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paris marathon: a musical in three parts

There are things you just don’t do. You don’t put metal in a microwave. Never drink a Coke and eat Pop Rocks. Forget about feeding Gremlins after midnight. And absolutely don’t arrive 36 hours before a marathon in another country.

For those of playing along, that’s called foreshadowing.


I arrived in Paris around noon on Friday. Paris in the Spring is, well, Paris in the Spring. There’s a reason there are songs, movies and expressions about the Parisian springtime (granted, they are mostly in French, but trust me).

Everything is a lovely shade of pale greens and pinks and white blossoms. The willows by the Seine shed the chaff of their buds in a blizzard of light wisps. Couples canoodle, dogs trot a little lighter in their steps and rosé wine appears on outdoor tables.

I dropped my stuff at my hotel. After a stroll around les Jardin des Tuileries I turned my aim back towards the 6eme. Saint-Germain-des-Prés is my adopted home in Paris. I know its winding streets and juxtaposed upscale-meets-bohemian character as well as I know my neighborhood in Richmond. Saint Germain is also home to what I consider to be the best Irish bar outside Dublin. I had bite and a pint or three and called it an early night.



The race expo was huge; think Atlanta airport, but full of runners. And that’s no surprise. 50,000 lean, mean, quick stepping machines signed up to run the 42.25km course. Part of the process involved handing over a signed medical form from your doctor. There was some nuances lost in the translation of the form, and indeed the process itself. American physicians, short of approving kids for school sports, aren’t accustomed to filling these things out. My trepidation about my form’s validity were assuaged when a young volunteer traded my form for a race bib.

I wonder why there’s a foam rubber sponge in the race bag? Welp, won’t be needing that…


I picked up a few souvenirs and headed back towards the heart of town. The expo was held at one of the city’s large convention centers, a few metro trains and a bit of a walk from my hotel. Paris is known for being a walking city, which is great when you are working off that baguette and patê; not so great when you are attempting to save every joule of energy in your legs.

That evening, I went to the restaurant on the first floor of the building I once called home. Aux Charpentiers is a venerated, traditional restaurant in the 6eme. The waiter and chef were obliging to my request for a vegan meal, although I’m fairly sure the laughing I heard in the kitchen was at my expense. Would monsieur care for a glass of wine? Why yes, monsieur certainly would! One glass won’t hurt my run, right? And hey, this is Paris!

On the stroll back to my hotel, I popped into a bakery and acquired a baguette for the morning’s breakfast. I may have also stopped in for another pint of Guinness. Can’t hurt, right?


Part 1 - The Champs

Get to bed early, you’re advised. Get a good night’s rest they tell you. Don’t stress about the race, they say. I don’t know who they are, but at 3:00 am, as I lay in bed wide awake, on the morning of Sunday April 6th, I could have strangled them with the shoelaces of my running shoes.

The Marathon de Paris embarks from the famed Champs-Élysées, or as my friend Jarrett calls it, the chomps. I was signed up to run with the 4:00 hour pace group, the largest subdivision of the 50,000 runners expected that morning. I arrived three hours early because, well, I was up.

As it turns out, arriving early was wise. The French extend their liberal views on all things bodily to race-day facilities. In our coral of approximately 15,000 runners, there were two portajohns. Two. 1 + 1 = 2. That was it, for facilities with a closed door. But, for the gents, there was a bank of plastic, portable urinals. Imagine, if you dare, a knee-high plastic trough, facing the hoard of people…well, at this point you should probably stop imagining.

So, there we were. 50,000 new friends, forged in excitement and anticipation of heavy legs, swollen feet and soon-to-be heaving lungs, standing in the morning sun’s shadow of the Arc de Triomphe.


The race organizers were apparently smitten enough with a French cover of Mackelmore’s Ceiling Can’t Hold Us to put it on repeat for the morning. For two hours, we listened to Guillaume Lorentz’s version of the jam. The announcers crackled to life. It was time for the pre-race warm up. Like a well heeled squadron of the North Korean army, we pumped our arms into the air, in sync to the beat.

