Emory Mort, left, caught me between miles 7 and 8 and shared his race plan. He even invited me to follow suit.
Step one: Catch the pack (What pack?).
Step two: Hit the half and open it up along Kelly Drive.
“Sounds good,” I said, as we passed a couple guys. “But let’s chill on this hill.”
I thought the hill was one of the two which people will mention when describing the Philadelphia Marathon as mostly flat and fast. People say the first hill comes late within the opening 10 miles and that the second comes in the 20s in Manayunk.
As it turns out, the course definitely has more than two hills, and the one Mort and I were climbing with ease was just a prelude to the real deal in Fairmount Park, which would be followed shortly thereafter by a long, leg-beating downhill.
Matt Ernst, a GRC teammate who raced here in 2008, told me months before the race, straight-up, that the Philadelphia Marathon does not roll out a PR course. I resisted that notion, though, because, well, I was aiming for one. Thought about it daily. Wanted it badly.
So, rather than listen to Ernst, I continued to imbibe the oft-told tale that Philadelphia’s marathon is not much more difficult than Chicago’s marathon, where I set my PR of 2:29.06 in 2006. But Ernst was right. Philadelphia’s course, while not nearly as difficult as New York’s, is also not nearly as swift as Chicago’s. It has two hairpin turns and at least three memorable hills. (What about that hill found shortly after the half during the brief loop off Kelly Drive?)
It should be noted, too, that the Philadelphia Marathon is not as well run as the latter big city events. For starters, clocks and mile markers were often inaccurate. And with the 8K, half marathon and marathon all finishing in the same place, the finishing stretch was clogged for the top marathoners.
This is not to say one cannot have a good experience here. I did.
This is also not to say one cannot PR here. One most certainly can.
Back to Mort. The former Cornell University standout looked like he was in the early stages of a comfortable yet peppy Sunday long run. And his pace was accelerating.
As I believed I was prepared to run around 2:27, most of my early miles were clocked between 5:33-5:40. What’s more, I consider myself someone who, as my coach would say, gets it … and thus generally adheres to two principals: Respect the distance; never force pace.
Mort, though, executing his race strategy as well as he was, made it look like I was racing without a clue. By the real hill, as I kept running between 5:35 and 5:40 per mile, Mort was gone and rolling – in the process of running the marathon (his first, I believe) the way it should be run, and finishing second in 2:24.31. After hitting the half in 1:12.42, Mort closed in the 1:11s.
The winner, John Crews, the first American to win the race since 2000, also ran negative splits – hitting the half in 1:09.24 and closing in just under 1:08 to clock 2:17.15. A graduate student and graduate of North Carolina State, Crews won by more than six minutes, hit a PR, qualified for the Olympic Trials and won his third marathon in as many attempts.
Philadelphia runner Karl Savage held the lead for 23 miles and was all alone at the half in 1:06.55, which is much faster than the course record pace. In Manayunk, as the bearded runner passed me going in the opposite direction (the second half of the race is mostly out-and-back), he still held a decent lead on Crews. But Savage faded hard, finishing third in 2:26.04 and closing with a 1:19-ish half.
A year after frigid temperatures left sheets of ice on the road near water stations, the 2009 race was run in near-perfect conditions, with mostly-calm winds and temperatures in the 40s. (Certainly none of that 30-plus MPH stuff I recall on Michigan Avenue in Chicago.) And yet, as is the nature of the marathon beast, some thrived as some suffered.
After finishing 4th in 2008 in the low 2:25s, Craig Segal, a good friend and fellow Jersey boy, finished 7th this year, in better conditions, in 2:27.36, as he struggled some in the second half. He and I had similar races: We set it up well in the first half but suffered though serious rough patches later on. However, rather than fold as our goal times slipped out of reach, we fought for every second and continued to run like hell.
There’s honor in that -- and no regrets.
---
With a starting time of 7 a.m., I woke up at 3:30 a.m. and ate the usual breakfast – a slice of toast with a decent spread of peanut butter. My dad woke up a few minutes later, and for the next couple hours we read and chatted some while hydrating and drinking coffee.
The nerves and adrenaline were already working, but just enough to let me know they would be there when I really needed them, as nothing would cause me to be more nervous than to not be nervous on race day.
