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Above and Below: Chris Lear during the 24th mile of the ING New York City Marathon.
(Photos: Alison Wade/New York Road Runners)

NYC 2003 - My First Marathon
by Chris Lear

Over the past two and a half months, Chris Lear, a Colorado-based full-time sales representative and freelance writer, has shared his training diary leading up to the ING New York City Marathon. In this, his 13th and final entry, Lear describes his marathon debut.

Entry #13, November 6, 2003 - The ING New York City Marathon 2003

I arrived in Staten Island at about 7:30 a.m. on marathon Sunday feeling refreshed and relaxed. I wasn't surprised that I felt refreshed; other than a session of quick (5:00 pace) 300-meter repeats on Wednesday evening at the Colorado College track, I did nothing all week but jog easily. I was a little worried that I wouldn't feel too rested, however, because I missed a connecting flight Thursday evening, and arrived in New Jersey feeling haggard and ornery Friday night. Thankfully, a few good home-cooked meals and two nights of solid sleep had me feeling fresh as a daisy as I walked towards the blue corral.

If anything worried me, it was the cloudless sky above. Though I'd done a little rain dance Saturday evening when I heard temperatures were going to be in the fifties and the skies were to be overcast, I must have forgotten my mojo, for by 8:00 a.m. the temperature was crawling into the 60s and the blue skies were riding.

Like an itch that begs to be scratched, I felt I felt a sudden urge to reexamine my pre-race plan. I'd drawn up my plan d'attaque on Thursday evening after consulting with Neal Henderson of the Boulder Center for Sports Medicine. I first met with Neal in early October to get a physiological handle on my training and had been using heart rate training ever since. In short order I'd dropped my threshold pace from 6:05 a mile to 5:42 a mile. Given that (albeit limited) information, Neal concurred with me that while a 6:15 clip might cause me to struggle heinously towards race-end, a 6:20 clip (2:46 marathon pace) sounded negotiable.

Glancing heavenward once more on this true-blue morning, I wondered if even that might be ambitious. For years now I've bought into one of University of Colorado Coach Mark Wetmore's cardinal rules: run objectively based on your fitness. It's such a basic concept, yet it's so difficult to achieve because most of us, even ex-competitive runners like myself, harbor desires to get out there and do something heroic. Fortunately for me, the cautionary tales I'd seen on paper at the Chicago Marathon and in person at mile 10 of last's week's Marine Corps Marathon, where I could almost see buzzards flying over some heads, made it easy for me to conclude that I'd better run even more conservatively than I'd initially planned.

With two hours to kill before the race went off at 10:10, I grabbed a cup of joe and went to sprawl out on any old patch of grass. I might as well have plopped down at the UN. I was surrounded by a Russian native now residing in Brooklyn, some Italians, and a group of runners from Toulouse in the south of France. Curiosity piqued, I asked a French woman next to me why she, for one, had chosen to run New York. She replied, quite simply, that it's the best marathon in the world.

In no time we were called to begin heading to the start. After a few stretches, and a quick glance to make sure I'd double-knotted my shoes, I moved forward with my starting group (bibs 1-1000). There was a lot of pushing and shoving on the way to the foot of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, which struck me as pretty ridiculous, and I guess I should have held my ground a bit more, for when I took stock of the bibs around me in the two-thousands, I knew I'd slipped backwards. Oh well.

Twenty seconds after the shot of the cannon, I hit the starting line. I spent most of that first mile on the bridge dodging this way and that through people who really had no business starting close to the front. That said, it's a tribute to the incredible work and organizational skills of the NYRR staff that by the first mile I was through the riffraff and on my way.

I'd lost time on the first mile, which I crossed in about 7:30, so going downhill I tried to relax and get into a bit of a rhythm. That went out the window when I passed a phalanx of runners surrounding mile legend Eamonn Coghlan. I couldn't help myself. "Chairman of the Boards," I called out, "You the man!" He kindly acknowledged my remarks with a smile and a wave. Juiced, I continued on my way.

I covered that second mile in under 6:00, so once onto pavement, I focused once more on trying to find my rhythm. For a mile or so I floundered with the pace while scanning about for someone who looked like they were running about 6:20s. After several glances and queries led nowhere, I caught sight of a godsend in the form of identical twins.

The pair was running in sync, and they looked like they were effortlessly dialed into what they were doing. Moreover, after a quick analysis of their stride, I noted that they ran really similarly to my old college roommate Robert Johnson and his twin brother Weldon. Another check. Then consider that I'm one of a pair of running twins myself and it was clear to me that there was something kinda karmic going on here.

I quickly shouldered up one to them and started yip-yapping, only to hear the one say something that registered as "No English." I continued on anyway, hoping to decipher a bit more about their plans when the other twin said, "2:50" and shook his hand as if to say "more or less." It was on. I'd found my huckleberry.

I tucked in behind them, and other than for a brief two-mile period around the 10k mark when the twins excitedly ran and chatted with marathon legends Martin Fiz and 1994 New York City Marathon champ German Silva they (Note: I nicknamed them Rojo and Wejo since I didn't know their names) were dialed into that 6:20 pace, and I was free to chill.