As 9:30 rolled around, our group of 4:00 runners marched towards the start. With the decided lack of ceremony with which every marathon commences, we toed the startling line and were off towards the Place de la Concorde.

Running with The Boss

My plan for the first leg of the race was to queue up an audiobook. Spoken word should keep me slow and out of my own head. I settled in to Peter Carlin’s bio of Bruce Springsteen and started counting steps per minute.

My goal was to start off around 9:30, maybe 9:00 mins / mile. Our hoard snaked past the Concorde monolith and towards rue Rivoli.

Bruce’s first band, Steel Mill, had a huge following in Richmond, Va. Who knew? Apparently it was the only place they got gigs outside of the Jersey shore…

1…2…3. I check my pace, I’m doing a steady 8:30/mile. Too fast, but I feel fine. Hey, what’s the worst that can happen?

Is that a marching band all dressed like Mario and Luigi from Mario Brothers? Yep, apparently it is!


Oh wow! We’re running along side the entire Louvre museum!

At mile 4, we narrow to squeeze past the crowd and into the expansive Place do la Bastille. I’ve heard people say to be careful about running the chicanes in a marathon. Take too many curves too wide and you add up to a quarter mile to your race. In the Bastille’s 500-foot wide roundabout, it’s easy to see how that could happen.

Part 2 - rock out

Paris is flanked on the East and West by two large public parks. At mile 6 we enter the Bois de Vincennes. I’ve had about as much of Bruce’s history as I can take, I’m ready to rock out. When I pull my phone out of my pocket, I see a text from my friend and fitness coach:


I hit shuffle on my Paris Marathon play list.

Top 40 pop helps me turn my feet over faster and faster. Throughout the park, every half mile, there are more preposterously strange musical ensembles. We pass a group dressed like they are ready for a medieval hunting expedition, and they are all playing the french horn. I imagine them, along with the Japanese drum circle, playing along to my mix.

We leave the park around mile 10 and head back towards the city. The course follows the Promenade Plantée, a collection of beautiful shops tucked into the old roman viaducts.

Since Parisian streets can be quite wide, the race directors paint a blue line down the absolute center of the course. It is there, primarily for the elite runners, so they run the shortest, most direct route; a true 42.2km.

I pick up the blue line at mile 10. For a mile, I try and make each step land on the line. Keep on the blue line I tell myself.

I check in on my legs. Feeling ok. But something’s not quite right. I push the idea out of my head.

If you wake up and don’t want to smile…if it takes just a little while…open your eyes and look at the day…you’ll see things in a different way

To take my mind off whatever is creeping in, I decide to focus on the crowd. For everyone with whom I make eye contact, I try and think of something nice about them. Oh how nice, they brought their young kids out to see the runners… For others, it was something like, that’s wonderful, a whole family holding a sign for their dad.

I’m counting on a karmic bonus, and thinking good thoughts has to help, right? Still, you’d be surprised how quickly you run out of nice things and dip into the observations about appearance, those sunglasses look great on her.

At the 20km mark, the Europeans celebrate the race’s halfway point. Now, I’m no mathematician, but 20 is not half of 42.2. I refuse to celebrate their false victory.

A smaller, less ceremonial marker notes the passing of mile 13.1.

Shake-shake-shake-ah-shake it! Shake-shake-shake-ah-shake it! Shake like a Polaroid picture.

Heeeyyy-yaaa! Was that out loud? I think I just sung along out loud!…oh look, there’s the blue line!

Mile 14 has a water stop. The French, ever the ones for elegance and ceremony, don’t hand out cups of water. No, instead they hand out full bottles of French mineral water. With the caps still on. For nutrition, they offer orange slices, banana segments and marshmallows.

Now, at this point, if you are thinking: hey, a full bottle of water and healthy snacks, what’s not to love about that? I offer the following:

water stop

That, dear reader, is what happens when 50,000 water bottles are opened, and orange rinds, banana peels, and marshmallows are cast underfoot over the stretch of a quarter mile of cobblestones. It is, in short, an orthopedic surgeon’s dream come true.

