I took my place in corral number 20, shepherding Zenna, my sometime running buddy, as she prepared to run her first half marathon. Bill Bittick, my nephew-in-law, was here to run his first full marathon. He started in one of the faster corrals. Elbow to elbow with runners, Zenna and I moved slowly forward as the corrals of runners were started in a staggered manner which serves to spread out the field at the beginning. By the time we got our start signal the elites were rounding the corner into San Pedro Park, six miles away. When the runners in the last corral started their race the elites were almost half done. I wish I had a bird's eye view which would allow me to see this long, serpentine parade of running humanity.
Crowds along the way cheer and encourage, sometimes watching us dumbfounded as they wonder why in the world we were doing it. The half marathon of 13.1 miles is a distance the average person has never run. Those who do become the exception. It's what I have told Zenna over the months we trained. Maybe it sounds egocentric, but we do take pride in doing something that most peoples will never even attempt. A half marathon runs the body's fuel tank to about half empty. It's a great distance, and one which almost any able-bodied person can manage if they've trained properly. The 26.2 miles of the full marathon is a different story. It's not proper math, but it's the truth that a marathon is more than double a half marathon. The body exhausts its fuel and continues to run on grit and determination. I think it was Frank Shorter who said the marathon is only half done at mile 20.
A huge crowd greets us at the Alamo. The runners take energy from the cheers and begin the winding way through parts of downtown and eventually onto Euclid, Atlanta, Gillespie, Evergreen, off the tourist path. Residents of this old part of San Antonio watch, clapping their hands in encouragement. A turn onto McCullough takes the now endless procession of runners up a hill, turning on Craig and suddenly slowing as the grade becomes steeper. Finally, the hill gives itself up to a downhill turning onto Flores as San Pedro Park looms ahead. Banana Man, as you would imagine dressed as a banana, is there with his disciples passing out chunks of banana. The corner, littered with banana peels, invites my imagination to invent the iconic slapstick moment of slipping on a banana peel but no one does. Again the crowds cheer. Ordinary runners become heroes. We slap hands with the kids along the street. They smile and we take from the exchange a spark which gives the courage to continue on.
Huge crowds await us as we loop back through downtown. The canyons between the tall buildings resonate with the constant clap of shoes on the pavement, this giving a rhythm to the loud greetings from onlookers. Here determination begins to fuel our efforts. Still miles from any finish line, the runners harden their resolve, drink water, and continue clip clop, clip clop, clip clop.
This is how a marathon is run. One foot in front of the other. The splitting point on the route, where the half marathoners turn back into their final 3 miles, seems a betrayal to those of us who know that our finish line is still only a mirage. We have another lifetime of running ahead. The field thins dramatically as over 20 thousand half marathoners yield the longer track to 5 thousand diehards who begin to take to heart the messaging on many banners and signs: "Pain is weakness leaving the body."
Mother Nature was not particularly benevolent on this day. It was warm and it was humid. Mid-morning the clouds broke and the sun beat down on the thousands still running. A head wind buffeted along a stretch near Stinson Field. But the field of marathoners moved ever forward. By mile 18 I discarded my goal of 4 hours 45 minutes. This wouldn't be the day for a new personal record (last year I broke 5 hours - that's good for me). At mile 21 I knew I wouldn't crack 5 hours as I alternated walking with running. Finally I mustered the last of my resolve into running the last mile, struggling up the cruel hill just outside the Alamodome before turning to the finish line. 5 hours, 11 minutes, 14 seconds. I survive to run another day and, for sure, another marathon. See you at the starting line a year from now.
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