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NYC 2003 - My First Marathon
by Chris Lear

Chris Lear

Over the next four weeks, Chris Lear, a Colorado-based full-time sales representative and freelance writer, will be sharing his training diary as he prepares to run in this year's edition of the ING New York City Marathon — his marathon debut. Lear, like the vast majority of this year's entrants, is not a full-time runner. Yet, as for most of the competitors running this year's event, November 2 will nonetheless represent the culmination of months of hard work and planning. Each finisher, in the end, will have his or her own story to tell. In coming weeks, Lear will share with you his story: his goals, dreams, triumphs, and disappointments as he prepares to tackle the 26.2-mile behemoth for the first time. He hopes you'll enjoy the ride…

Entry #8, October 2, 2003 — On the Road

"From the [cargo ship] all I had seen were dolphins. I had assumed that the Pacific, but for the passing schools of fish, was a sparsely inhabited waste of water. I have learned since that cargo ships travel too quickly for fish. You are as likely to see sea life from a ship as you are to see wildlife in a forest from a car on a highway. Dolphins, very fast swimmers, play about boats and ships much like dogs chase cars: they race along until they can no longer keep up. If you want to see wildlife, it is on foot, and quietly, that you must explore a forest. It is the same with the sea. You must stroll through the Pacific at a walking pace, so to speak, to see the wealth and abundance that it holds."
- The Life of Pi

I blazed eastwards, taking in the view from the sanitized perch of my SUV. I headed straight through Rocky Ford, home of the mighty Meloneers, to the dusty dead-end plains of southeastern Colorado, where hope is a mirage on the horizon, wooden shanties collapse under the weight of time, and old cars go to die. Only strands of trees snaking this way and that, standing at attention like the queen's centurions, broke the monotony of the plains, despite the fact they were cruelly rooted to creek beds that have long since run dry.

Hours later, at dusk, gazing through the carcasses smeared across my windshield, I spotted the neon lights of our fast food nation like a beacon in the vastness, welcoming me to my destination. Fast food chains have their foot firmly lodged on the collective throat of our nation, shoveling their goods into our mouths, and nowhere is this more apparent than in rural America, where the independent restauranteur is as rare as a spotted owl. But what about life beyond the strip, I wondered as I turned off the ignition. What might I find in store?

I changed into my togs at at the aptly named Cow Palace, drove down the strip, and parked my rig in the lot behind the golden arches. I ran west, where the road turned to dirt, with nothing more than my whim to guide me. Before long I was running beside a near-barren canal, the water's dawdling motion reminiscent of the town's slowly fading fortunes. I fixed my gaze across the road on an old tin trailer with a pieced together addition composed of nothing more than scraps of plywood jutting forth from its rear. I had just begun to imagine what the lives of the inhabitants might have been like when my reverie was interrupted by the rapid clink-clink-clink of chain uncoiling. Yards from the street, teeth bared, a mangy mutt leapt at me. I flew airborne towards the ditch as the mutt skidded to a sudden halt and sheepishly made its way back to the metal stake spiked into the dirt yard.

I continued on, senses heightened, but only the crickets were rousting as the sky turned a smoky orange hue before me. Then, voices, Spanish voices, high-pitched children's voices, rose above the strumming and incantations of traditional Mexican music emanating from an old box radio, and children's faces, dark and full, became illuminated now and again when the wind fanned the flames of a fire pit in the yard. They stopped and stared as I ran past, and all I heard was the music, and not the children's song.

I came upon an empty park that stood like an oasis in the dust, with long lush grass that cushioned each footfall, interrupted every 10 yards by the lines of chalk that demarcate our national pastime. I circled round and round the field in solitude simply because the grass felt so good. I heard voices to the south, so when I tired I heeded them, and saw the locals playing their game, kicking la pelota on a field, primarily dirt, with grass only in spots where la pelota wouldn't find it.

Moving on, stomach rumbling, I turned away from the auburn sky and made for the soulless neon strip. The sounds of the Mexican cantors, broken by the playful shrieks of children, dissipated into the rush of tractor trailers on their way to somewhere.

I sought out one of the few local joints to grub up for the night, and got both a hearty welcome and a suspicious glare from the starched shirt and jeans wearing proprietor-host as I entered the joint with salt-streaked cheeks and tussled hair. I eyed the board that announced the fried chicken special and made for the menu in search of lighter fare. I flipped open the left side of the menu, saw nothing there. Flipped open the right side of the menu. "On the lighter side," it said. And I laughed out loud as I saw what made for lighter fare: "Small chicken fried steak." Now ain't that America...

-Chris
     
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