It’s alright if you love me…It’s alright if you don’t….I’m not afraid of you running around, I get the feeling you won’t…

Back around the Bastille. The water is doing it’s job. Bruce’s guitar is slamming and I get a second wind.

I prove it all night…

We’re running along the river again. I’ve lost track of what mile or kilometer we’re passing. I’ve run out of nice things to think about people in the crowd. How much further? Damn-it! It’s too early to think that thought!

En mass, we dip off the main road and down to the footpath along the river. Suddenly the crowd is high above us, looking down from the flood walls and bridges. French race supporters, as I’m learning, are an austere lot. Most don’t smile, or cheer. While there is a non-stop wall of people, only a scant few hold signs, or ring bells.

For the first time, I have a straight shot view of the masses of runners in front of me. This is my tribe, these are my people

When I arrived, in my own set of clothes….I was half a world away….Do not fear what you don’t really know…

We enter one of Paris’s underground tunnels. This one happens to be the longest, almost a mile. After a few seconds, things get pretty dark. I take my headphones out so I can hear the cacophony of feet and moving bodies.

Is that…? Naaaahhh. But wait….I think I do hear something….and there seems to be lights….laser lights in fact… and a disco ball…and….fog?

It is at this point where I start to question things. I cannot see daylight in front or behind me. And yet, the sounds of Abba are growing louder the closer I get to what appears to be a discotheque. And there, in the middle of Paris’s longest traffic tunnel, the one where Princess Diana perished in a horrific car wreck, is a mid-race disco.

What sort of Dali-esque nightmare is this? That is the actual thought crossing my mind. But instead of picturing the real Salvador Dali, I keep seeing Adrian Brody pop into my head.


At last, up ahead, daylight breaks. We’re out of the tunnel and back on the streets. The Eiffel Tower is in front of us. And that’s when it all comes together.


Monsieur Lapin!

In french, pacers are called rabbits, or more correctly, les lapins. Rounding a slight curve, I see the 4:00 rabbit. That’s my rabbit! Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger starts playing.

I’m chasing Monsieur Lapin. My pace recovers.

9:25….9:15….9:00…8:50… I’m shoulder to shoulder with Monsieur Lapin.

Rising up…back on the street….did my time, took my chances… I’m air-guitaring for all I’m worth.

Together, we tick off two miles, me and Monsieur Lapin. Mile 17 turns into 18 and 18 into 19. I might just run this race today….

Pas aujourd’hui, Pax aujourd’hui

At mile 21 we enter Paris’s western most park, Bois de Boulogne. Bois de Boulogne is home to Roland Garros Stadium, where the French Open is played. It is also known for its large gathering of transgendered sex workers. And now, it can additionally be known as the site where I hit the wall…hard!

It is a hurting thing…you don’t want to talk about it….pain in your heart, well it’s taking your breath away…

Really, I’m conscious enough to ponder, that’s the song that comes on my iPhone at this moment? Thanks for nothing John Hiatt!

Did I mention my no-fast forward policy? Yeah, I’m regretting some of these song choices now.

We pass a German oom pah band, all in lederhosen, many with a horn in one hand and a glass of Riesling in the other. I kid you not when I say a good number were also holding sausages.

I could be hallucinating.

Mile 22. I’ve slowed to a crawl. I’m trying to put one foot in front of the other. It’s not happening. Not today. pas aujourd’hui.

and I don’t think its weird….that the one thing you fear…is losing the one thing….

I make a pact, a d’accord as the local say. Next water stop, I’m walking. Seriously, not that psych-myself-out-keep-running-BS from the Richmond marathon. This. guy. is. walking!

Why are there still so many people?


Where is that water? Why don’t they drink more water? Why don’t they… and that’s when it hits me. Why don’t they drink electrolytes? There has’t been any Gatorade, no Poweraid, and not a salt-covered pretzel in sight. Where was that oom pah band? Surely they have pretzels. They held out on me!

