Ken Swab's Report

The story begins . . .

Wayne Carson and Caren Jew arrive at the house at 6:15 a.m. to allow us plenty of time to get to the MCRRC "race headquarters" at the Holiday Inn Key Bridge in Rosslyn, where we are staging for the Marine Corps Marathon. Wayne is coming off a stress fracture of his foot and has only ran twice since August, for a total of 22 miles. He plans to run 5 minutes and walk 10, and finish in under six hours. Caren, who views the race as a warmup for the JFK 50 miler three weeks ahead, plans to run easy with a goal of 5:15. I'm shooting for 5 hours, having missed that goal by 7 seconds four weeks ago at the Wineglass Marathon.

After arriving at the hotel, we debate what to wear, as the forecast is for perfect marathon temperatures forecast in the 50s, but with some stiff winds predicted. I go for a long sleeve shirt, Caren for a singlet. I give her a one of two pairs of throw-away cotton gloves I purchased at the race expo on Friday, and take the second pair myself. Wayne supplies black garbage bags, we punch neck holes in them and head for the start line. We all pack pockets and pouches with various goo packs, Cliff Shots, Sports Beans and other forms of nourishment.

As we walk down Route 110 toward the start, I see a runner standing on the side with a prosthesis below his left knee. It is the first but won't be the only reminder of the Iraq War that I see today.

The Start . . .

The MCM starts in two waves, the first, the faster scarlet wave, further separated into corrals, and the second, the gold, in one mass behind the scarlet. We are all registered in the gold wave, but it looks like a long walk back to where that wave is to gather, and Wayne is trying to limit his time on his feet, so we slink thru one of the gates into one of the scarlet wave corrals, keep our baggies over our gold numbers.

At 8:25 the wheelies are off, we get rid of our baggies, and the gun for the rest of us goes off ten minutes later. We cross the start line only three minutes later, and run on, maybe faster than we would have planned to, but as we are with faster runners, we don't want to be a roadblock. Within a quarter mile, Wayne and I have lost Caren, and neither of us will see her again on the course, even though she passes him at some point.

Wayne and I move along at a pretty good pace, passing the Marine howitzer set on the median of Route 110, presumably to signal the start of the race, although I did not hear it fired. I don't go half a mile before taking my gloves off. Entering Rosslyn we pass a SWAT team of Arlington Police, not only heavily armed with sidearms and automatic weapons, but wearing hoods partially obscuring their faces. The purpose eludes me, as I doubt that any terrorists, drug dealers or gang members are part of the 34,000 registered runners.

I miss the one mile marker so don't get a split, and Wayne and I continue out Lee Highway. It has a lot of uphills, so we take to walking and running. I'm just in front of Wayne, as we are walking single file to reduce impeding faster runners coming from behind us. Somewhere before mile 2, I start running and Wayne doesn't. I keep looking behind, and don't see him, so I'm now on my own.

As Lee Highway heads downhill turn the turn onto Spout Run, the crowd of runners is like a stream. Occasionally, just like a fish jumping from that stream, a shirt or gloves arcs high in the air toward the banks, as a runner discards some now too warm piece of clothing.

I pass mile 3 on Spout Run in 32:21, a pretty quick pace especially considering the climb out of Rosslyn. As runners pass me, I see that some are wearing pictures of fallen soldiers on the back of their shirts — friends, comrades, brothers? There is certainly a story for each, beyond the stark fact of having been killed in Iraq — and for what end? — but I can't bring myself to ask any of the runners about the person they honor by running MCM.

As we run along the short stretch of the George Washington Parkway leading to the ramp up to the Key Bridge, there is applause behind and soon people shouting to make way, as one of the wheel chair racers is making his way through. The crowd parts, among shouts of encouragement to the racer. He passes, and I join several others on the side of the woods for some relief. I catch up to him on the ramp, and he is straining to get up it, moving ever so slowly. The runners continue to shout encouragement to him.

As I cross the Key Bridge, I spot a penny on the ground. I consider stopping to pick it up, but don't. I discuss with another runner the cost/benefit of doing so — would the one cent value be worth the additional time that would entail carrying the extra weight for another 22 miles?

Off Key Bridge and we head down M Street, lined with spectators cheering us on. I get Poweraid at the water stop. Earlier I had begun to consume Cliff Blocs, being determined not to let my energy or electrolyte level drop as it had done during the Wineglass Marathon.

I cross the 5 mile mark in 53:40 as we begin the approach to Rock Creek Park. I fall in with a runner from Atlanta, up for his first MCM. He drove up the day before, and I estimate a guess that it took him about 12 hours. "Eleven," he replies, "and a speeding ticket." As we run along I play tour guide, pointing out the Watergate of Nixon-era infamy and its namesake. He eventually pulls away from me and the tour guiding ends.

Around mile 7 there is a male spectator dressed in a cow costume. "That's udderly ridiculous," I yell, to much groaning from everyone in earshot.

