Catt Scratches

I entered the  2011 Mount Desert Island marathon for a number of reasons. I thought I was ready to run one and I had been coming to Maine about twice a year for five years. I knew the Mount Desert Island marathon was the most geographically challenging marathon in the country: a big hill at the beginning, about ten smaller hills up and down in the middle and a big one at the end. All along the spectacular coast of Maine. I believed that if I ran this race, I would become a part of the Maine downeast coast that I loved, much as I am part of the streets of Chicago and Long Island.  I brought my daughter Gina with me for moral and strategic support.

The day before the Marathon I had  a hollow feeling in my stomach, like there was something out there that was going to eat me. And for the last few days, I kept catching my breath. I was a being of pure apprehension and anticipation, living in a future of dread. I was able to get back to the moment and enjoy the present from time to time. But still, my eyes were focused on the door, waiting for what came next.  The night before, I kept writing in my journal: I can do it, I can do it, I can do it.

I woke up that day to do a pre-marathon breakfast run which I needed. I wasn’t used to the air, and I wasn’t used to the cold and I hadn’t run for at least a week. It was a rest week on my training schedule. My last run was a two miler through the woods. It was a good thing to do because it reminded me why I liked to run. It is my dance to honor the world.

Breakfast was a great carbo cholesterol feast: scrambled eggs, pancakes, french toast, sausage, oatmeal, fruit, bagels, muffins, danish, croissants.  I sat at a table with a woman named Maggie from Maryland. She was a walker. She had walked marathons in the past but was now back on track after changing her life around. She had two major surgeries, front and back and then gained weight that she didn’t want. She sold her car, walked every day to work, and lost the weight and was here to walk the 26.2. She was really sweet, kind of shy but friendly and open with very alive eyes. We were joined by three women from Kentucky who were walking a relay. They were all cool and they talked the way polite Southern ladies talked sounding vaguely like late nineteenth century novels with a hint of amusement and seduction in their voices. Contemporaneously, three men, also Southerners, joined us. They weren’t connected before today; they were Virginians, two brothers, one in his seventies the other in his sixties and the third man was probably in his late sixties. He looked like Jimmy Carter if you stretched him out to 6’5″ without adding a pound. He had run Ninety Four marathons in his life. Ninety Bleeping Four marathons. Fifteen minutes after that fact was disclosed, one of the Southern women said, “I’m still trying to wrap my head around Ninety Four marathons. How did you do that?” He said, “I don’t know. About two or three a year. ” Sure, it’s easy. Just do the math,  I thought.

The younger of the brothers said that he would like to say that he was a marathoner but he had quit at 18 miles the time he ran one. His older brother was walking. They kept talking about the Wake Forest foot ball game they were missing to be here, proud of the fact that they were foregoing something dear to their hearts for the run.

So the runners expo opened, and I looked around for stuff to buy, runners gloves, a hat maybe, and something for my knees. I wound up buying some gloves, two knee bands, a 26.2 magnet for my car, an orange colored running jacket to go with my Miami Dolphin running colors. I put a silent auction bid on a banner which showed animals running the marathon. The birds were winning, followed by rabbits, foxes and lastly, a moose. (I won the bid, if you want to know)

I ran back and encountered Maggie again and we chatted as we came back into town. I told her that she would probably pass me walking and she laughed. We parted and I calledmy daughter Gina and picked her up a cup of coffee.  I was really proud that she had come with me to watch me run. I love Maine and this was my first opportunity to show it to her. We went to Brewer to get cash from the closest Bank of America. We went to Bangor to goof around,. We found the most expensive hippest place to have lunch in Bangor. It was called Giacomo’s and it had a good location, great soup, reasonably good coffee and outrageous prices. Or maybe we were just making stupid purchases. We walked around and shopped and took pictures. We found a cool comic book store. 

At night, we went to a pre-race pasta dinner at the high school. The food was way below ordinary. The pasta was barely edible and for dessert they had brownies made of cotton. We went back to my room. I was really nervous. I put together every thing I needed for the run. Picked out my clothes, put my racing bib on, packed my dry clothes for after the race. I re-read the instructions. We had to drop our dry clothes off at the bus by 7:25 and be at the starting line by 7:35. I remember how much I fretted about the No Ipods rule until I found out that they didn’t enforce it. I got my Ipod, armband and ear phones set up.

Here is what I actually wrote in my handwritten journal on Saturday night:

“Yes. I cannont deny that I am nervous and scared. What makes me nervous and scared is the funky pain in my right knee. I can’t understand why it moved from my left knee. I don’t want pain to keep me from finishing.