That’s when I notice runners dipping sponges into buckets of ice water along the course. Where the hell did they get spon…..oh damn it! That’s what the foam rubber sponge was for!


I need water badly. At mile 24 there’s a station. I slow. I stop. I grab two bottles and ask the volunteer to take the caps off. I’m done.

It’s going down…I’m yelling timber….you better move….

I move into a walk-run cycle. I make myself little deals.

If I can get to that lamp post, I’ll walk 100 feet


I couldn’t will my thumbs to reply even if I wanted to. Though, I’m nonetheless grateful for the encouragement.

I start to think about what isn’t working. I keep giving myself permission to fail. Pas aujourd’hui, I tell myself, not today.

Oh where do we begin, the rubble….or our sins….and the walls kept tumbling down….

I start to list off the poor decisions I made. I started too fast. That glass of wine last night, what was I thinking? I regret racing (and setting a PR) in the 10k less than a week before. Absolutely don’t arrive 36 hours before a marathon in another country you bloody idiot!

As we leave the park, Paris is laid out before us. I’m still shoulder to shoulder with 50,000 of my new best friends. Slowing or walking requires darting to the shoulder or grass to avoid being run over. And there’s something different about the crowd. Is that actual cheering?

It is cheering! And its coming from the transgendered community who call the Bois de Boulogne home. They are standing on 8" platform shoes, decked out in Elton John-style sunglasses and they are screaming their heads off.

The blue line! The Blue line is back! I pick my head up and see the Arc de Triomphe in the distance.

through the mud and beer…the blood and the cheers…so if you’ve got the guts mister…if you’ve got the balls….if you think it’s the time, to step to the line….then bring on your wrecking ball!

Pax aujourd’hui

I’m going to run Paris today. I’m going to finish this race. It’s the first time it feels real. I choke up.

I speed up.


The crowd narrows. More Parisians join in and are cheering. I’m running non-stop. It’s not my ideal pace, but I’m moving forward.

42 km.

I sprint towards the finish with borrowed energy.

I cross the sensor pad and crash into a wall of other finishers. Many, like me, are dripping with tears and sweat. We push and shove. And there’s more effing cobble stones and banana peels. Oh Paris, I love you!


We need a training montage!

Scuba Steve goes for a run

I know what you are thinking. Seriously, right now. You are all like how can I make a hard choice between supporting two compelling organizations while encouraging Nick to run an extravagant race in an exotic local?

See, that’s my gift. I’m good at getting inside the minds of people. People like you.

Since you were thinking it anyway, I have an idea. Bear with me here. You’ll probably need your iPhones or Spotify playlist. Go ahead, get it. I’ll wait.

Here’s the deal, I’m running…or attempting to run… the Paris Marathon on April 6, 2014. Yeah yeah, dans les printemps and all that jazz. But the fundamental truth is, among the 49,999 other people sloughing it out, I’ll really be alone. Oh look, I’m at kilometer…wait…kilo-what!? And look, there’s a sign? Or is it a baby smoking a Gauloises? Where am I? …Says the devote francophile.

But, I have a solution to this courir un marathon conundrum of mine. In fact, I’m proposing you come with me. And here’s how it will work:

you propose a song and a time

This will be my first marathon avec headphones. I need some jams yo. In the comments below, you: * suggest a pumped up track and a reason why it matters to you * place your bet…nay…donation amount * you suggest a mile marker and time at which I should listen to said track. For example, you write: Rocky IV Training Montage Song, Mile 14, 1 hour 20 minutes. (First of all, good choice!) * I’ll program it, using my mobile internet communicator device, to play at your proposed time

and here’s the rub

If I beat your time, you donate. Big bucks people. This isn’t messing around time. If I run the frickin’ Paris marathon faster than either of us expects —and lets face it, I haven’t exactly been training —then you should pony up, right? And, being a free market society, you have two options:

but wait

If I fail to beat your song, at the proposed time and mile marker, I’ll match whatever donation you propose *

