I’d started running a mere 8 months ago, had been training hard for the event, but had no idea what I was doing really. There had been no preliminary races to run in Poland and so I just had to hope that what I’d read on RW’s online forum would be enough to get me through. The best advice (among some very good advice) was to start out slowly and I tried to internalize it as best I could but first I had to start out at all. Sunday dawned cold and blustery. A light rain was falling and I cringed inwardly. Finally, despite the comfort of the down quilt I forced myself out of bed, made a light breakfast of toast and a sports drink and started to pack up. The race was to start 10am.
As I proceeded to the race headquarters – a small gymnasium in the heart of Warsaw’s Old Town – the weather worsened. The winds began to pick up and the rain began to fall more heavily. I continued to have second thoughts but felt that I had to at least try. It was one of those things. Not to have tried at all would have been failure.
Once in the gymnasium, the warmth, overpowering scent of Ben Gay and the tangible enthusiasm of some 600 runners started to dispel my feelings of gloom. I don’t speak much Polish and so was unable to truly communicate but the feeling of camaraderie, of participating in something both as an individual and as a group of like minded people steeled my resolve. I changed my clothes amidst the throng and went outside to stretch. The steady rain of half an hour ago had become a light drizzle but the wind continued unabated.
The race began shortly after 10am just south of King Sigmund’s column, a well known historic landmark at the beginning of Old Town, where some 700 hundred people had gathered. Most were in shorts and t-shirts or singlets though the temperature was now dipping into the 40s and the wind made it feel much colder. In fact, just before the pistol fired to start the race, the tethers of the overhead banner announcing the marathon snapped in the strengthening wind, creating the sound of a rifle report. Some people, thinking the race had begun, advanced a few yards before realizing their mistake.
Once everyone was back in line the countdown in Polish from 10 to start began. I could feel the adrenaline build in my chest as the count neared zero and warned myself for the upteenth time to start slowly. Bang! We were off.
The first three miles through the center of Warsaw’s most beautiful quarter took us from Old Town past the President’s palace and then on towards Parliament and other ministerial buildings. It was a route I’d run seldom since it is usually congested with cars and trucks. It was really pleasurable, but I noticed I was, of course, running too fast. I slowed just as I came to the sole hill of the course, a sharp downhill grade past the President’s residence. From here on out it would be flat and endless.
Miles four through six were uneventful as the rain subsided momentarily and the wind died down considerably. I even allowed myself to entertain the pleasant notion that the weather might be improving. For the moment, the only problem was avoiding the fallen branches in the streets and keeping a sound footing on the slick, leave covered pavement. Already the crowd of runners had thinned considerably and what spectators there were were even more sparsely evident. I was running alone and feeling good. I was still enjoying it.
At the beginning of the seventh mile, the course runs past the Wilanow Palace, one of the few remaining Polish palaces to be restored to its former grandeur. It was also the last site of any historical interest on the course. After Wilanow the runners were directed to a wide bike path which runs (seemingly) endlessly along fields of cabbage and other vegetables. It’s a route I knew well since I’d done all my long runs during training along this the only bike path in Warsaw. But this time was different as the wind came back with a vengeance and finally began to take a toll. I first noticed how much energy I’d been exerting to run into the wind whenever it abruptly ceased for a minute or two. At those wonderful moment, it would feel as if I was running down hill and I’d have to consciously slow myself. I concentrated on making it out of the fields and into the small village where I knew the course turned back on itself. I knew the houses and other buildings would serve to blunt the force of the wind offering a temporary respite. Once through the village I’d reached mile 10 and was heading back to Wilanow with the wind slightly at my back. I felt like I was flying.
As I moved into the 12th mile I realized how much tapering had helped me. I was still breathing easy and my legs were a bit fatigued by the wind but still running strong. In fact, despite the wind I’d never felt so good in my training. My pace had settled now to about 8 minute and 30 second miles – still too fast I thought but I couldn’t seem to help it. I’d eaten my first energy bar and was skipping every other aid station by nursing a half liter of Isotar. Runners were already starting to drop out in droves in front of me and the sky ahead looked threatening. Still, it never entered my head to stop at mile 13 where I noticed the official time read 1:48:49. It was the first time I really allowed myself to think that I was truly going to make it.