” I can do this. I can do it. I’m strong. I worked at it. I trained for it. I’m a fighter., a warrior goddess amazon. I’m limitless. I’m loved. I can do it. I will do it. ”

I slept well. I fell asleep easily. I woke up a couple of times but I fell back to sleep without trauma. When the alarm went off at 6:25, I got out of bed and just kept moving. Grapefruit juice, vitamins, banana and yogurt. And anticipatory ibuprofen. I cleaned up. Put on a little bit of makeup so my eyes had some definition. I put my orange Met tank top on under my teal top. My shorts were teal with Orange trim. Dolphin colors. I like the Dolphins because of their colors. I knew it was a little chilly so I put my tights on under the shorts. My white asics with pink stripes because they were a scotche looser that my blue striped asics.

I didn’t realize how many runners there were staying at the hotel. There were two guys on the stairs and a woman by the door. Chris, the hotel owner, wished me luck. I went back to Gina’s room to wake her up and give her the car keys. She looked so sleepy and reluctant to wake up. She asked if I really wanted her to watch me start the race and to take pictures. I didn’t have the heart to force her to wake up so I let her off the hook and said, no, go back to sleep. Just make sure you pick me up at the end.

I went out towards the starting line. it was chilly and grey and moist. Mount Desert Avenue was busy and full of people.  I made my way towards the starting line. I found a place to stretch. I was looking at people but not really seeing them, I was seeing parts of them in bits and pieces. It started to rain, fine, shifty little raindrops, just thick enough to be annoying. I started to feel alone and resentful about Gina not showing up. I thought she should want to be here to see me off. I shouldn’t have to beg her to wake up and be present for me. I moved under an awning out of the rain. took off my orange racing jacket and put my teal shirt on over it. I looked like one of the members of the Legion of Super-Heroes, Colossal Girl, I think. I started to set my mind and get positive when Gina found me. I warmed up instantly. I was proud that she figured out how much it meant for me for her to be there. We hugged and she took some pictures. We both noted that we were seeing the most shapely, muscular calves we had ever seen in our lives.

Gary, the RaceMaster, was calling out every few minutes in a very Woodstock kind of voice what a great day it was and what great humans we were for running, this, the greatest of all marathons. He announced that there were a few people who had run in all ten marathons up to today and as a reward, they were going to get lifetime entrance fees comped. At about ten to eight, he introduced the guest speaker from the pasta dinner to say a very few words, which were:
“Pay no attention to the imaginary rain.” Then he introduced a fine young animal of a man who had run a marathon in Hartford the day before. He had historically run a subfour minute mile.

A single horn played the National Anthem. A few people sang the words silently, a few people including me hummed the tune aloud. It sounded eerie and reverent. I got emotional about the Star Spangled Banner for the first time, maybe because it was honoring me as an athlete. It made me think, what an incredible country! What a beautiful state and what strong, stubborn and adventurous people we were to run 26.2 miles through a hilly terrain on a cold wet day just because it was a challenge. Awesome. There were about 1200 people running and walking the marathon.

I had this image of being in the control tower of my body which was a robot. I was directing the robot to move. I didn’t actually hear the cannon shot that started the race but everybody started moving and I moved along with the crowd in the middle of the street.

In the first mile, I trotted slowly and regulated my breathing. It was hard to get started. I felt a bit jumbled; stunned that I was doing it and that the day was here. Everybody passed me. Everybody as I have learned, is faster than me. As one guy passed me, he said, “Dolphin colors! I’m from Miami!” I told him I was wearing dolphin colors because I was mad at the Mets. I’m not really. I just borrowed the anger of my friend Angel a co-owner of my favorite coffee shop in Bar Harbor.

People lined the streets cheering. I confess to having the cynical thought, yeah you’re just glad that the Marathon extends the tourist season into October. I’m not really that jaded, I just like to pretend that I am. As we finished the first half mile, I noticed a woman holding up a sign that said “YOU CAN’T FIX DEAD!” Wow, I thought. A sobering sentiment.

When I say everyone passed me, I mean that. EVERYone passed me. An old man while passing me said I was “looking good.” I said I was right where I wanted to be, heading for last place, he said, “No, you’ll pass me. I’m 78 years old.” I yelled “So you don’t get smarter when you get older!” He said, “I been gettin’ dumber!” and moved on.

The first couple or three miles passed quietly. It is a spectacularly beautiful run and it starts being beautiful right away. The first big landmark is a mountain lake on the right called “The Tarn,” or with local inflection, “The Tahn.” It is supposed to be about 10-15 degrees colder here than on the rest of the run and it was indeed colder. I had a couple of people in front of me and a few in back. We passed the first Gatorade/Water stop and drank deeply. I watched a guy a half mile in front of me go to the side of the road and urinate.