Still, I was calm, confident. We were in my sister and her boyfriend’s apartment in Manayunk. My family, including my wife, was with me, and although they have been with me before other marathons as well, it felt even more reassuring in this instance, I think, because we were on our own turf rather than at a hotel.
My dad is a very good master’s runner. Some of my best memories are of watching him race in the 1990s Jersey Shore scene which featured, among other memorable characters, Dr. George Sheehan. When, as a senior in high school, I discovered for myself this sport called running, there was a newness to it that was as invigorating as it was transformative. At the same time, something was so incredibly tenable and recognizable: My entire life I had observed Dad going about his training, day after day after day.
Dad told me I was ready. So did my coach. So did my teammates. But how it would all play out?
I lined up next Craig at the front of the line. The race started and we followed the early path of September’s Philadelphia Distance Run.
The pace up front seemed hot and I did my best to settle back and relax. As I crossed the mile in about 5:35, I heard talk around me that the clock was 10 seconds off. How does one really know?
For about 5 miles, I ran alongside Muliye Gurmu (she would finish third) and a half marathoner. Some of the clocks were well off. I knew by my own watch, however, that I was doing just fine, and passed five miles in the high 27s.
For about 5 miles, I ran alongside Muliye Gurmu (she would finish third) and a half marathoner. Some of the clocks were well off. I knew by my own watch, however, that I was doing just fine, and passed five miles in the high 27s.
Writing this now, more than a week has passed. It’s all a blur – always is. I never wrote down my splits, and, as I always do, stopped taking them between 14 and 17 miles.
The crowds along Chestnut Street were pretty loud; I let it get to me a little too much and dropped the people I was running with, as I saw my teammate, Patrick Murphy, who was entered in the half marathon, about 50 meters ahead. When I caught him around 10k, we bumped fists and he asked me how I was feeling.
“Good,” I said. We ran together for about a half mile, and he blocked the wind for me on a short hill. Murphy, in the past few months, had been putting in as many hours at work as I had put in miles in training. But we had still managed to train together several times weekly, and it’s always exhilarating to run with a friend and teammate amidst the madness of a big city race. To think, thousands in the race and thousands lining the sidewalks … and here we are running together in the middle of the road.
I still felt strong after the real climb through Fairmount Park. As has been the case in recent marathons, I was struggling getting down water and gel – but forget that. As I made my way down a hill toward the Schuylkill River, I was pleased to see the clock at 10 miles at a few ticks over 56 minutes. I had yet to take a gel, I believe because my stomach around the 8th mile was feeling irritable. But as I hit the first hairpin turn and began my return to the art museum, the halfway point and Kelly Drive, there suddenly was deadness in my legs. I took the gel, hoping it might make me feel better.
Though my pace did not slow through the half, I was now exerting myself, pressing slightly. I thought about taking a second gel, but couldn’t get it out of my pocket.
At the half, my coach yelled out 1:13.38. I had set the race up well. Mike Carriglitto and I were running eighth and ninth. (I had noticed him take a pitstop just miles earlier and assumed he might be undergoing a bit of a rough patch, too.)
As we hit the top of the hill off Kelly Drive, Adam Tenerowicz caught us and quickly revived us. Suddenly, heading north on Kelly Drive, we had the strength of a pack.
Then, out of nowhere, it seemed, there was four with Curtis Larimer, who was feeling even better than Tenerowicz. The pace accelerated, and I knew it wasn’t sustainable.
Tenerowicz went with Larimer and Carriglitto, along with me, fell briefly behind. I then watched in amazement as Carriglitto, the picture of guts and strength, threw in a surge, caught up and, with them, disappeared.
While getting dropped, I ran a mile a couple seconds faster than the previous. Without the pack, though, things got tough in a hurry.
Tenerowicz would negative split to finish sixth in 2:26.51. Carriglitto would hang on to finish eighth in 2:28.30.
Alone, against the wind, somewhere between falling off goal pace and bonking, I focused on nothing more than getting to the turn-around point in Manayunk. I covered 10 miles to 30k in 5:44 pace, propelled forward by the single thought, yes, I could still do this.
