A funny thing happened on the way to a family vacation — I qualified for the New York and Boston marathons.
Yeah, baby! Second in my age group, which I believe was the “Fossils and Cave Drawings” category.
Running the Bismarck Marathon was not on my to-do list when my “roommate who lets me pile my running shoes at our door” said it was time I met her biologicals in the wonderfully, non-mountainous plains of North Dakota.
North Dakota, where, if you stare long enough across the flat landscape, you hallucinate and spot Russia.
“Liberty and Union Now and Forever, One and Inseparable.” That is North Dakota’s official motto, on its state seal and everything. But you would need to own at least eight cars to fit the saying on a license plate.
The thing is, marathons are not my thing.
Which is weird, because I will spend the equivalent amount of time, and longer, on mountain adventures with ultra-running buddies that often surpass 26.2 miles.
That fondness for staying out past my birthday has led me to competing in ultra marathons, distances of 50 to 120 miles.
Which is another reason the Bismarck Marathon was not my desire.
I have not had the best 2015 running year. My Brooks Glycerin shoes are probably a little annoyed with my lack of kick. It began with an adventure up Heintzleman Ridge and back toward Nugget Mountain and Split Thumb.
At just about the halfway point of a loop that would travel near Lemon Creek Glacier to Observation Peak, Olds Mountain, Clark Peak, Sheep Mountain, Roberts Peak, Gastineau Peak and Bullwinkles, I felt a little tweak in my heel and Achilles. Knowing the more grueling portion ahead, I opted to regroup, retrace and retreat.
The limp from that outing would subside and then flare up in the weeks after. I swam, vitamined, yoga’d, meditated, sacrificed herring to the Norwegian God of Pickling and tried every piece of advice suggested by my fellow adventurers.
I did not travel to a scheduled 50-mile race in July when the injury flared up. I started a 120-mile race in August but pulled out after 40 miles when the first reminder of my humanity began throbbing on an Everest-equivalent trail. In September I attempted to repeat my 110-mile Klondike run to Whitehorse.
This actually started well. My first 10 miles were in an hour and I felt good at mile 25. At about 27 miles in, I suffered from dry heaves and could not hold any food or liquid down for the next 43 miles. At roughly 70 miles and nine-and-a-half hours in, I pulled from the race.
I felt good not having the Achilles issue. It is no fun being a projectile-spewing runner, but it beat the excruciating pain of failing tendons.
But now I have until next summer to keep building my ultra pace.
Or so I thought.
Then Bismarck happened.
Like I said, I just don’t have a desire to do a marathon. But I get why people like to complete one in every state, or for a cause or just to say they did one.
My problem is, although I’m not overly competitive, I don’t want to just waffle through a run.
I like goats trying to escape from my camera on the Juneau Ridge, or trying to out-distance approaching fog on Heintzleman. I like leaning a stride ahead of a faster ultra-god on Annex Ridge or slogging toe-to-toe through a bushwhack with runners who have been featured on magazines. And I like just sitting so far back in a valley that it seems impossible that human lungs have tested the air before.
At 6 a.m. on a September morning, the air in Bismarck is chilly.
One not from that region would wonder why the crops have not all been harvested already.
“The corn will probably be harvested in winter this year,” one runner told me.
“Yep, even the sunflowers aren’t black yet,” a race timer replied.
“The hay bales are still dry in the fields,” a rather sporty competitor noted.
It seems everyone knows about crops in Bismarck.
I knew only that it was chilly, the race would start at 7:30 a.m., and in the three days we had been in this state, the late morning heat had become unbearable for this Alaskan lad and the afternoon hellfire left me whimpering.
I did not want to spend more than 3½ hours on a run.
But for an incentive, I found what my qualifying time for a national marathon would be: roughly 3:40.
Cool. I could average 8 minutes and see some crops growing along the way.
Well, when the starting gun went off, I noticed a rather athletic group jump ahead and, being the proud Alaskan I am, I decided to represent our fair state.
I do not run with a watch. Never have.
I felt awesome the first five miles on the heels of some collegiate runner with bulging calves, until he and a mate discussed their pace — 5:45.
Oops.
Then I dropped into a wonderful gathering of ripped male and female athletic club posters who varied within a 6:50 to 7:10 pace.
Their conversation concerned staying under the 3-hour finish.
I was intrigued, and thus I tagged along.
At mile 13, my only blister made itself known on the outer side of my left foot. I had never had one there before and I rather enjoyed the company, ignoring its nagging.
At mile 14, I had my first experience with a youthful water provider at an aid station.
Not wanting to lose my drafting position on the antelopes that sprang minutes ahead of me, I had been cruising through aid stations, grasping water cups from eager volunteers and splashing half of the contents down my throat and the other half across my wardrobe.
This young volunteer, however, did not seem to want to let go of the cup and even with my two hands tugging at ownership the contents were let go upon the earth.
Physically, I probably was okay. Mentally, I thought my body would cramp if I didn’t get that liquid replaced.
Mile 14 actually involved a little out-and-back portion that would put me back at this aid station in three miles.
What were the chances that, out of the eight volunteers handing refreshment here, she would be serving me again?
Turns out the chances were good.
I tried to navigate among seven runners in the lead up and in the jostling it became apparent I would give her a second chance. Again the cup stuck between the two of us like a honey jar on Pooh’s nose and I was without liquid.
I did partake of the two gels in my pocket, which only further added to the need for something cold. Running through a lawn sprinkler helped.
At mile 19, my injury bit. I thought of how many races I had dropped from and how easy it would be to walk onto a nearby wheat field and bury myself in chafe.
Instead I fell into a 13-minute per mile pace that would eventually result in a pulled hamstring on the opposite leg and the disgrace of having to kick at a small dog so he wouldn’t pee on my apparently non-threatening gait.
At mile 25, some runners began to pass. At mile 26 more did.
I kept good form for the finish, but the walk down the chute was painful.
“You were blazing. I didn’t think I would catch you.” I recognized the woman’s voice from early in the race. She was the top female finisher.
“Pretty good run. You qualified for Boston,” said a man I recognized from the start. He was my age group winner, and passed me at 25.9-mile.
So, I finished in a rather interesting 3:29:25, 18th overall out of 168, 15th out of 103 mend, and second in my age group with a pace of 8 minutes.
More importantly ,the afternoon heat had yet to fully take hold.
Hobbling through North Dakota airport security, where, incidentally, they hand you stalks of corn to nibble on and travel wristbands made of hay, I longed to glimpse a harvesting combine one last time.
My shoes still carried the wear from the local streets, field rows and parks as I boarded.
I wondered where my next run would be.
I knew it needed to happen on a mountain. I missed my mountains.
I knew I would not enter the New York or Boston marathons.
I don’t do well in crowds or on pavement.
It would probably take a 6:50 per mile pace or less to break three hours there.
That would mean trying track workouts and faster Mount Roberts ascents, getting back into my weight training, finding my performance diet, taking better care of myself, dancing like no one was watching… sigh… I guess there is a possibility.
Turns out marathons are pretty cool. They are as individually rewarding as the people who enter.
With the good people of the state of North Dakota switching on the morning grain reports I gazed off into the climbing altitudes of flight.
North to the Future.
The Last Frontier.
The Great Land.
The Land of the Midnight Sun.
The place where fossil runners go to heal and train.
