My 30 Years, 11 Months, 19 Days, 1 Hour, 35 Minutes, and 54 seconds Marathon
The Starting Line
It began on May 18, 1986.
The second running of the Pittsburgh Marathon.
I had recently moved from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh and thought I’d run in my new hometown’s marathon.
It wasn’t my first. I was actually pretty experienced, having posted a time of 2:38:51 in the Philadelphia Marathon several years prior.
In fact, it was to be my 13th marathon.
Perhaps that was a sign.
You see, this marathon was special.
But not in a good way.
The calendar, local civic politics, and a dash of race directing inexperience converged to produce a late May date, a 10:35 am starting time better suited for brunch than 26.2 miles, and the hottest race in Pittsburgh marathon history.
According to the Midwest Regional Climate Center, the high that day reached 87 degrees, with pavement course temperatures well into the 90s.
It wasn’t long before I knew I was in trouble. By the time I hit the hills around miles 10–11, I was chugging water like a freshman does beer at a keg party — so much so that I imagined it sloshing around in my stomach.
It was like I was sea-sick on land.
And then, despite the temperature and streets completely devoid of shade, I began to get the chills (you runners know where this is going).
But there weren’t any race results floating around with a DNF next to my name (did not finish), and this wasn’t about to be my first.
I managed to get to miles 20–21, when I simply had to stop.
With head down and hands resting on my knees, I felt someone grab my wrist.
“You’re out”, the stranger said, as he dragged me to a MASH style medical tent on the side of the street.
Turns out, he was a course medic. A quick once over of my dry skin (yeah, I had stopped sweating) and a pulse check that I imagine barely registered on his fingers confirmed what my body was crying out for my mind to accept — that I was dangerously dehydrated. Two bags of intravenous fluids later, he sent me on my way to catch a sweeper bus filled with other runners that could have been central casting for The Walking Dead.
By the end of the day, more than half the 2,600 runners that toed the starting line required medical treatment. At one point in the race, it was reported that the race director was getting a “runner down” notice every 15 seconds. 52 runners were eventually hospitalized.
The race left me emotionally damaged.
My marathon days were over.
Or so I thought.
Mid-Race
Over the ensuing years, I stayed in shape. I still ran, but I didn’t race. Life gave me two children, the start of a new business, and more frequent traveler miles than I cared to log.
But on September 6th, 2012, just shy of my 55th birthday, it also gave me a cardiac arrest, followed by quadruple bi-pass surgery and an implanted defibrillator.
I didn’t smoke, I didn’t drink, I wasn’t overweight, and I exercised daily. But I couldn’t outrun my genetics. You see, my dad died of a heart attack many years earlier. On a September 6th no less (apparently, God has a macabre sense of humor).
Then it was on to cardiac rehab, where on more than one occasion I was caught trying to exceed the center’s exercise limits (I was going to be the fastest recovering cardiac patient ever, thank you). And though it took some negotiating to get my cardiologist on board, it wasn’t long before I was back on the bike, the elliptical, and yes, the treadmill.
Now and again, the idea of running a marathon would wistfully appear. What better way to put a cardiac arrest in the rear-view mirror and take on the race that beat me down so many years earlier?
The symmetry of it all was delicious.
But it never became anything other than a momentary musing.
That was until I somewhat impulsively joined a local Fleet Feet sponsored running group to train for an area 10 miler. There I met runners where ten minutes a mile put you in the middle of the pack and who seemingly got as much joy in supporting one another as shooting for a PR.
Although I was hoping to get in just under 1:30:00, I surprised myself with a 1:23:46 effort.
With fall training complete, Fleet Feet began promoting its Pittsburgh Marathon training program. With a successful race behind me, and the encouragement of my new Fleet Feet friends in front, the idea that maybe, somehow, someday, I would finish that race suddenly seemed possible.
I signed up.
Heading Home
May 7, 2017.
I woke up at 3:30 that morning to a text from my oldest daughter.
“Run as slow as you can, for as long as you can”, it read.
Smart kid.
This time, the first wave of runners took off at 7:05 am in temps that barely got to 40 degrees and eventually topped out at 57. A beautiful day for a marathoner.
1986 was never far from my mind.
This time around, my plan was to hang around 10:30 per mile as long as I could with a loose goal of beating five hours. Having crashed at 19 with pain in my right forefoot in my last 20-miler (and only 20, it would turn out, due to a mid-training period mishap), I was prepared for a long day.
By mile 9, the pain in my foot returned. I fell into a rhythm of step, “oh, that hurts”, step, “oh, that hurts”, step, “oh that hurts”.
But somehow, I managed to hold pace.
By mile 19, however, the miles, the hills, and cumulative pain began to eat away at my resolve.
I walked-ran the next mile in 12:10 as I approached the same place where it all went wrong 30 plus years, a cardiac arrest, bi-pass surgery, and a defibrillator ago.
I took it all in.
I was hurting.
Big time.
I’d like to say that the thought of packing it in never crossed my mind.
But it did.
So, as I had done in many of my workouts leading up to the race, I decided I would not run the last 6.2 miles. That was just too far. But I could run 100 steps. Walk 30. And then do another 100.
At times I only managed 50 steps. Other times I rallied to 300. But funny thing about those steps. They eventually turn into miles.
I thought about my number one running movie, “St. Ralph”. Or more precisely, the joy I felt when I introduced it to my youngest daughter, and how our favorite, most inspirational scenes, became a meme leading up to the race.
By mile 23, my entire focus turned to getting to 25, where I knew a bunch of Fleet Feet faithful would be waiting to give a final “umphh” of encouragement.
I passed the 24-mile marker.
By then, the cadence had become step, “oh, that really hurts”. Step, “oh, that really hurts”.
I looked, I listened for them.
“Where are they?”, I thought.
“I’ve got to be close”.
And then I heard it.
“Dexter!”
Now, the music didn’t swell.
I didn’t smile, pick up the pace, and cruise triumphantly with arms raised high as I crossed the finish line.
No, hearing my name did not turn me into a 70s version of Bill Rodgers.
But it centered me. It reminded me that I was amongst friends. That I would not be alone over the final 1.2 miles.
That the finish line belonged to all of us.
It didn’t come into view until I made one final turn with 400 yards to go.
A few feet from the end, I adjusted my stride to make sure that I would land one foot emphatically on the red line.
I hit it square, and I was done.
With a time of 4:45:54, I completed my first Pittsburgh Marathon, which began in 1986, in 30 years, 11 months, 19 days, 1 hour, 35 minutes, and 54 seconds.
It was far from a personal record.
But it was the best time I ever ran.
