I have so far been unable to get the front page to publish. I don’t know what’s going on. I tried deleting the Atom links, but they publish anyway, which is certainly an odd result so far as I’m concerned. I’ll keep working on it. Meantime, if you click on any month on the front page of the blog, you will see a current list of monthly links to the left. I’ll get it fixed ASAP, I promise, or find a new blog host, whichever.

Now, that said, for my final report on my Marathon Training Experience, I would normally blog it, but I’m putting it here because I know that at least this site works. Without further ado, then, the not (intentionally) funny . . .

By Steve Fey

Yes, friends, the finish, as in that line 26 miles and two tenths miles past the starting line. If you think about it, that’s just a twenty mile jog followed by a ten-kilometer race, so how hard can it be? Well, let’s review.

I was awakened at, well I was about to say 3am by the alarm on my cell phone, but in fact I woke up ten minutes before that because I was afraid of oversleeping. Fat chance, because I was pretty keyed up over finally reaping the fruits of my months of slogging around the streets of Henderson, or up and down, and up and down, and up and down Pittman Wash on Sunday mornings. Six months I did that, and the great thing about the past week was that training consisted of stretching out as if I were going to run, then eating all the starchy foods I could hold. That I could do any time, I’m sure. But today I had to be in a ballroom in the Mandalay Bay Convention Center by 4:30, so I was up and at ‘em bright and early.

When I drove down to the Strip I expected to take Frank Sinatra Drive (an exit of off I-15) and turn right into the Mandalay Bay parking garage. It’s easy, one of those little shortcuts locals know about. The paper said that they were going to close Frank Sinatra at 5:30. I got there a bit before 4:00, and it was closed. I had to do a couple of illegal turns to get in. My excuse? I was in the show, of course. Being in the show is important in Vegas. It’s about a ten minute walk from the garage to the convention center, and that’s at 4:20 am when there aren’t really that many people around. Except of course the people who were still up from the night before. On a Sunday morning in Vegas, there are a lot of those. Some of them were walking a bit unsteadily with cocktails in hand, bless their hearts. They probably didn’t pay for the booze, other than their souvenir hangovers of course. Those, you realize, never do stay in Vegas. Sorry about that. Anyhow, by five the room downstairs where we met was bursting with the Las Vegas Roadrunners, the Los Angeles Roadrunners, up for the race, and a couple of other running clubs. We had pep talks from Rod Dixon and others, gave rousing cheers, and walked in a large, snaky mass out to Las Vegas Boulevard, another ten minutes away. I’ll tell you, Vegas has some big buildings, and that’s the truth.

Once out there it got exciting as all get out. I’m not kidding. For one thing, there were sixteen thousand people cramming into the Boulevard. The runners were divided into corrals on some basis or other. We, on the basis of being members of groups sponsored by the race sponsors, got corral one. Yep, the starting line was right there. I turned around and as far as I could see (I’m pretty tall, so that’s a ways) was a sea of humanity, and all of them behind me. But, in front of us was better stuff.

For one thing, there were fireworks. We were in front of Mandalay Bay, and from just behind the MGM came a really fine fireworks display. I mean, it was the sort of thing a small town looks wistfully at for their Independence Day celebration, then they buy the standard package for another year. It was really, truly, spectacular fireworks: about ten minutes of what in most fireworks would be one fine finale. Okay, Vegas does lots of fireworks, but this was my first time seeing them on the Strip, where skimping on entertainment budgets just isn’t done. Then we saw the Elite Women take off: all three of them. They disappeared like gazelles over the Veldt, not surprisingly the lead Gazelle being Kenyan. Then we saw the wheelchair racers take off, and I’m surprised none of them ran over the women, who only had a five minute head start. They didn’t, for the record. Then the elite men lined up just ahead of us, maybe a hundred of them, but as the Kenyan flag being waved by one particular runner’s friend on the sidelines testified, there wasn’t much to speculate about. I think I read that the winning woman and the winning man are a couple. Kenya is, I also read recently, an exception to the poverty stricken Africa rule, so those guys are well fed, well educated, and fast as lightening. Something about traditional herders being able to run more cattle if they can run faster biasing the gene pool in favor of being fast. Anyway, they are. Then the Blue Man Group came out and performed the Star Spangled Banner, which was a very spirited rendition, then someone said "GO" and off we went. The Blue Man guys were doing another number, but I really couldn’t pay much attention because I had to position myself so that sixteen thousand people behind me wouldn’t run over my rear end as they tried to pass. The Strip glittered and shone, as it does in the night, and it was by far the absolute most impressive and fun race start I’ve ever participated in. (I used to run a lot of ten kilometer races in Minneapolis years ago.)