It’s that simple. Your song, your time/mile marker…if I beat it, you win, if you beat my pace, everyone wins.

the fine print

    • I’ll match single donations up to $250 and a total donation cumulative amount up to $1,000 (a dude’s gotta pay rent too!)
  • my expected marathon pace is 9:30 / mile
  • If you pick a rotten song, like say, anything by The Smashing Pumpkins, I reserve the right to veto and you must make your donation promptly
  • If I fail to finish the race, I’ll cover all the donations

The important part

Thank you for considering this. Any song, encouragement and, most importantly, donation, you can provide is extremely appreciated. Running, despite its simplicity, is a luxury. There are far too many people who, for whatever reason, don’t get to enjoy this sport. If we can rock out while we race and raise some help for them, then we’ve done a good thing.

Your friend, -N

The Rocky IV Training Montage

2013 Richmond Marathon recap

The following was originally posted on Facebook, here. ___________________

Sick of my marathon posts yet? Ok last one. Saved this for last: the 'Thank You' post.


It's rare, at least for me, that one salient truth rings out above the rest. There wasn't a morning when I said, "self, let's run 26 point 2 effin' miles". Instead there were many small moments. There was a script for high blood pressure, someone else's cancer journey, the discovery of my own competitiveness, and some lofty thinking about the general human condition. Those things, apparently, go into a blender and come out as the goal to run a marathon. Although, I have a confession —when I signed up for training, I didn't think I'd actually do it. Then again, it is kind of a dumb thing to do... 23 point 2 effin' miles.


Yesterday was amazing. I'll remember it for the rest of my life. The start was almost a non-event. Michelle Muse walked us to broad street. We pushed our way through the crowd and someone suggested we hold hand like a line of kindergartners. So...we did.


There was no gun shot or otherwise ceremonial start. We just sorta started jogging (pronounced with a soft j, like yogging). Suzanne Spiller set the pace [Thank you Suzanne!], "are we doing this? We're running a marathon." Yep. We were.


[But, we were also in ‘missing man’ formation. “Where’s Pat?… How’s seen Pat?… I texted him last night, I know he’s running…” We were a man down, and we knew it.]


At mile 2, Mary Ellen Kinser snuck up from behind. By the way, we're you doing a scuba dive later? Mary Ellen helped us get our nervous heart rates down. We were cool by mile 3, which is where we passed Jennifer Lemons-Driskill. Thanks Jen for being out there _every_ week, manning the SAGs, always saying "hi" and for looking after my favorite running jacket.


What is it they say? Don’t do anything new on race day? Yeah, about that. I dropped my longstanding armband carrier for my iPhone (and various apps) and opted instead to try my Pebble watch. The Pebble is a so-called smart watch, which isn’t a watch at all, but rather a second display for your phone. For most of my run, it was perfect, showing me milage and pace from the RunKeeper app. But I didn’t expect a very wonderful side effect. Every time a friend like Olivia, Bryan, Marc, Dana or Dennis tweeted, texted or Facebook’ed, my watch vibrated and showed me their virtual cheer. Boom. Speed up!


Jessie and Mallary - wow. You two are my personal MVPs! From mile 2 - 12 we were like finely tuned diesel engine. Speedy, and we turned over the miles one after the other like it was nothing. Every few minutes one of us checked in, "how we doin'? Good pace? Yep!" Monument turned into Westmorland (ah-hum, Ryan Smartt!!!), which turned into Grove, then Maple. We debated, restroom break? Nahhh line's too long. So we kept going. And we kept going all the way down Lee's Revenge, across a foggy but beautiful Huguenot Bridge and down towards Pony Pasture; all the while checking in with, "how we doin'? Good pace?"


The three of us trucked up Riverside Drive together. We caught up with Gail Schechter who was having a fantastic 2nd marathon.


