The worst three years of my childhood were, by far, the ones
spent in junior high. I believe the
Antioch Unified School District has finally recognized this fact, and has taken
the bold steps of:
a)
changing the name of from Antioch Junior High School to Antioch Middle School.
b)
changing the school colors from blue and gold to
red and black.
c)
changing the mascot from the Wildcats to
(judging by the painting on the outside of the school gym) some
ferocious-looking bird, possibly the Turkey Vultures.
Regretfully, these changes came too late for me.
The worst hour of each day at junior high school was, by far,
the one spent in gym class. While I was
in the cozy cocoon of Turner Elementary School, rumors of junior high P.E. were
rampant.
“I hear that the teachers yell at you!”
“My friend said that you have to change your clothes.“
“That’s nothing! I
hear they make you take showers!...in
front of everyone!”
Of course, all of it was true. But in reality, it was much worse. For starters, the school-issued shirts and
shorts looked like they had belonged to victims of an explosion at a French’s
Mustard plant. The most humiliating part
of our gym outfit, however, was an article of clothing that appeared to be a
cruel prank played on seventh-grade boys by the garment industry. It was as if they had run out of cotton at
the underwear factory and were now constructing briefs entirely out of elastic
bands.
Most of class time was devoted to playing sports designed
specifically to highlight my awkwardness.
Of course, my fellow students helpfully pointed out my shortcomings,
shouting encouragingly “Weinert! You
idiot! You missed the (fill in type of
sports-related projectile) again!” We
all knew each others’ names because our dads had written them in three-inch
block letter across the chest of our shirts and the butt of our shorts.
But the very worst part of each hour of gym class was, by
far, the moment the coach would shout out “Alright you prima-donnas! Take a lap!”
(I should point out that it was several years later that I figured out
he was not saying “Pre-Madonnas.”)
Coach Bishop was a wiry old man with a voice that sounded
like he began each morning gargling handfuls of pea gravel. The wrinkles in his face had to be a full
inch deep. He had absolutely no fat on
his body, and possibly no bones either.
He was just wads of muscle, all tightly banded together by ligaments and
tendons.
That quarter-of-a-mile each day was pure torture. As I plodded around the track in my white
high-top Chuck Taylors (each emblazoned with “WEINERT” on the outside edge for
added coolness) my throat burned and my legs felt like lead. Coach Bishop promised that it would get
easier as time went on, but he was lying.
As I would approach the finish line, gasping and sweating, a good twenty
yards behind the second-to-last kid, I would long for the day when I had finally
served my time in gym class and would never have to run again.
This is why it’s strange that I decided to run a marathon
when I was in my mid-thirties. I took up
the challenge about twelve years ago for reasons that would take too long to
explain here. I went online, picked a
training schedule, and simply dove right in.
The first week the schedule required that I do a six-mile run on the
weekend, twice as long as my previous record.
Even so, with a couple of walking breaks, I actually finished.
Each week would culminate with a long run. Eight miles, ten miles, twelve miles. Every Saturday morning I would set a new
personal best for the longest distance I had ever run in one workout. After passing the thirteen-mile mark, running
the entire way, I finally found the courage to announce my plans to my extended
family. By then, there was no turning
back.
I noticed small changes as the weeks passed. I was dropping pounds. Climbing stairs became easier. But the
biggest change was in my attitude. Once,
as I laced up my shoes for my weekend run, my wife Jenny asked how far I was
going. I replied without irony, “Not
far. Only ten miles.” She laughed, and it was at that moment that I
realized that I was now officially a runner.
Finally, on a rainy November Saturday morning I staggered
into my house after jogging twenty miles…twenty
miles!...the equivalent of eighty laps around the Antioch Junior High
School track. Coach Bishop would not
have believed it. It was two weeks
before the race. My next personal record
was to be 26.2 miles at the California International Marathon.
The day of the race, I was up before the sun. Jenny dropped me off near the starting point
and returned to the hotel for an hour more of sleep while I wandered amongst the
other participants. There were thousands
of them. I had never seen so many pairs
of running shoes in one place. The sheer
number of Porta-Potties alone was staggering.
The chilly air was thick with a sense of excitement and camaraderie and
community.
The sun began to rise just as the race started. An announcer counted down from ten, and then
we surged forward with a cheer; walking, then shuffling, then finally settling
into a jog as the crowd of runners spread out.
I never listen to an iPod when I run.
I like the quiet; the hiss of car tires across the asphalt, the call of
a bird, the gurgling of a creek, the growl of a dog before it sinks its canines
into my calf. Now, the sound of carbon
rubber slapping the pavement and the breathing of hundreds of runners around me
created its own music.
The morning sun made the autumn leaves glow and turned the
sky azure. Crowds lined the streets,
cheering and rattling cowbells, as if we were Olympic athletes. Some homeowners had set up stereos outside their
houses and were blaring the Theme from
Chariots of Fire or Eye of the Tiger. As we passed through small towns, we were
encouraged by high school cheerleading squads and serenaded by marching bands,
rock bands, jazz bands, and bluegrass bands.