I was keeping a good, steady pace in the first five miles. I felt great. I was pretty well outfitted for the temperature and my own body heat was maintaining. I passed the Otter Creek Market which is the Five Mile mark. There was an old guy with a beard out front and we said hello to each other. About a mile before, I had heard some music, no identifiable song but a good rock beat, a drum and a guitar. It was kind of on a loop, the same pleasant riff played over and over. As I passed the musicians, I laughed and thanked them. I signalled to them with my hands and shouted, “Who nee ds an IPod?” I thought for the first time, hey, I’m running without my Ipod and it is not that bad. I’ll go as long as I can without it and I’ll use it if I get bored or distracted or desperate or suicidal. As it was, I never needed the Ipod. I ran through listening to the beat and music of nature.

At mile 6, I started to feel confident. I said, historically, I’ve done 20 miles, before and I have 20 left. I know I can do 20 more even if Iwalk it.  At mile 7, I started to feel pain especially in the left knee. Which makes sense: that’s my old sciatica side. When I had back surgery, that was the part of my body that hurt the most and the disks that served that leg were decompressed. So I hit the emergency pain reliever: one 50 mg cap of tramadol left over from dental pain. I had three with me, and I thought i’d start with one and increase it if need be. I kept experimenting with the little knee bands I bought as Dumbo feathers at the expo. They did feel better in a sense but by this point, my knees were swollen from running, so they were too tight.

Just after Mile 7 there was a volunteer directing runners to the next leg of the path. She said, like all the volunteers said, “Good Job! You’re doing great!” I said, “Can I help it if I wasn’t born Kenyan?” In Mile 7, the ocean is  on the left. There are boats docked. There are nice houses on the right. The road slopes upward, not always gently. I liked running up hill; down hill was more difficult because gravity kind of pushed me where I didn’t want to be pushed. I’m sure that once I master this sport, I’ll get better running down hill.

At mile 8, there are challenging hills. My knee pain persisted but Isaid to myself in my best Monty Python voice, “F#*% your pain. Keep running.” I dosed again. I didn’t feel like the first tramadol kicked in and I wanted to have two working on me at the same time. Speaking of time, I lost track of it. I knew when an hour had passed, but after that, I just kept track by the sun as I watched it travel west. Oh, wait. I forgot, the sun doesn’t revolve around me. It’s the earth that’s moving.

The miles ticked off. People passed me and honked, shouted encouraging words, gave me a thumbs up. It felt good. But at one point, around mile ten, a big SUV with a family passed by me and an eight or nine year old boy looked at me and yelled, “You’re Poky!” My first instinct was to yell the obscenity about sexual intercourse at the kid. My second instinct was to accuse him of being a female body part used for that procedure. I imagined the parents stopping the giant yuppie mobile and getting out and berating me for cursing at their little imp. I would then direct my anger at the parents for raising a miserable brat who would criticize others engaged in a worthy physical pursuit while he sat on his bony little ass in the back seat of  a gas guzzling monster. Were they actively engaged in oppressing the poor and the working classes? Or were they just tools of the ruling class themselves?

I considered whether physical exertion produced hallucinogens as well as endorphins. Shortly thereafter, I passed the Asticou Inn, one of the legendary inns of the area. People were outside taking down signs in anticipation of the end of the season. An older guy said, “Not much further. You’re about half way there.” I said “Slow and steady wins the race.” This was around Mile 11. I was about to pass the houses of Dick Wolf and Martha Stewart.

The pain persisted. I kept on. I knew that eventually I would have to start walking if I wanted to finish. I was about to take the last of the tramadol figuring that the first two hadn’t made a dent in the leg pain. Both knees were screaming by now. I was praying on and off. I had made a deal with the Almighty that I’d start believing again if he or she or it would get me through this damn race. But when I opened the case with my ibuprofen and the last tram, the pills spilled out and were lost. I wasn’t going to crawl around looking for them so I figured that guts alone got me here, guts would get me to 26.2.

I hit mile 13. Then I hit 13.1. I allowed the feeling of Cautious Optimism to flow through my body. I took a picture of the 13.1 sign with my ChuckBerry and sent it out to a few friends. I was now convinced I was going to make it. I ran. I ran some more.

It was a long time before I saw another runner. I was amazed at myself. I thought about all the doubts I had. I looked at the woods. I looked up in the sky. At one point, I saw a hawk or a falcon, just a beautiful full wing spreaded bird, and felt related to him. Just full out running.

I got to Somes Sound. The only natural fjord in the continental United States of America. I saw the Somes Tree; I greeted it as I went past it. Then I saw the first other runner I had seen for a long time. He was standing at a table where they had been dispensing GU, the wonderful, cake icing like substance that runners squirt or squeeze into their mouths when they need a boost. I said, Oh wow! GU! and grabbed and Espresso flavored package. He said he’d never had it before. He was from Farmington Maine. We chatted about our training for a while and I told him that most of my training had been in flat lined Illinois. He trained in a valley, which was not much better. He had a cramp so he was taking it easy.