If you’ve only been a tourist you might not know this, but the Strip drops steadily as it goes North. Between that and the stiff (up to 33 MPH) breeze at our backs I couldn’t slow down for the first five miles, which probably cost me later. I hit the five-mile mark in a little over 54 minutes, eleven minute miles. My pace is 11:40. "Oh," I said to myself, "I am so screwed." Well, not that badly, but it could have been better.

We turned up Fourth Street and shot straight up to Fremont Street, where we ran under the canopy and out onto main, then around a couple of other streets and onto a major arterial called Martin Luther King Boulevard. Just a bit past Fremont Street was ten kilometers, marked by a timing mat. I was way ahead of my pace still. Things were looking up.

There was music every couple of miles, performed by various types of groups, and I mean all types. On the Strip was a Black Sabbath tribute band, if you can believe it, although the lead singer seemed oddly sober. On MLK Boulevard were a couple of gospel groups. Things went well for ten miles, at which point I could still see the front of the pack, no kidding. I was on time for a five hour finish, and then we turned West and faced a four-mile uphill into the wind, which was now getting to have raindrops in it. Not a lot of rain, but it was raining.

Now, here’s the thing: last week it was unseasonably warm and calm and sunny; this week is predicted to be unseasonably warm and calm and sunny; on race day it got windy and rained.

There was an aid station with water every mile. Every odd numbered mile they also had Gatorade (the Endurance Formula, which is good stuff) and at a few places they had GU, the wonder food of long distance athletes. The people at these stations were unfailingly friendly, smiling, helpful, and a joy to meet. In case any of them ever reads this: thanks a lot, because you guys are the best! I told them that every time I stopped to grab something. I did that a lot, because it gave me an excuse to walk a bit and rest accordingly. Besides the official aid station volunteers, the course was lined with people shouting encouragement, and I mean the entire distance, from the bridges over the Strip to the verge of Frank Sinatra and everywhere in between, and bless them all for the wonderful folks they are. I really could not have done it without all that support.

After the four-mile upgrade into the wind we turned South, more directly into the wind as it turned out, and did another six mile upgrade. This was getting heavy. Past the halfway point, but suddenly getting to feel like heavy going. The Kenyan who won also won last year, by the way, and he was fourteen minutes off of his time. The wind is amazing here some times. That street is called Torrey Pines, and is one that a tourist may never ever know exists except that I just told you. Finally, after ten miles of uphill slog, we turned onto Flamingo Road (that one you know) and headed, no kidding, down hill a bit, then up through a residential neighborhood and then East on Twain, which becomes Sands for a while East of the Strip (I know, Sands is end to end with Spring Mountain Road at Las Vegas Boulevard, but further on it turns into Twain.) That was a nice long downhill, which was certainly easier, and I got to pass the time by running with and talking with some of my fellow Roadrunners. I was doing okay, but after the turn onto Frank Sinatra Drive (closed since before four, you’ll recall) and by mile 24, I could no longer run. This wasn’t an issue, actually, as I had decided last June that a win meant crossing the finish line, upright a bonus, sprinting a super duper win, so I knew all I had to do was walk a couple of miles and I was home free. So I did, stopping to stretch my aching back a couple of times. My feet ached, and my toes were threatening lawsuits, but one thing about a Marathon runner is that one will not stop for anything, so I just kept walking on, running a bit when I saw the photographers, but otherwise keeping up a decent pace (for walking) as did most of my fellow racers at that stretch. At 26 miles, which was in the Southwest corner of the Mandalay Bay Convention Center, I started running at my usual pace, cheered on my several of my fellow Roadrunners, and about fifty yards from the end turned a corner and there was the finish line. Rested by my walk, I decided to sprint on across, and I did. No joke this time, I was going faster than I’d run in decades when I hit the timing mats. Overall maybe five hours forty minutes or so, but that sprint at the end was, well I was impressed so I guess it was impressive.

Then I met the club president as I waited to get my finisher photo taken, who I always enjoy talking with. I already had my medal, and I also had the worst breath of my life, which is something that happens to endurance athletes. Apparently when you run our of carbohydrate products your body starts burning fat directly. That sounds good, but one of the byproducts is acetone. Nail polish remover, in fact. It tastes bad, your sweat smells bad, and the only cure is to eat something. I came home and had a third of an apple pie, a glass of milk, a banana, a coke, then a nap, then a massage, then half a chicken broccoli quiche, some crackers, some cookies, another nap, you get the idea. I feel pretty good now, so long as I walk slowly at least, and I don’t think I did any real damage to any body parts, which is a good thing so far as I’m concerned.

I would recommend distance running to anyone wanting to generally feel better and also who would like to see what it’s like to persist until you by cracky get there no matter what. I am, in fact, going to compete in the Rock and Roll Marathon in San Diego in June. Training starts January 7, 2007, if you’d care to join in.

Hey, it’s only a twenty mile jog followed by a 10-k, how hard can it be?