !@ $% up." I almost stop to punch her.
Mile 17: Now I'm walking the beginning of each mile at the aid stations where volunteers hand out water and Gatorade. Where's the morphine? They used to bring us beer and cigarettes during halftime in rugby. Right onto the field, I tell you.
Mile 18: OK: My heart has not imploded, blood is not shooting from my open mouth. But: My legs are pillars of leaden agony that Uri Geller couldn't bend.
Mile 19: Just cut my foot off. Cut the mother off like they did to Kunta Kinte's dad in Roots -- the guy who also played Jimmy "J.J." Walker's dad on Good Times. Blast the foot off with some Dyn-o-mite! It's possible that fatigue and pain have made me delirious.
Mile 22: A sound system alongside the course is blaring music from the Rocky soundtrack -- not the main theme, just incidental stuff. The music surges emotionally, and I nearly cry.
Mile 24: Only horses run this far. I'm injured, so shoot me in the head now.
Mile 25: Salt has dried and become encrusted in rivulets on my face. I see headlines: "Columnist licked to death running through cow pasture."
Mile 26: I get a bizarre and unexpected burst of energy. Specators are impressed because they haven't seen me between Mile 17 and now.
Finish: A gauntlet of infuriatingly happy people, congratulating runners and offering us free stuff: healthy snack foods and Samuel Adams beer.
And I don't want any.
I need help walking, but I couldn't drink any of this lovely free beer if I had to. What kind of sick scenario have I willingly become a part of, just to prove a vague, chafing point about my willpower and determination?
Next time I'll just hold my hand over a candle like G. Gordon Liddy and save a few hours.