Soon I'm running alongside "Jim" an airline pilot from Georgia running his first marathon. He used to race sports cars for a hobby, but after fracturing some ribs in an accident and his wife reminding him that both she and their children relied on him, he stopped racing. Earlier this year a friend asked him to either be a charity sponsor for MCM, or if he wanted to, to run the race. "I went out the first day and could only go a half mile," he told me, but he kept at it and was now 8 miles into his first marathon. At the water stop there he takes off ahead of me.

Headed down Rock Creek Parkway where it intersects with Virginia Avenue, I am running near a young woman named Amy. There is no need to ask her for her name, as she has it in large block letters on both the front and back of her shirt and the crowd is yelling out exhortations to her: "Go Amy," "Way to go Amy," "Looking strong, Amy" and so on. In fairness, they are cheering for everyone whose name they can make out, whether they know the person or not, but Amy seems to get the most shouting, perhaps because having a short name allowed her to have the largest letters. In fact, it seems that persons whose names end in a long "e" sound get the most shouts — of two guys running together "Eddie" got far more shouts than "Mike."

Past the Kennedy Center the race heads past the Lincoln Memorial. I pass the 10 mile mark in 1:46:41. This is a second faster than I ran my first-ever 10 mile race, the Turkey Burn-off, eleven months ago. It's hard to imagine that in that space of time I have gone from never having run more than 6.2 miles to now running the first part of my fourth marathon with a pace faster than I ran 10 miles. For this, I have Mark and Caren to thank.

A spectator is offering sugar wafer cookies and I take two, as a supplement to the goo and Cliff Blocs that I have been consuming regularly. The race continues east on Constitution Avenue, and then turns on to the Mall at Fourteenth Street. I start to look around for Mark, who indicated that he might be there snapping pictures, but don't see him. Near the end of the Mall approaching the Capitol I think I spot him, but no, it's only someone that looks like him, but slightly heavier and better dressed. And to say that some looks like Mark is odd, as Mark has a distinctive long grey beard and thinning but long hair so much so that at the Wineglass Marathon at least one child was led to believe that Santa was running to train for Christmas. Later Caren will also mention being almost confused by the Mark look-alike. A woman is offering cups with Gummi Bears, and I take one. It's odd that during a marathon one is perfectly willing to accept unwrapped food from total strangers with no hesitation.

Going past the Grant Statue I begin to look for my work colleague Erika, who told me she would come out and take photos of me running past. Her spot is taken up by a band, and I scan the crowd on the other side and then near the Botanic Garden as I turn the corner to run back down the Mall. Finally I spot her on the Reflecting Pool side of the road with her camera to her face. "EJ!," I shout, and she is startled to see me, as she had been taking pictures of an earlier runner she thought was me. "I kept yelling 'Ken' to him," she says later, "but you didn't answer." She takes some photos and tells me she will see me later by the Jefferson Memorial. I give her my gloves which I had stuffed in one of the compartment of my pants, as I was too cheap to toss the $1.50 worth of cotton away.

The Second Half Begins . . .

Just past the halfway point (2:20:51) at the Smithsonian Castle I get more goo from the food station. Like all aid stations during the MCM, there is plenty of food, water or Poweraid, offered by plenty of servers, thanks to the Marines, Boy Scouts, various running clubs and other volunteers. The logistics are mind boggling, but every aid station runs smoothly and without runners having to wait to get something.

I cruise down the Mall to the Lincoln Memorial and turn south for the short segment to head over to the Tidal Basin. There are the same folks with the sugar wafers from mile 10 and I get three more from them. The course heads east along Independence Avenue, a section I drive almost every day on my way in to work, and then curves around the Jefferson Memorial to head down toward Hains Point. I spot Mark at mile 16 and he takes pictures and tells me that Caren is about 5 minutes behind, based on reports that his wife Paulette is getting from the real time tracking that MCM offers based on the mat at each 5 mile marker.

The wind picks up a bit on the open spaces of Hains Point, but not so much as to affect the running, as we head generally south and the wind comes from the west. I fall in next to a 19-year old Marine who tells me that not only is this his first marathon but that "the longest I have run before today is ten miles, sir!" Since we are at mile 17 I assure him that he is doing fine, and that walking is "relentless forward progress." "Thank you, sir," he replies, as I press onward. A quick stop behind a pine tree bordering the golf course provides relief and as I reach the 18 mile mark by the Awakening sculpture at the end of Hains Point, I still feel fine.

Now headed north on the east side of Hains Point, a Coast Guard patrol craft thunders by down Washington Channel. Soon a police patrol boat passes by and a little while later both blue Air Force and orange Coast Guard helicopters rumble past overhead. Runners are well protected for this race, I think to myself, or else everyone is taking the opportunity to exercise their equipment.

Nearing mile 19 I still feel strong, and none of the tiredness that I usually begin to experience between miles 18 and 20 of marathons is setting in. The continual eating seems to be working. I run next to a woman wearing a Washington Redskins #24 jersey on which she has pinned her name over that of the Redskin. While I gently kid her about the Redskins 2-5 start, spectators cheer her and the Redskins on. Mark appears by the side of the road for more pictures.

Back to Virginia . . .

