The way the course map was drawn, it looked like the finish
line was only a few short blocks after the final turn. I was pretty familiar with this
neighborhood. We ran these very streets
when we trained for our first marathon 11 years ago. I didn’t think the distance was as short as
the map made it seem, but I ignored those doubts and approached the corner completely
certain that I’d see the bright arch of the finish line right in front of me.
I was jogging as fast as I could, around 9-minute miles
according to my unreliable watch. I
promised I would not walk once I made the turn.
It was only two short blocks, I told myself.
As I negotiated the turn, excited and happy for the first
time in months, I looked up from the road and saw…more road. What the hell? Where was the finish line? I thought I was almost done?
There were a lot of spectators cheering and holding signs
behind temporary barricades. A few
people yelled, “Almost there!” I had
been hearing that since mile 20. There
is no more subjective term to a marathoner than “almost”. After 4 hours in 80 degree heat, telling me I
was “almost there” when all the visual evidence was to the contrary seemed
extraordinarily cruel.
I scoured the crowd to see if I could find A. Was he going to run the final two tenths with
me and cross the finish line again? I
couldn’t fathom running one more inch once I was finished and I wondered if he
was as in bad a shape as I was.
Slowly there emerged small indications that I was getting
closer. A few race volunteers were on
the course holding signs that read, “Bandits cannot cross the finish line” and
“Bandits, leave the course now!” In my delirium,
I wondered why outlaw cowboys would be running a marathon before I realized
they were referring to unregistered runners.
I remember thinking that the end of a marathon really wasn’t the best
place for euphemism.
Some of my compatriots seemed to have the same idea to run
uninterrupted to the finish after the turn.
Many became equally disillusioned and stopped once they realized it was
further than advertised. I honestly
cannot remember if I ended up walking at some point. I want to say that I was on the verge of
giving up right at the moment when the finish line finally materialized before
me. I’m not sure if that’s how it really
went down, but it makes for a nice story so I’m sticking to it.
With the end in sight, I noticed others around me starting
to shift into high gear. I, too, tried
to put a spring in my step, but no matter how hard I kicked, my step had no
spring left. It felt like I was running
through molasses.
The arch was growing and the music was getting louder, but
the crowd had disappeared. Extra security
measures kept spectators from the finish area to guard against any unsavory
activity, but it made the finish line feel strangely desolate, like a banging party
nobody showed up for.
I tried to hear if the announcer said my name as I crossed
the finish. He didn’t. As I ran under the orange inflatable arch,
even though I was 23 minutes slower than intended, I raised my arms in victory,
if only for the photo op. I might have
been bitterly disappointed, but at least the historical evidence would show me
victorious.
Once through, I immediately started walking. That’s when I saw the timing mat still a few
feet ahead. Panicked that I quit too
soon, I made one last pathetic lunge for those precious little milliseconds,
but it didn’t really matter. My race was
done.
No comments:
Post a Comment