Week 17
"An-ti-ci-pa-tion"

I have begun to feel like an upside-down bottle of Heinz ketchup. Soon, my legs, like the ketchup trying to ooze out of the bottle’s neck, will spurt forward and away I’ll go. I've been told to hold back. Don’t run fast – don’t run long – don’t sprint – the day will come – coming – coming…

For days, my thoughts about the marathon have produced a peculiar mix of anxiety, excitement, and fear. Somewhere in there, too, have been dollops of trepidation, worry and a weird tingling in my toes.

At the last clinic, the 430’s' intrepid group leader Megan led us through a menu of do’s and don’t’s for the two days up to and including race day. Sitting cross-legged on a table, she spilled out each item with such positivity and genuine glee at our having reached this juncture, I had a notion to jump from my seat and shriek, "Yes! Let’s run now! Right now! Right this minute!"

The notion passed and we settled for a race pace 5 km. The 430’s completed the short run just four seconds over our target time. As a group, we are now a veritable machine of accurate timing. I’ve made a mental note – one of dozens – to find them on race day.

Week 17 ended with a light run – just 16 k. That’s seems like such a ridiculous statement when I consider how three months ago to the day, 16 k was almost twice the length of anything I’d done in my life.

Meanwhile, I’m reminded constantly of the big day and no matter how innocent the comments, each one makes something in my gut twitch, not to mention the toe tingles.

I received a confirmation e-mail from the organizers confirming my bib number. Entirely appropriate for the looming long distance trundle. Number 401. I am a highway, though I will remain in the right hand slow lane.

Various friends and family have said they might come to watch me. Not much to watch, I warn them. More like, "Oh look, there's Richard…here comes Richard…there goes Richard…let’s go eat."

I’ve tried controlling the anticipation by busying myself. Not too busy, I remind myself, harkening to Megan’s advice to do nothing in the week before the race.

For instance, my school slapped together a softball team for a one-day tournament the week after the marathon. I haven’t told them I may be an invalid for a while. Meanwhile, they scheduled a quasi-practice for the Tuesday before the race. I will plant myself at the edge of the infield and move only for balls hit directly at me. As for batting, I’ll just stick out the bat and jog to first. If anyone sneers at my half-hearted approach, I’ll snap back, "Megan said!"

The grass is going to need cutting. Normally a 45-minute workout, I’ve decided to break it into five separate ones. I’ve already warned a neighbour the lawn may have a somewhat sectional appearance this week. The quizzical look I got was greeted with my asking, "Megan said!"

My classroom is on the second floor, the photocopier’s on the first. If anyone needs copies, my retort will be, "Can’t do it. Megan said."

I walk the dog for ten minutes twice daily. I need to conserve energy, but I doubt his bowels will cooperate. However, since the backyard grass is going to be longer anyway…

I’m holding back those ketchup legs as best I can. Megan said.

Week 18:
"Body, Mind, and…"

It is 7 am, exactly 24 hours before I take my first step.

Body and mind have spent much of the week wrestling for bragging rights. Now, while one sends words to the keyboard, the other inhales a couple of slices of peanut butter on healthy bread accompanied by a large glass of water, the second in ten minutes.

"Sleep well?"

"Quite well, thanks, Body. I’m clear."

"A clear Mind. Is that a good sign for tomorrow?"

"Just as much as your muscles being primed. Such as they are."

"They’re ready. And whadya mean, ‘Such as they are.’?"

"Only that you’ve been doing this training for months and when I look at you, Body, I don’t exactly see a running machine. When you filled in the registration form in January, I screamed you were nuts. You’d only ever run 10 k, for crying out loud! What were you thinking?"

"For one thing, Mind, that’s traditionally been your job."

"Which is why I screamed."

"For another, I told myself this was worth a try."

"A try? You don’t try a marathon. You run it. Let me tell you what I had to struggle with. I hated early Sundays and I hated rearranging my synapses every time there was a schedule change. And, I never much cared for all that crap you’ve been dumping into you."

"Even the chocolate ones?"

"Don’t interrupt. I never told you, but I’ve had my doubts. Doubts can be dangerous. They can stop you. I can stop you. You realize that, I hope."

"Your doubts were no more difficult than my tight hamstring or groin strain or calf pull or blisters or winter rain or winds that almost blew me into the Ottawa River…or the time I damn near broke my foot on a curb!"

"Clumsy oaf. You chose to do this. Personally, I still think you’re nuts."

"Are you telling me you won’t be there with me at 7 tomorrow morning? Because, well, I sort of need your support."

"Oh, I’ll be there alright. Don’t have much choice now, do I?"

"Not very reassuring, especially after what we’ve been through."

"You forget."

"Of course I forget. I can’t remember either. I’m just a Body. But, what do I forget?"

"It’s mind over matter, or in your case, Mind over Body. In other words, it’s out of your proverbial hands."

"Ridiculous. 42 kilometers is punishing the body."

