My training for the Paavo Nurmi half-marathon began in May. I burned with desire to better last year's personal time. Throughout summer the Paavo was on was on my mind, so I ran the hills in nearby Jessieville during 80 and 90-degree temps with a soaked t-shirt. I did speed intervals in the Iron Belle Trail located on the former Chicago Northwestern railroad bed. It's a new, blacktopped trail.
My goal was to beat last-year's time and I knew I could do it, judging by the weekend runs which exceeded 9 miles. I learned how to regulate my running speed into five levels of progressing speed, keeping my training runs disciplined and without injury. I used a fitness monitor, the Fitbit Zip along with a stopwatch to monitor my training.
I tried to run three times during the week- short runs around six miles and concentrated on a different aspect in each run. The weekend runs started at 4 miles in May and progressed to 12 miles by July 30. The 12-mile run, two weeks before the big event gave me a lot of confidence.
Lining up at the start of the half-marathon I was a little nervous. There were some exceedingly athletic young men and women present but I would not be competing with them. I only wanted to beat last year's time.
When the starting gun went off I tried to avoid the feet of the person ahead of me. My friend, John Hein, a veteran full-marathoner now retired, told me he saw incidents where several people were injured, even trampled just yards from the starting line. He told me to line up at the outside of the pack .
The first leg of the race was a two-mile stretch on Highway 77, mostly uphill. I restrained myself from passing slower runners in order to save 'gas' for the latter part of the run. Lois was on the side, taking pictures with her camera for Facebook.
My right calf cramped a little but I blamed the 62 degree drizzly and foggy weather. Just about all my training was done an at least 80 degree weather. I was much relieved as the cramping stopped when we turned into County C.
This year I slowed to take a little drink of water from each aid station manned by unselfish and encouraging people. I can't give these volunteers enough praise.
Six miles into the run my Fitbit and stopwatch told me I was a little ahead of schedule to beat last year's finish by a half-hour. I slowed slightly at each hill and accelerated a little on flat terrain. I felt good. My stride felt good. My legs had lots of running left in them. Everything was going well. I was probably somewhere in the front one-third of the herd. Occasionally I was passed by a young and fast runner but didn't let it faze me. One young male runner ahead of me ran into the woods and a few minutes later he returned and passed me.
At 6.5 miles I was alarmed at a sharp pain in the outside of my left knee. I knew this pain. Had it once when running in worn-out shoes. My shoes had about 300 miles on them and I noticed some extensive wear on the soles. The life of a running shoe is 300 to 500 miles. What I've heard and read told me not to change anything, stride, gait or shoes before a marathon.
The pain forced me down to a walk. I watched my stopwatch and when 30 seconds elapsed I ran again. I was okay for a couple of minutes and the pain returned. I was mad. I went injury-free all summer and now this! This would be my method for the rest of the race. My heart sunk as many runners passed me. I couldn't sustain a run.
When I reached Highway 51 a lone spectator was yelling encouragement to each runner.
"Hurtin' ain't ya?"
"Damn!" I shouted this.
"Only 5 miles to go. You'll make 'er."
His encouragement didn't warm my heart as I was passed much less frequently, meaning that I had fallen back in the race. I couldn't make that up even if my knee was healthy. Anger simmered inside me, mostly anger at myself. Yet, who knows how new shoes would have affected me.
A deeply-tanned middle-aged woman stopped alongside.
"Looks like your knee is sore. You have a bandage (on my left knee). I bet you fell and skinned your knee while running."
"Yup."
"It doesn't look swollen but there could be internal swelling."
"It happened to me once. I dropped out and took an ambulance ride back to town. Well, I'm really sorry. Gotta go."
I noticed that she ran about a half mile then turned off on a dirt road alongside an old tavern. Weird!
I took a bag of ice from an aid station and applied it to my knee, to no avail. I ran and walked to the 11-mile mark and tried the ice again, then I threw it to the ground in an explosion of ice and water. Despair had set in. I was limping now during the walk intervals. I thought of giving up and being picked up in an ambulance but I kept going in spite of the excruciating current of pain that even made me miss Chuck and Lil Lundberg, dear longtime friends who were cheering me on. The tanned woman passed me.
You should have joined me. I had enough beer for two people!"
I walked down the highway to Hurley's main intersection. Some people cheered and I wondered what for. No runners passed me and none were in front of me. All I could focus on was running across the finish line so I walked toward the finish line. I would give it one last burst. Lois was there aiming her phone. I thought of how much I love her.
I hoped that I was distant enough so my face, now streamed with tears and contorted with pain would not show in the photo. I started my limping run for the last time and crossed the finish line. I stopped, hands on my knees. I was wobbly and then I felt a gentle arm reach around my shoulders. I sobbed a little.
"Son of a bitch," I cried. "I trained so hard all summer."
The woman was a race volunteer, unknown to me. She said something but I don't remember it. Then Lois came. I regained composure and got a medallion for finishing.
On Sunday morning I awakened refreshed and I tried my knee. It didn't hurt except for negotiating stairs. Then the sharp and bitter taste of defeat returned. Images flashed back but I buried these and insisted on putting yesterday's melancholy behind.
Lois insisted that I wear my new t-shirt that read "Courage to start. 13.1 Strength to finish." I felt silly wearing it but when we got to church John Hein shouted, "You finished." We bumped fists.
"I ran a lot of marathons and I quit three times when the going got tough. Each time I felt rotten about quitting, especially days afterward. It's better to finish than to quit, even if you come in nearly last place."
Jerry Wanink, the guy who does the announcements asked what happened. He is usually at an aid station but he had to work this time. After I filled him in he was impressed and he said he would tell the congregation.
"One person represented our fellowship in the Paavo Nurmi Half-Marathon. That's 13.1 miles. He hurt his knee hafway through and he struggled through the last half of the race in horrible pain but he crossed the finish line. Give George a hand!"
And everyone clapped. I have been blessed by good friends and most of all I have been blessed by my wife, Lois. She's a diamond.
(Sisu is a nuanced Finnish word. Today I found one of its meanings.)