The first sixteen miles or so peeled away easily, and as I faced the
remaining ten, I felt a pang of sadness in my heart, that this whole magical
experience was drawing to a close.
But then I began to feel other pangs in less metaphorical
parts of my body. The pain increased
with every step and by the eighteenth mile, even the most generous spectator
could not call me a runner. I was a
plodder, a staggerer. People began to
pass me. Not just fit, young people, but
people who looked like the only exercise they got was walking from their car to
the Krispy Kreme counter. One couple
ran past me, chatting as if I wasn’t there.
“I don’t remember passing so many people last year,” the woman said to
her partner.
“That’s because I wasn’t running last year,” I shouted after
her. They laughed, and then quickly disappeared
over the horizon.
I was passed by a blind guy.
I swear this is true. He was
being led by a friend. I refused to be
disheartened because it was so cool.
But then the old lady passed me. I couldn’t believe it. She had to be older than my mom. She glided past me effortlessly. She wasn’t even breathing hard. OK,
this can’t happen I thought. I
spurred my legs on, like a jockey cropping a lethargic horse. I was able to keep pace with her for about a
hundred yards, but then she started pulling away. I soon lost her in the sea of sportswear
ahead of me. The burst of acceleration
had taken its toll and my legs began to seize.
Up ahead I saw an aid station and decided to ask for pain
reliever. I shuffled up to a
perky-looking middle-aged attendant.
“What do you need?” she asked brightly.
I had been rehearsing what I would say for a quarter
mile. “I would like some pain reliever,”
I planned to say. I said it in my head
many times. “I would like some pain
reliever.” However, as I looked at her, my
thoughts felt thick and my mouth seemed like it was disconnected from my
brain. I just stared at her for several
seconds. Concern began to cross her
face.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Pain,” I blurted.
If she had injected me with a quart of morphine I would have
been happy. Instead, she offered me a
choice. “Tylenol or Ibuprofen?”
Both words had too many syllables, so I grunted “Advil.”
She dropped the pills into my hand and I lurched down the
road once again. I saw Jenny about three
excruciating miles later. She was a
beautiful sight, all bundled up in her hat and gloves. She had a camera in one hand and a cowbell in
the other.
“I’m not going to make it,” I was about to say.
“You’re going to make it!” she said. “You only have four-and-a-half miles to
go!” She looked so proud that I didn’t
have the heart to give up. I plodded on.
I counted down the miles as I passed each marker. Four miles to go. Three miles to go. I thought about the first guy who had ever
run a marathon. Some ancient Greek had
run 26.2 miles to bring news of the outcome of the battle for which all
marathons are named. Legend has it that
he died, seconds after uttering a single word:
“Pain.”
No seriously, he died seconds after uttering the word
“Victory” (and seconds before the king responded “Wait…victory for whom?”)
Two miles to go. I was
in the heart of Sacramento now. The
crowds began to swell, urging us all forward.
Police officers and National Guard soldiers held back traffic at the
intersections. I ran past a pub. Several employees stood outside, offering
cups of beer. I politely refused,
saying “I’m underage.” Maybe it was the
medicine. Maybe it was the cheering
crowds. Maybe it was Jenny’s
encouragement. Whatever it was, I was
feeling good enough to make jokes.
Mile 25. One mile to
go. Don’t
forget that last point-two, I said to myself. It’s a
killer. But I knew I was going to
make it. The pain and fatigue didn’t
matter. My wife, my two little girls, my
mom and dad, the finish line…they were all waiting for me. I rounded a corner and the cheering turned
to a roar.
I could see the end.
I could walk the rest of the way if I wanted. But then I heard him, coming up behind me. A glance over my shoulder revealed an
athletic-looking twenty-something-year-old young man. Somehow, I had stayed ahead of him for all
those miles, but I could tell he was determined to pass the gawky middle-aged
guy in front of him.
No way, I
thought. I dug deep and put on a burst
of speed I would not have thought possible an hour before. I swear I heard a girl say “Whoa!” as I
sprinted by. I crossed the finish
line. The young man was still behind me.
My family greeted me, smiling and cheering. Jenny bravely kissed me, despite the twenty-six
miles of sweat that had accumulated on my body.
My daughters held their noses.
Dad was holding a video camera. “You should have seen it!” he said. “Some old lady came in five minutes ahead of
you! She set the world record for women
over eighty-years-old!”
***
To this date, I have finished eight marathons. Last weekend I ran my second half-marathon. In two weeks, God willing, I will have
surpassed my goal of running one-thousand miles in a year. I don’t say these things to brag…
…wait…that’s a lie. I
am bragging. I’m proud that the kid who could barely run a quarter-mile and was always last grew into someone who has run multiple long-distance
races. I’m glad that I didn’t dwell on
what the voices in my head said I could not do.
Instead, I had set and attained what seemed an impossible, unreachable
goal.
Sometimes it comes up in conversation that I have a few marathons
under my belt. The people I’m talking
with look at me skeptically, like I’m lying, or at best delusional. Many of them ask “What was your time?” As tempting as it might be to exaggerate, I always answer truthfully.
I tell them that the first time I ever ran a marathon, I was
only five minutes slower than a world record.
