Running a marathon

“What do you think about for four hours?” It’s a standard question people ask us big shot marathon runners. Well, the thing is I don’t really “think” over the 26.2-mile course. I sort of put my mind in neutral, tuck it neatly into a box, and keep on trucking no matter what.

I completed the California International Marathon a few months ago. It was my sixth marathon, my fourth CIM. Each race is different even though the title on the finisher’s medal might be the same.

I start training four months before the gun goes off. The training runs help my body adjust to pounding the pavement for four hours during the marathon, show me which foods make the best fuel, and determine how I will pace myself as I run the same distance as Lodi to Elk Grove on race day.

But no matter how well I’ve prepared I’m still at the mercy of the weather. My first CIM was wracked with frigid 35 mph winds and rain. The 2012 Long Beach Marathon was so hot and humid paramedics appeared more often than mile markers.

The thing about a marathon is that you’re with thousands of people but you’re really by yourself. On the morning of the race I usually head out into the darkness at about 4 a.m. feeling very alone. Doubt beavers gnaw away at my psyche, “Can I do this again? Will this be the one where I have to quit? Was Leonard Nimoy the original choice to play Spock?”

I arrive at the starting area and wade into the sea of runners wearing everything from plastic garbage bags to short shorts, circa gym class 1974. I’m a tad bit nervous because the unknown literally waits for me down the road.

The race announcer, apparently choosing 7 a.m. on a Sunday morning to loudly audition for Ryan Seacrest’s job, begins the countdown: “Ten… niiiine… eight…”

I think, “Am I nuts? Will I make it? Is that Goldie Hawn? Nah.” “Sevvvvven, six, fiiiiive…” “I guess I can run 13 miles, then hitchhike back. No one will know…” “Fourrrrr, threeeee…”

“Is that Joe Biden? Why is the line at the port-o-potties still so long?”

“Onnnne, GOOOO! Aaaahhhh!” Boom! It’s Pamplona, minus the bulls and nifty neckerchiefs.

The energy of crowd carries me for the first few miles. People run in packs, telling stories, laughing and yelling, “Good morning. Have a great run!” Their joy is annoying. Soon I’m out of earshot of the conversations about how Stefan’s teacher isn’t holistic enough and how someone’s husband just doesn’t “get” her anymore. About mile 6 I ponder, “I’ve got another 31⁄2 hours until I finish. What time would that be? I’d still be sleeping if this was a regular Sunday. I wonder how warm it is in that CHP car…”

At mile 10, I go through a mental checklist like I’m flying a B-52 bomber trailing smoke over enemy territory: “Left knee okay, right thigh a little tight, breathing okay, not hungry yet, right ankle sore.”

Any turn on the road ahead is a positive development after mile 15. Hills are heartless mockers. I smell bacon and eggs and wonder if I’m actually asleep. Folks at the aid stations offer us water, energy gels, red licorice, orange slices and sympathy as we pass through.

I usually hit the wall at about mile 22. I devolve to caveperson level and rely on millions of years of evolution to keep my legs moving in the right direction.

I run/limp/low crawl across the blue and orange finish line but, for me, the race is not really over until I see the smiling faces of my wife and kids. They gently wrap me in a silver “Lost in Space” blanket, hand me a cold bottle of chocolate milk, and gingerly escort me to the car. It is done.

Running marathons demands much from me: in time, in sweat, in pain. But it gives me much in return. I know I’ve tested my limits once more at a time in life when a lot of people my age have settled into a resigned routine. I’ve pushed through mental and physical barriers and feel a sense of accomplishment that not many will ever know. I am at peace and the world is new again.