This weekend, one of the oldest and richest sporting events in history comes to Athens. Unfortunately, probably only a handful of people will bother to witness it.
The 36th annual Athens Marathon starts at 9 a.m. Sunday at the corner of Court and Union streets. From there, hundreds of semi-crazy people will test their bodies and their minds for 26.2 miles before finishing at Peggy Pruitt Field.
If you can't imagine how far 26.2 miles actually is, picture running the full length of a football field — 4,611.2 times.
But the marathon itself is a happy day, the capstone to a long routine of personal punishment and sacrifice. I trained for a marathon during Fall Quarter, and I couldn't go out on Friday nights because — at the height of my training ' I knew I had 10 miles to run Saturday. And I wouldn't even think about trying to go out Saturday nights, because I was exhausted from running 10 miles and afraid of the fact that I had to run 20 miles the next day.
And, oh God, was it hard to run 20 miles. Afterward, I fell into the bathroom to notice I had lost three toenails and my nipples were bleeding from rubbing against my shirt for so long. It was 9 p.m., and I took a shower and went to bed, taking solace in the fact that while my roommates hadn't moved from the couch and their hangovers all day, I had done something, even if it was crazy.
I slept for 13 hours that night and couldn't walk to class the next day.
But I did run the next day. I had to. And after a while, I realized the marathon was possible, and I wanted it. After the course of training in Athens for a full quarter, I think the workers at the Richland Avenue Wendy's almost expected me and my Walkman to stumble in, pee and drip sweat onto everything in my way.
September turned into November. Then, before I knew it, I was on a plane headed to Florida, and there was no turning back.
If you've ever had the chance to be around a marathon race before it starts, you've probably seen people trying to find a bathroom in which to vomit. People cry; people shake; people start to doubt themselves and wonder what the hell they've done with the past six months of their lives.
But then the gun goes off. I always assumed I would focus on keeping a 7:15 pace per mile, which would be quick enough to meet the 3 hour, 10 minute qualifying standard for the Boston Marathon.
But as mile markers passed five, 10 and 15, the importance of trivial things like finishing time and whether you're ahead of that woman who was with you at the starting line became irrelevant. All you remember are the faces in the crowd. The numbness in your legs is overpowered by the building jubilation of crossing the finish line.
In the end, I finished in 3:15 — a pace 12 seconds per mile off my goal of 3:10. Not bad for my first marathon, but I'll tell you what: I was no more proud of myself than the 50-year-old woman who finished two hours later.
"Runners run," Wyoming cross country captain Chris Jons once said. "It's how we deal with stress. It's where we talk with God."
Undoubtedly, there will be several hundred aspiring marathoners spotted throughout Athens talking, pleading with and maybe even yelling at God Sunday morning.
If you have any sense, you will be out there praying for them.
Whitney, a junior, is assistant sports editor of The Post. Send him e-mail at blake.whitney@ohiou.edu.
17 Archives
200304111760midsize.jpg
Blake Whitney