But then it happened. All hell broke loose in the form of a cyclone. Or at least it felt that way. Rain started to fall heavily and the wind turned into us again. Steady and strong, I would later read that it was gusting up to 35 mph. At times the rain was being driven horizontally into our faces. It was inescapable and as we were now running along the river back toward the finish there was nothing to shield us from its pounding. As the road began to pool with deep puddles, my shoes became sopping wet adding both actual and psychological weight. As the damp permeated my shoes and then socks, I could feel blisters form almost immediately. I felt it all but bowed my head and pushed on. "Do not stop," I yelled to myself out loud, knowing that if I did I would never start again. The Cyclone continued for three miles leaving the rest of the course drenched.
By this time I’d lost track of the miles. I just kept going. I had had to take off my glasses because it was pointless to continue wearing them in the incessant rain and so the world past by in even more of blur. While I ran I ate my next power bar and put my brain on autopilot. Sometimes I would think of the Tom Petty lyrics that had kept me running during long training runs. Other times I would simply envision the finish and how good I would feel to be done, trying all the while to remember the success stories I’d read on-line. I continued to console myself that if it weren’t for the damn wind this would be easy (and much more fun.) In this way, time and miles passed. I was still relaxed but I was also cold and wondered idly whether I was going to catch pneumonia. Psychologically I thought I was still good to go but was worried that my legs might stop moving. Somehow, they didn’t. It was almost as if they were detached entirely from the rest of my body and had a will of their own.
The most difficult time in the race came after I glanced up to realize that I had unknowingly crashed through "the Wall" and was now well on my way to finishing. The reason was simple: I hadn’t taken the time to really get to know the course thinking that knowing it might make it more difficult to complete it in the later stages. This was a mistake since the Warsaw Marathon, among its other peculiarities, forces runners to run past the finish line at mile 21. It was psychologically traumatizing: I knew that there were only a few miles left and could see other runners running back in towards the finish but didn’t know exactly where the turnaround would come. Not wearing my glasses made the situation worse as I kept "seeing" the turnaround point only to find it was a mirage. For me that turnaround point became the Everest summit and I was in the Death Zone. It didn’t help that my old nemesis the wind was back with such force that it was blowing me across the pavement. My only consolation was the belief that once I’d reached the turnaround point – and it HAD to be soon - the wind would be at my back for the last two or three miles.
Finally, somewhere out on this endless stretch of road, a small orange cone and a pea green VW bug signaled salvation. It was the turnaround point and I was on my way back to the finish. The wind (of course) immediately died but its altogether absence made me feel 20 pounds lighter. I felt like I was running fast now but I knew I was barely crawling. My shoes were still sloshing and my feet ached but the rain, too, had mercifully stopped. I targeted a couple runners ahead of me and determined to pass them. At the final aid station, I filled my now empty water bottle on the run and steeled myself for the final three miles. I was thinking about nothing but finishing now. I decided not to make the same mistake and, since the rain and wind had abruptly halted, I pulled my glasses back on and tried with each passing step to spot the finish line. This time the mirage turned out to be real and I "sprinted" toward the ticking clock. (Videotape would later reveal the reality.)
And so on Sunday, October 5, four hours, five minutes and 48 seconds into the race, I crossed the finish line of my first marathon. A certificate signed by the mayor, a finishers medal and a hot glass of hot and extremely sweet tea were my welcoming trophies. There, too, were my wife, Susan, and two boys, Alex, 3, and Ethan, 4 months. My wife hugged me and in the celebration/surrender of the moment I let out one single, solitary (but total) sob. My son Alex, looking up at the "gold" finisher’s medal that had just been put around my neck, asked me: "Daddy, did you win?" I answered him honestly when I said – without hesitation –yes, Alex, I won. . . .