"Forty-two point two, to be precise. You’ve punished yourself for all those months and now it’s my turn."

"You’re going to punish me?"

"I’m going to test you. You can’t cheat and you can’t stop. No matter how stiff your joints get, I’m going to control them, not you. You’re nothing but a mass of gatorade-diluted tissue. I, however, will determine the kind of strength you will need to do this."

"You have some nerve suggesting that after all this training it’s up to the Mind. What do you think is going to carry you?"

"Listen, Body, you may have the guts and the brawn, but I have the will. Without me, you’re just another long distance jogger."

"Ouch. That hurt."

"Truth be known."

"So I guess we need to work together."

"For once, yes. Though a little help would be nice."

"From where?"

"Me."

"Mind, what was…who said that?"

"Him. He’s inside you."

"Who’s inside me?"

"Me. I’m inside you."

"There it is again."

"Quiet. Listen to him."

"Mind will tell you how to finish the marathon. Legs and feet will propel you. I will inspire you, for you both have earned it. Tomorrow morning, before you leave the house, write this on your hand.- LJKMDJ."

"LJKMDJ? What is that?"

"Best do what he says, Mind. He knows best. Always has."

"Inspiration to run a first marathon comes from many places. For the whole Richard, and for everything you’ve always done in your life, it has always been your family, hasn’t it?"

"Yes. Always."

"LJKMDJ. It’s all you’ll need."

 

The Marathon

The Ottawa Marathon’s finish line was a little higher than I expected. About two inches above ground level, I estimate. There was a moment when I wasn’t sure I’d get over it seeing as how I wasn’t watching for the line. For the last 50 metres – that’s 42,150 metres from the Start! – I extended both arms skyward, cap clenched in one hand, and my mouth etched into a semblance of a smile.

As my moment approached, the cheering crowds along both sides of the road obliterated what was left of my concentration. By then, the thighs were tight and sapped. The calves had long since bought the farm. Both knees had been revolting since the 32 k mark and threatened to do nasty things to my upper body, like buckle me in half. My shoulders ached so badly that lifting up my arms actually came as a great relief.

Just before breaking into my "Look at me – I’ve done it!" trot, I noticed I was alone, completely and utterly by myself running through the phalanx of spectators towards that all too high line.

It was then I became contemplative about what I was seconds from finishing. I’ll call it a surreal moment, though it was so emotional I wanted desperately to cry. Good thing the searing pain in my legs distracted my emotions. For many hundreds of metres, I’d been wincing, "Ow-ouch-ow-ouch-ohhh-ow-ow-ugh-ouch-ugh-ugh…" Besides, I would not brook letting go of myself and wailing my way to the finish line.

In those final metres, I concluded with reasonable certainty there was nothing I had ever done, or will ever do short of another marathon, in which I’d relied upon myself and no one else to do something. In fact, I could think of no other event in life’s splendid treasures in which one wouldn’t rely on others in some way.

This was altogether a sole act. Slow or fast, smartly-trained or not, fed or empty, hydrated or dry, muscles primed or lazy, I was about to accomplish something entirely by myself.

Sure, my friends’ and family support had been remarkable, right up through the flurry of best wishes phone calls the night before. Indeed, I’d been blessed to have trained with the 430’s, a group of people who propped each other up for months then even during the race found the energy to help us all do the deed.

Still, it came down to me and me alone. Me and my shoes and my tight hamstring and the chocolate gels and orange gatorade and bits of energy food my wife called "snackie-poos". Me and the slitless shorts and the cool max shirt and the liberally applied body glide and the new socks.

Me and the course inclines and the damned hilly bridge at Hog’s Back Road and the never-ending roundabout at 33 k and the torturous trot around Dow’s Lake, just 4k from the end.

The moment at the finish line is burned into my memory. Exhausted, hurting, hungry, dizzy, I saw the elevation and for a fleeting moment remembered the tumble down a tiny curb a weeks ago. I shortened my steps.

Go across slowly, Richard, very slowly. With no other runner around, I lifted my right thigh as high as it could go. Fortunately, that was two and half inches up, giving me a full half inch clearance over the rubber mat. I planted my right foot on the mat, heard my chip register, and instructed the left foot it was now okay to seek flat ground on the other side.

So here I sit recovering from my first marathon. Some of the 430’s met up afterwards and what was left unsaid was how proud we were of ourselves. Meanwhile, that part of the day not in an epsom salts bath or sleeping has been spent trying to explain to family and friends what it was like.

The question did come up again. What made me want to do this? Like I said at the outset, it wasn’t as if my family had a genetic link to long distance running.

That may change though. My son finished the half marathon in one third of my time for the full one.

I know what this means. One day, years from now, he’ll explain to his grandkids why the Bercusons became marathoners. You see, he’ll tell them, it all started with this Athenian named Phidippides …

Richard Bercuson completed his first marathon in 4:38:35. He remains convinced it was not the destination, it was the journey.