Olympic Dreams Dashed in 38 Seconds

hoto by Jenny Hill on Unsplash

I had a plan.

It wasn’t a great plan, but a plan nonetheless.

I was going to break 2:50 in the New Orleans Marathon and qualify for Boston. If I made it, I was going to hire a coach to train me for Boston with hopes of breaking 2:22 for an Olympic Trials qualifying time. Of course, dropping 30 minutes in 2 months was a somewhat absurd idea, but we runners are nothing if not dreamers.

In Atlanta, I spent a lot of time at the old Phidippides at Northlake mall and had talked with Benji Durden (1980 Olympic Marathon Team), and Lee Fidler about coaching me. Both athletes had admonished me on several occasions about incorporating more rest into my training. I didn’t know at the time that both runners would be at New Orleans; Lee to run the Marathon and Benji to run the 10K.

I had a previous best of 3:10, so I only needed to drop 20 minutes. I had been training for about eight weeks, and my average weekly mileage was 50–60 miles. I had put in four or five 20 milers, so I felt I prepared for the race.

Photo by Arnaud Mesureur on Unsplash

The marathon ran across the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, then the longest bridge in the world, so it should be flat and fast. I needed to break 6:30 per mile for 26.2 miles. I don’t know why I thought I could, but back in the day, I ran most races on guts and dreams, rather than any reliable scientific data or recent accomplishment.

As I stood at the start with 2300 other runners, I wished the wind would quit. The temperature was close to freezing, and the wind was blowing at around 20 miles per hour. It would be a tailwind for 24 miles, but I was cold and miserable and just wanted to get on with it.

Photo by Maarten van den Heuvel on Unsplash

At the gun, I took off running at what I thought was a good pace. I’m sure I was pushed along by the wind and my desire to get warm. About 3 miles in, I heard a familiar voice and turned to see Benji running up from behind — apparently a slow day for him. “Hey, how’s it going?” I huffed out as he came along beside me. “Not bad,” he replied, going on to explain he was there to run the 10K. I don’ recall if the 10K was later, and this was a warm-up or was the day before, and this was a training run. “How about you, what are you going for today?” he asked.

I told him I wanted to qualify for Boston and was about to spring my plan about coaching when I saw the incredulous expression on his face.

“What’s wrong,” I asked.

“You know you need a 2:50 for Boston, right?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“You know that’s just under a 6:30 pace, right?”

“Where is he going with this?” I thought as I puffed out another, “Yup.”

“Any idea how fast you are going?”

Assuming he wasn’t about to tell me I was dead at a perfect pace, I said, “No.”

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“Well, the tailwind makes it tough to estimate, but I’d guess you’re doing about a 5:45 mile right about now. You better slow down. “See you,” Benji said as he trotted off into the distance.

Oh, %#*&, I thought as I tried to assess my pace. I kept trying to slow down, but the weather, other runners, and the tailwind kept pushing me along. At five miles, I was still under thirty minutes — not far off my 10K pace.

“I’m going to die,” I thought as I continued to try and get my legs to obey my brain.

The middle miles turned into the same mind-numbing mush as every marathon. I tried to do the math in my head as I hit the 10 and 15-mile marks, but it was too much. I remember thinking that whoever told me the far shore never appears to get any closer was right, the jerk, and oh God, would I ever get off this bridge?

The brain and most other functions shut down one by one as my body depleted itself of every nutrient it could suck out of every cell. I hurt and wanted to stop, but every time I started walking, it hurt that much more to start running, but I can’t just keep on running, so I’ll walk one more time; please get me off this bridge.

As I approached the next split, I finally came to a complete stop and leaned against the rail. I kept thinking I didn’t know if I had another 6 miles in me and tried to figure out my pace, but my brain would no longer do anything more complicated than right foot, left foot.

Completely broken, I took off in another slow-footed shuffle toward the…what? What does that sign say? 25 miles? That can’t be. When did I pass the 20-mile mark? What time is it? 2:43 something. Can I make it? Once again, I tried to do the math in my head.

I don’t know, but just maybe, I can make it. I got the infamous second-wind and picked up the pace a bit. If I could have thought clearly, I may have given up, but delirium has its advantages. Within the space of just a few yards, the far shore suddenly loomed close, and we ran off that damned bridge. I kept looking at the road, looking at my watch, looking at the road — maybe. I finally got in sight of the finish line and started focusing on the clock. It said two something, what is it?

As I got closer, I could see it said 2:50 and some seconds, but where is the clock? Where is the finish line? In my mind, I had convinced myself that I crossed the finish line before I saw the clock and maybe had hit my goal. I could hardly walk, but I stumbled around for a bit, trying to find someone who could give me my finish time. The pain was setting in with a vengeance, and I was getting chilled as the woman who would later become my wife helped me out of the way and into a warm car where she gave my legs a much-needed massage.

Of course, I hadn’t quite made my goal, and my finish time was 2:50:38. 224 men met the goal that day — and I was number 227. Even though I finished in the top 10%, the if-onlys started beating up on me, and I was in a funk for days. The reality is that I hadn’t trained for that kind of speed, I hadn’t paced myself appropriately, and I hadn’t kept the mental game in play long enough to keep myself in the race.

38 seconds.

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