The course returns to a short stretch near the Tidal Basin before making a U-turn and heading up the ramp onto the 14th Street Bridge. The road narrows from two lanes to one, and both sides are mobbed with people, urging the runners on. This time I spot Erika and stop for photos on the side of the road as runners surge past. Modeling done, I rejoin the race. The feeling is astonishing — crowds standing on the curb, inches from the runners, yelling encouragement, waving signs, holding their hands out to high-five the runners. And the runners are shoulder to shoulder as the road narrows to one lane, revved up on the buzz from the crowd. Unlike anywhere else on the course, no one is walking. Adding to the excitement, a band is playing.

And then, as we head up the ramp onto the bridge, up ahead is a young Marine runner, wearing a Marine scarlet tee shirt, fatigue camouflage pants and desert combat boots. He is carrying, with both hands, diagonally in front of him, his unit's guidon, topped with various streamers. I run alongside him and tell him the usual, "You're looking good, soldier." He gently corrects me, "I am a Marine, sir." I apologize. The 20 mile mark is near the top of the ramp and I'm there in 3:38 and feeling fine. I take the one minute per mile walk break that I have been taking since about mile 7.

Starting up again, I soon catch the guidon-bearing Marine and offer him a Cliff Bloc. He declines, "I just had a goo pack, sir." I press on, but approaching mile 21 at the end of the bridge I'm starting to feel a little pain on the lateral side of my left knee with every stride, so I start walking more frequently. I'm walking on the barren and desolate stretch of the course along I-395 where there are no spectators and I hear some women coming up behind singing some treacly pop song from the '70s. Despite the increasing knee pain I start to jog. "Must . . . run . . . away . . . from . . . bad . . . music," I joke to a woman running nearby, and she agrees as we both move out.

Reaching the entrance to Crystal City, my knee is really starting to hurt. I get some Sports Beans from the Potomac Runners aid station just before mile 22, but I am now walking more than running. But just past mile 22 I hear the seductive call of beer-beer! For the third of four marathons this year, H3 has come through. I briefly think that several beers might anesthetize my knee, but half a cup is all I consume.

The crowds in Crystal City are encouraging, and there is a band on a stage at mile 23, but my knee is hurting so much that I am now limping. I'm through mile 23 in 4:13, and I starting to do mental calculations whether I can walk to the finish in five hours. A woman holds up a sign that says "26.2 = beer + sex" and there are other signs "sexy legs," but the painful knee has my thoughts further down my leg. Keeping the knee stiff eliminates the pain, but it results in walking like Chester from the old Gunsmoke TV series and I'm concerned that it will only result in injuring something else, so I abandon that.

Mile 24 has us under I-395 and headed around the west side of the Pentagon. I get there in 4:27, and am pretty confident that I can limp the remaining 2.2 miles in 33 minutes, but the pain continues to increase, I'm occasionally limping pretty badly, and more and more people are asking me if I'm OK. Just past mile 24 there is a woman standing with a sign offering free hugs, and although I have my doubts about the sanity of anyone indiscriminately offering to hug thousands of sweaty runners, I accept the offer. It doesn't help my knee, but it does lift my spirits.

The ramp leading down onto route 110 for the last 1.25 miles to the finish presents a challenge. Going downhill is awful on the knee, and I'm limping and almost crabwalking to get down it. A woman runner stops and asks if I'm OK, I describe the problem, and without hesitation she tells me that I have iliotibial band syndrome, and tells me how to treat it. I say that I hope it gets cleared up in time for the JFK50, and not only does she tell me that it likely will, but tells me that she is also running JFK50.

Past the underpass for Memorial Drive the crowds start to increase in size, and I reach mile 26 in 4:54. I'm pretty confident that I can make it in under five hours, even though the rest of the course is uphill to the Iwo Jima Memorial. And the crowds are packed in tight again, still yelling encouragement, holding signs and waving flags and I can't disappoint them by walking it in. Small steps, but I'm running again, even passing some people and the finish line is in sight. I cross the line in 4:57:35.

Afterwards

I line up to get my finishers medal, barely able to walk due to my painful knee. After collecting my medal, I work my way through the large crowd of finishers, friends and family. I spot the young Marine, still clutching his staff standing with a comrade, and congratulate him on his finish. "Congratulations to you too, sir," he replies.

Hobbling along Ft. Meyer Drive toward the Holiday Inn, I am overtaken by Caren, who finished in 5:07:46, a PR for her. Like the woman at mile 25, she immediately diagnoses my knee as suffering from ITBS. We get back to the MCRRC hospitality suite, and plunk down, then feast on stew, lasagna, salad, cookies and liquid refreshment, including, much to my delight, non-alcoholic beer. Wayne, with virtually no training and a questionable foot, soon joins us, having finished in a respectable 5:41:19. Three days later, he notes that he is "brutally sore." By then, my knee has stopped hurting, and I'm looking forward to the November 18 JFK50 with Caren and Mark.

– Ken Swab [With many thanks to Mark for encouragement, companionship and use of his zhurnal.]

(correlates: 2007-09-08 - Mall Rats, GrayGreenGap, BlissfullyOblivious, ...)