The three of us —Jessie, Mallary and I, pressed on. As we crested the hill and turned on to Forest Hill Ave I confessed, “this is where I started to unravel on my 20 mile training run.” But, thanks to them, we kept on keeping on. Milestone #1, done!


About mile 12.5, I saw my pooch, Ippa, and connected via leash, my dad, George. Never underestimate the huge burst of energy you get from seeing your family! Dad, I’m sorry, but I think I blurted, “that’s my dog!….oh, and my dad!”. The order wasn’t significant. #OxygenDeprivation


We first saw Sue Miyashita at mile 13. Then again at mile 14. “I’m adjusting my music,” she said, “everything from Metallica to P!nk.” Rock on Sue! That’s when we saddled up next to Jersey Boy Ray. Ray’s a machine, keeping amazingly consistent pace. “I’m doing this!” I was excited with him, even if he admitted, during a slough of a training run, to not bleeding Springsteen blood. And that’s when we saw the blue shoes.


At mile 15 we found our de facto leader Pat. If our Blue Bandits had a secretary of state, Pat would be it. Every run, every mile, he knew everyone. “Hey Marcos! Hi Paula…” Pat is the ambassador of MTT. He’s also the leader of our gang, a mishmosh group of newbies, vets, blistered and subsiding on Aleve. So it was that Mallary, Pat and I crossed my nemesis, the Lee Bridge, without my even noticing.


The Lee Bridge ends with a slight uphill,which was fortunate; it positioned my head upwards. That’s how I picked out Andrew in the crowd. But I didn’t expect my friend, the semipro triathlete, to jump into the road. Boom! We took off. My 9:50/mile pace dropped a good 20 seconds in the 1/2 mile we ran together. I think I complained about running out of gel packs. The rest is a haze. Thank you Andrew for kicking my 2nd half into over drive - negative splits, here we come!


I caught Sue again around mile 16. I’m not sure how. I think she had some kind of dark magic that allowed her to keep skipping ahead. Regardles, she shared the secret of the Cold Towels. “Oh, its the Boy Scouts,” she shouted. “Tell me…” I panted, “about these towels…you…speak of?” We were rewarded with what I described, at the time, as ‘the greatest thing that ever happened.’ Cool, wet wash cloths. Wow!


Coach Chris appeared out of nowhere. “Doin’ ok?” “We’re great,” Sue responded. I flashed a thumbs up. And, like that, he was gone. Boom, another burst of speed.


We passed Postbellum where my parents and I ate the night before. Kit and Caitlin passed. “How’s your run going?” “We’re doing this!”


Boom. Speed!


I’m on the boulevard, 'how’d that happen?' I’m passing people. I hear Pat’s expression: ‘everyone you pass is a kill, keep hunting them down.’ I pass my old apartment, #215 and wonder, ‘is the ‘Echo Chamber’ still there?’ [don’t ask…]


Suddenly, I’m alone among a stream of people. I’m two blocks from my current house, on streets I walk every day, and I’m alone. My team, my crew, is gone. My current pace is unsustainable, except I’m still running it. Boulevard crosses Broad. There’s Dad and Ippa, “you are speeding up, do you mean to be?” “Yes!” (‘but do I really?’).


I look down at my watch. ‘If I can keep this up… If I _could_ keep this pace… if I could run THIS 10k in under an hour, I’d be below 4:30. Insane! Put that thought out of your mind and s l o w d o w n.’


I’m alone.


There’s the hill, Milestone #2. Whomever thought this was a good location for a billboard of a bacon breakfast sandwich should be beaten with a rubber hose. That, from a person who practices nonviolence. Rubber. Hose!


The Megans. I see The Megans. Two runners, both named Megan, both alluding me for the entire run. Another kill.


Lost a contact lens!


“…And boom, like that a coach appears!” He said that. Out loud. I’m too tired to fake niceties. “What?” “I’m coach Greg, I’m the technical coach!” He’s too chipper. “Ok, then talk to me about form.” “You’re doing great! Just keep going forward. Even last week as I was running another marathon and next week when I run another…. His voice trailed off. This dude had so little body fat, I started to fear he was looking at me as a source of fuel. I decided to cling on to my spare tire, least he source me for his unyielding appetite for asphalt and portly runners like me that he must consume like so many gu packs.


