Sometimes the Marathon Wins
Expectations and Frustrations in New York

By Scott Larson

I limp, confined to the sidewalk, toward 77th Street in Brooklyn to catch the subway back to Manhattan. I have just passed the three-mile mark of the New York City Marathon, but my race is over. To my left runners flow en masse, not far removed from the Staten Island start, still with the energy to match shouts with the coffee-sipping spectators.

No runner makes it to the start of the New York City Marathon without personal sacrifice. The temptation to hit the snooze button squelched in order to get in 10 miles before work, an extra slice of pizza forgone, long runs crammed in between weekend errands are some of the many. For my part, I traveled to Kimberley, a small town located in the South African interior, for a five-week training stint with Gert Thys, a 2:06 marathoner (he would place seventh in New York this year); Ian Syster, who ran 2:07 last April in London; and Tobias Hiskia, a talented young Namibian.

"You must eat," Gert advises over a dinner of curried chicken and rice. "Tomorrow is town-to-town."

At 6:30 on a Sunday morning, we hit the road from Kimberley to Barkley Wes at a 5:20 per mile clip. Sprawling brown grasslands dotted with small trees surround us. Baboons graze confidently by the road I will get to know intimately. The peacefulness of the rising sun and the distant melodies from shantytown singing in no way belie my inner struggle.

"Relax," I tell myself. "One step at a time." But the rational mind is too strong. "I can't make it," it argues. With more than 15 miles still to go, my legs are sore and beginning to crumble. My stride is ragged, while the others seem to float. We slow for water provided by Gert's wife, who follows in a car. This saves me. The relentless pace subsides briefly, and along with it my panic. Now I count my steady exhalations, up to 100, then begin again. The time flies, my mind is quiet. We cover the last 5 miles at a pace hovering around five minutes per mile-23 miles in a little over two hours.

Six days a week, this was my sacrifice, this was my fight. There was no striving, only survival. The New York City Marathon seemed as distant as my trip home -- nowhere in my conscious thought.

I trained hard, perhaps too hard. After one particularly trying effort over undulating terrain I saw blood in my urine. I told myself that sometimes it is important to push beyond what seems possible.

In many ways, running is a selfish sport. Personal sacrifice pales in comparison to the support given by spouses, family, and friends. They are the reason we pursue our dreams. My wife, Robyn, six months pregnant at the time of my departure, moved across town to our new home. My parents and our friends assisted. I ran.

They expect nothing in return, but we as runners feel a deep accountability. Our gift to them is the accomplishment of our goals. All a runner can expect from himself or herself is total effort. However, when failure occurs, this is no salve.

In Bay Ridge, cold and shivering in singlet and shorts-the African struggle flushed from my body, seemingly wasted -- I stare blurry-eyed at the subway map. Dazed, in no frame of mind to reason, I hear a couple ask me if I need help.

"I have to get back to the Hilton in Manhattan," I mumble. Their daughter, Kathleen, gives me a long-sleeved shirt. Her friend hands me 10 dollars "just in case." They offer to travel with me to the hotel. I decline, and they give me clear directions instead.

Contrary to what the popular t-shirt proclaims, running is not life, but it can teach us a great deal about who we are and what we want to become. Anyone who has ever laced up a pair of running shoes with joy and mindful purpose knows the meaning of the word humility. And although the sacrifice of the runner is small compared to world sufferings, one has the notion that if more people joined our ranks, life would be better.

That night I learn that I tore my plantar fascia not more than two miles into the race. Someday I'll be back, as will most of the people who traveled from around the world and across the United States to make this 26.2-mile journey. Not because of city nights or Broadway lights, but because of people like Kathleen. And because we accept the high price asked for the chance to try again.

Scott Larson was the 2001 USA Marathon Champion. He lives in Superior, Colorado.

(Posted November 20, 2002)