I had some terrific support. My coach and a college buddy were screaming their heads off and barking out encouragement. This was huge: the thought that someone else respected what I was doing, maybe even thought I was doing well.
Twenty miles. 1:53 and who knows how many seconds. My pace could not have been much faster than 6-flat, and I knew I would really have to dig in to run 2:28 or even break 2:30. And so I dug.
Cycling back toward the finish line with his friend and Craig’s coach, my coach could see Craig was gapping me and decided to double back to support me. I met Todd Lippin when I was a senior in college, at the track during winter break. He showed up at the track with, incidentally, Craig and another good runner as I was finishing up.
After only running one year in high school, I had been slowly – very slowly -- evolving at Gettysburg College, in a division three running program that is now quite good but then was not.
These were the days before Lets Run, the days when a young, American runner could live and train and compete in a decidedly insular world.
Todd was training for Boston, having once run 2:30 there, and invited me to train with a group of division one college guys, some graduates of the Jersey powerhouse, Christian Brothers Academy, for the rest of the winter break. For me, this was the time I began to have something of a clue – when I realized that 50-60 miles per week is not good mileage. Though you would not think it would take a major revelation to uncover something so simple, for some reason it almost always does: The guys who run fast run A LOT. As in, WAY more than do I.
Todd met up with me around 23 miles. He cycled along the path that loops around the Schuylkill and barked out words of encouragement perhaps every 15 to 30 seconds.
I was entirely catatonic and thus unable to respond – nod, even – but little by little I began to believe what he was saying: There were runners I could catch. Some guy pulled up with cramps, and I was at least able to mutter some encouragement as I passed by, running about 6:10 pace, running as hard as I could.
I passed a guy who passed me in Manayunk. I emptied it out.
Passing by the art museum and curving toward the finish, I could hear teammates yelling for me. The finishing stretch was jammed; I bobbed and weaved. Then it opened up, and I saw Larimer.
I was somehow on my toes, digging in, clenching my teeth and passing him with 10 meters left. (I thought it made me 11th, but Larimer’s chip time was a second faster.)
12th.
2:31.34.
I had run well. Or had I run poorly? I had not run a PR, had not broken 2:30 – certain goals were not achieved. But I had competed well. And I had tested my limits. And, yes, my second half – 1:17-high – was disappointing
Emotional. Short of breath. Looking out at a sea of people moving through a chute that seemed to stretch all the way to Center City. My mom found me, pulled me out near the Rodin Museum. I wrapped my arms around her and held her tight like I was 20 years younger and had just experienced something that was simply too much – all-consuming.
---
Days after the race, Runner’s World published an interview with Crews. What was his mileage in training?
130 MPW.
Of course it was.
After work, ten days after the marathon, I went out for an easy 30-minute run, my second since the race. I still felt odd strains, but also a lightness. The simple joy of running when it’s easy.
I rolled down the hill on Independence Ave. past the capital and hit the National Mall, the dirt path full of puddles. I was the only person out, and the softer surface seemed to heal my aches. I thought about taking off at the pace I wish I had in the last 10K of the race. Instead, I ran easy, enjoying the air, the rain, the movement, the monuments full of light.
In two weeks, real training will re-commence. In the meantime, I need to be honest with myself. Of seven marathons, my fastest are 2:32.20, 2:31.34 and 2:29.06. In other words, I’m a 2:30 guy … who wants to run much faster.
I had more consecutive weeks in the lows 100s for this cycle than I did before Chicago. Still, the peak week, 110, was the same, and going into this cycle I had loftier goals.
It’s not about a number. It’s about how much you can absorb. And it's not that I could not handle higher mileage than 100 or 110; it's that I could not find the time (I am a full-time journalist) to run more than that. There are more factors to consider than just work, namely my first priority: Be a good husband.
At the same time, there are very few good excuses. Look no further than my hero, Billy Rodgers, who put in monster weeks while working at a hospital. Look no further than Hains Point on Friday morning: There, without fail, I will see one of the country’s top marathoners – also a working runner – banging out a fartlek workout as part of a training week that routinely covers more than 140 miles.
In America, and in D.C., it’s a good time to be a runner. And, at 28, the writing is on the wall.