Mile 20. The Pope Arches. Milestone #3, ‘The Most Beautiful Street You Don’t Know In Richmond.’ At least that’s how I wanted it to be. “Beware of the camber…” That’s the last thing I heard from Greg. 1 2 3, 1 2 3, 1 2 3… my mantra when things start breaking down. Maintain cadence. 1 2 3. 1…2…3.. ‘you can walk at the next water stop…’ 1…2…3.


22 miles. ‘Didn’t Kevin say he always walks, even if its to the water station, in every marathon? I’m going to walk…’ 1 2 3. Watch says I’m not slowing down. I’m trying to slow down. Didn’t walk.




Mile 23. People, but can’t see their faces. Greg, a different, non precious body fat as nourishment coveting Greg, appears in the median. “Heeeyyy Greg!”


Slight, but imperceptible burst of energy.


Next runner in front is 100 feet ahead. Not going to be a kill. Alone.


Coke and junk food station. ‘What a miserable idea.’


Beer. “We’ve got beer!” ‘What the F, it’s going to be a PR anyway, right?’ “Hey, is that Natty Light?” “You know it brother!” “Beer me!”


‘I’m drinking beer… on a marathon… I’m drinking beer!’


1 2 3, 1 2 3… ‘going to walk at that next block.’ Didn’t walk. ‘I must be slowing down, need to slow down, ok to slow down…”


My watch battery died. Technologically alone.


‘This road won’t end. Where are we anyway? What’s her shirt say? This damn contact!’


That’s when I see Tony, the golden deer of the Blue Bandits. Tony is THE most consistent runner in our guild. He’s the stuff of legend. I once saw him sprint up a hill, duck behind a gas station for a rest stop, and then pass me again 2 miles later. “Hey man, we going to do this together?” “I’m cramping, but I’m finishing!” He swallowed some salt and a glugg of water before insisting I go on.


Alone, again.


‘I don’t sweat, I sparkle,’ If I read her shirt one more time… 1 2 3… 1 2 3… ‘I never noticed how much open land there is over here… I can’t take much more of this!’


The back of his shirt had a swath of tape with ‘Danielle’s Husband’ and my first thought was, ‘is he sweating enough to be Adam?’ I didn’t feel guilty about the thought, its how he introduced himself, or at least how Danielle introduced him on our first 9 mile training run. “How’s your run going man?” “I’m hanging in… she’s up there somewhere…this is cool!” We cut through the round-a-bout and head toward Broad Street.


‘Not sure I can keep this up…’


‘Holy shit! I’m going to run a marathon today!’ Tears. 1 2 3. 1 2 3. ‘I’m….going to run… a marathon today!’


My mind goes back to running. ‘Is that a cramp?’ My right quad is tight. I’ve never cramped up. It’s the stuff of legend. Not now. Not going to happen. ‘Kinda wanna stop’.


“NANCY!” “Hey Nick!!” She cheers me on, two steaming cups in hand. “Did you bring me a coffee too?” My faux incredulity might have been lost my gasping for air. “Really, you want a sip?” “No, just kidding!” Boom, speed! ‘Where’d that come from?’


Mile 25. There are more folks cheering. The street is maybe more narrow? Or am I shutting down? A homeless man —maybe? —is giving high-fives. I make a point to swerve to catch him and just barely make contact with his gloved hand. “Thanks brother!”


I start to think, maybe too much, about it all. Life, the universe and everything. ‘I’m going to run an ‘effin’ marathon today!’ Tears. I start thinking about what’s been on my mind - homelessness. ‘This is my next thing, the next thing after public health that I want to understand and try to affect.’


Another man, seemingly homeless, is cheering, “one more mile! You can do it!” And, I want to know him and how he has anything to give, like a cheer, to me, a total stranger. I hold up a finger, and gasp “one more mile.”