That meant, on this day of days, imbibing massive quantities of liquid and energy gel. Though I'd only brought four gels with me for the race, by mile 10 I'd consumed three of them. I was also hitting each and every water stop and filling up on water and/or Gatorade, whichever struck my fancy. If it's there, I figured, might as well use it.

Between bouts of hydration, I reveled in the scene as we rolled through Brooklyn neighborhoods for the race's first 12 miles. At many points, the fans were two and three people deep and cheering exuberantly. Rigged-up stereo systems and bands gave me another big-time lift. I wish I could tell you more about what I heard when, but at this point I was so in the moment, and so conscious of my physical state that I was sensing but not absorbing anything. It was like a low-grade version of races I'd run in the past where I was so in the zone I couldn't even remember hearing a thing.

That changed as I passed the half-marathon in 1:23:50. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was exactly where I wanted to be and I felt entirely in my comfort zone. I slackened my sensory noose in hopes of letting more information filter in.

Yet while I made this inward shift, my running didn't change. Other than an occasional exhortation like "bueno!" to the twins or an infrequent run on their shoulder, I stayed right behind the duo until I tackled the Queensboro Bridge at mile 15.

At this point my imagination began to take over as I envisioned the charge I'd get upon exiting the bridge onto First Avenue in Manhattan. My family and friends had gathered at my sister Freddy's Manhattan apartment to watch the first half of the race and I knew I'd see them when I was out there around the 17-mile mark. I got goosebumps just thinking about it, and as my emotions got the best of me, my legs responded.

I charged ahead of the twins and motioned for them to come with me, but they didn't respond. Undaunted, I continued, certain I'd see them again. Unfortunately I never did. Not in the race or afterwards. (Should they by some karmic coincidence stumble upon this entry I'll tell them now what I should have said then: thank you.)

By the time I exited out of the Queensboro Bridge at mile 16 I was running solo.

And oh, what an exit! I've run in Madison Square Garden, at the Penn Relays, you name it. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing I've ever done in my running career can match that moment when I spilled onto First Avenue and saw thousands and thousands of fans lining the streets.

I lost all sense of pace (I have no splits on my watch from miles 16-22) and utterly delighted in the moment. I started yelling at the crowd, "Let me hear you New York!" And they roared back at me as if on cue. I gestured and they responded. It was amazing, like living out a rock and roll fantasy.

It got even better when I heard and saw my family and friends cheering for me. I can't remember what the heck I did or said but I basically yelled at them in utter excitement.

That's when I started picking people off. For the next four miles I started moving by runners one by one. Though I was running this race against no one but myself, on some level I was getting a charge out of flying by folks who were clearly running out of gas. Some I encouraged to come with me. Others I just passed.

Shoot, I was feeling great, and I felt even better after I downed two of the three PowerGels I had grabbed at mile 18 as I entered the Bronx at mile 20.

I kept passing people through the Bronx and though I kept feeling great, in the back of my mind I wondered when oh when were the wheels gonna fall off. I think that's why, when I saw my buddy John Honerkamp yell at me at mile 22 that I was looking great, I could only manage to tell him "I'm gonna finish!" and nothing more.

I got a boost at that point when my old college teammate Scott "Slicko" Anderson jumped in with me to run a few miles. His presence helped. Though I didn't really notice it then, and I didn't respond to his conversation out of fear it would somehow wreck my concentration, he told me I was picking up the pace, and from that point the countdown was on.

My quads started really aching with each footfall here, as if someone was punching me in the thigh on each step. It didn't hurt as much as fan a deep-seated fear of my quadriceps cramping.

I set my sights on maintaining my rhythm through the finish. Though I never bothered so much as once to glance down at my watch, from miles 22 to 25 I was counting down the minutes in my mind. And though every exhortation from family and friends (including running photog extraordinaire Alison Wade) during this stretch helped me incalculably, outwardly I don't think I changed expression at all. While the tock kept ticking along in my noggin, I had one thought on repeat: "Relax, relax, relax."

That changed once I made it past the sign for the 25th mile. I knew then, to my relief, that there was no way I was not going to finish. Freed from the fear of the unknown, I reacted to the sight of throngs of people sitting passively along Central Park South by throwing my hands in the air and yelling, "Come on New York!"

The crowd showered me with love, but, like a gentle warning, what I really felt was a quick tightening in my calf. I hadn't had a single calf problem the entire race, and I couldn't imagine having to quit now because I leapt into the air getting the crowd juiced.

Lesson learned, I kept it smooth all the way till the homestretch, when I saw the clock ticking at 2:49. I picked it up ever so slightly in that last stretch to get in under 2:50. When I hit the line, I think I threw my hands up in joy.

For no reason at all, as I walked along, I felt a torrent of emotion rip through me. All I could think about was seeing my wife, my family, and my friends, and when I did, it took everything I had not to lose it.

Every step from there to perennial New York City Marathon stalwart Joe McVeigh's party at Prohibition was pure agony, but I know that will be forgotten as soon as my legs remember how to work again (and I sure hope that's sooner rather than later). The journey, on the other hand, I will never forget, and there are 34,661 others who I'm sure will tell you likewise.

Sincerely,
Chris

P.S. Whether you're reading this for the first time or you've followed this journal from the first installment, I hope you've enjoyed it. In a very real sense, writing this journal for you out there kept me honest on many a day when all I wanted to do was throw in the towel. For that, I thank you.
     
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