I left him so I could run past the next mileage sign.I had developed a pattern by which I would run the beginning of a mile, walk the middle and then run the last third or more. A few miles I ran through or a greater part of the mile. I would make it a point to run up to the mile marker and past it as long as I could go. I pulled up to the next person I could pass. He was a nice guy named Scott from Yonkers, NY. He had run five marathons before today, one of them was Utah. He also ran Chicago.  We talked for a while about cities. We both liked Cleveland and Bruce Springsteen. He said Cleveland had a phenomenal art museum. He had a cramp too, and had decided to walk the rest of the way in. I gave him some salt to help his cramp. He didn’t know that potassium helped.

I saw the 18 mile marker up ahead so I left Scott and passed it. I ran by myself for a long while before passing someone else, a walker. I asked how she was doing and she anwered, “I’m okay. This is hard!” I said, that it’s something we can tell our grandkids . As the day wore on, the quality of my one liners deteriorated.  I was kind of on a roll at that point so I just kept running.

Next I came across a woman, a walker who said she was feeling emotional. I said, I wasn’t allowing myself to feel anything yet. Truth be told, I just didn’t want to know about anybody else’s emotions.  I blew through mile 19 and then 20. Just before the mile marker for 20 is a vicious hill which is as close to straight up as I had ever seen. Earlier, I had told someone I was going to walk up this hill but now, I forced myself to run it. I had run as far as the first 20 before but the next 3 miles were unknown to me. I passed them with two other runners: a woman from Atlanta and another woman with whom I didn’t exchange bona fides. We just talked about getting through.

During the remaining miles, runners who were driving back after finishing were passing me, honking me, giving the thumbs up, yelling “Good Job!” I kept on responding with a smile or a thumbs up gesture. I had a couple of texts from my trainer. Gina drove by on the way to the finish line to pick me up. She yelled out, “Run that shit!”

I had run this stretch before, the last miles from 23 to 26.2. It went up sharply and then down gently the last mile and a half. As I approached the finish line, I could swear I heard my name being called out. It turned out that Gina had gotten there and they had asked her if she was waiting for me and what my name was. So the volunteers and officials at the finish line started yelling, “Come on Jill!” “You Can do It!” “Good Job!” and such. It was thrilling and mildly amusing. Gina was there at the last 100 feet and I tried to hug her but she said, “don’t stop! You might fall down!” They directed me down the middle of the street. I crossed the finish line at 7 hours 36 minutes and  24 seconds. Not a world record of any kind and a lot of walkers beat me. but I crossed. I was the 892nd person to cross. Ultimately, there were 924 finishers.

I got a medal and a shiny blanket. I was in shock. I was so exhilarated.  I made it. I made it. I made it. That phrase kept looping through my mind. I texted everybody and took some photos of me in my Met tank top and finisher’s medals. I looked for food. I realized I was starving. The free food station had already shut down but I got the food purveyors to dig out something for me. I got an Italian sausage, some pulled pork without barbecue sauce and a frankfurter  that was so red it looked like a dog’s erection. As hungry as I was, I couldn’t eat the frankfurter.

The Racemaster spotted me and said good job. “First time runner, huh?” I said yes. He said, “You know how I know that?” I said no. He said, “You have a green racing bib on!” I said, feeling unaccountably foolish, “I bet I can tell where you got your shoes.” He looked at me and said “Okay. Where?” I said, “You got them on your feet.”

My sense of humor was back. For what that’s worth.

I was going to title this ” Everybody Is Faster Than Me.” But then I realized how irrelevant that is. I ran the race I ran. I ran the only race I could run. Nobody trained like me. Nobody picked this goal but me. It was all me. And I only had to please me.

And it wasn’t just the 26.2 miles today. It was the journey here – the seven hundred or so miles that I ran in the forest preserve and the lake front and down Oak Park Avenue that I ran in training. I sacrificed quite a few weekend morning sleep ins to train. Four nights a week, I came home from working eight hours to put on gym shorts and shoes to squeeze in six or seven miles before dinner. I missed a few 90 minute How I Met Your Mother marathons to prepare for this one. I bored my friends with my tales. I learned about Krill oil and Hylauronic Acid andand GU and putting Glide under my arms,  and  my favorite – the oil of the emu.  How many emus gave up their oil to massage my poor aching knees?

Yes,  it’s all in the journey, but the arriving is important too.  I ran for real, for my real life, the life where I achieve and struggle and grow and create. That’s how to live it. For real.