This, at this most improbable of times, feels very right. ‘How can I be clear about something so important right now? And…is that… the “The Final Countdown” ‘?


Someone is playing Europe’s ‘Final Countdown’. I resist the urge to reenact G.O.B. Buth. Barely. Seriously.


We turn, everyone turns. Tall buildings. ‘I’m going to run a marathon today!’ 1 2 3, 1 2 3.


Kevin appears. Wow. Kevin. In June Kevin opened our first run honestly, “I’m not going to lie and tell you this is going to be easy and that you’ll feel great…. is isn't and you won’t.” He never stopped pulling punches. Trust me, don’t ever make a wrong turn on a training run, you won’t live it down. “You got this,” he said, head turned starring at me. I keep focused straight ahead. “Say it! Say, ‘I got this this’”. “I go this!” “Say it again!” I’m kinda choked up…I got this!” “You are going to finish a marathon, say it!” “I’m going to finish….a…marathon!” “Good, now make this turn, and you are done.”


We turned. One last time.








Silence and cheering. Signs. People. Slow-mo clapping. There was no more pain. There was no cramp. There was nothing but speed. I went from breaking down to Ferrari (or reasonably facsimile) in a split second.


Time sped back up. Normal. Then double time. I’m passing people left and right. “Look at that guy go!” Kill. Kill. 123, 123, 123. “He’s taking off!”


I pass Valorie, cheering.






‘Move your arms, keep in control.”




‘This road is wet, don’t fall’ We’re barreling straight down hill. ‘Knees, check in. Reporting for duty sir! Then give me 110%!”




“You got this!” I see Andrew from the corner of my eye.


Camera crane. ‘Try to smile, don’t fall’.


Steeper hill.


‘Knees? Yes captain, we’re going to 120%. Clear for 120% sir!’


My arms start to windmill.


“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s cheer him on…” but the announcer's voice isn’t for me. An older runner has fallen at the finish line. They bring a wheel chair out onto the finish line.


“Folks, he’s going to finish…” and the crowd erupts as the fallen runner climbs to his feet.




‘I had plans, crossing the finish…what where they? Sing some song? Yell something? What was it?’


There it is, a nothing line. A radio sensor of a marker.


And its done.


“Here’s your blanket”


“Keep moving”


‘I’m going to stop, put my hands on my knees and give a primal scream!’


But I didn’t. I was a normal citizen again. Whatever super powers I may have acquired start to fade away. But, I am changed. I am a marathoner, and that’s pretty effin cool!




My parents came running to great me. “Hey hey, way to go!”


“Ive got to keep walking, or moving…” I hobbled next to the railing where another finisher was beaming.


“I just ran my first marathon! I didn’t think I could, but look at me, here I am!” She had on a NBMA jersey. I recognized her. “I know you ran it, I followed you for the first 5 miles, way to go!”


There’s no secret handshake. It’s a look in the eye. We knew we were both members of the club.


I meandered for a while, taking in the sights. I got to talk to Don and Scott, who both had awesome runs. Patrick and I reconnected and spent a good hour talking about the race, our training and what it means to be a runner.


Later, after the crowds died, I went to crash the party of dear old friends Rachel Michael Brown. Nothing like showing up at a brunswick stew party as the only guy in running cloths.


“Oh this medal? Yeah, I ran the full…” My friends, that phrase does not get old!


Thank you to all our coaches, friends and family. What a life changing experience this has been!


Next stop: Paris, April 2014!



the real runners club

Last night our marathon training team, the Blue Bandits, had our pre-race pasta party. I confided in one of the coaches, “I don’t feel like a member of the real runners club.” I added, “then again, I’m not sure what the qualifications are for membership.” For starters, there are what I refer to as bones. You know the bones, they look like graceful, gazelle-like skeletons and are most commonly found at the front of races.

Submitted for your consideration, a bones specimen this summer’s Cul-de-Sac 5K: