
Duck & Run
The Twitch
By Hank Brown
I distinctly remember passing through mile 21 at the Kiawah Island Marathon and thinking, “Brown, I think you’ve got it this time.”
However, based on my notoriously bad history with marathons, I wasn’t quite ready to declare victory just yet. You see, marathons and I are not very good party companions.
I’m not saying I have bad luck, but it seems something always happens somewhere along the way. At my first marathon, the Rocket City Marathon in the late 80s, I barely made it to mile 16 before surrendering to an ice storm and frigid conditions. Quitting in that race haunted me for a long time, and I made a pact with myself to try and finish future marathons “no matter what.” Even though that is an honorable and somewhat courageous objective, I sometimes question my sanity when hobbling around on dehydrated, cramping legs the final stages of the marathon. Oh well, it’s what we do, right?
I remember shuffling through hot, sticky air at the Myrtle Beach Marathon a few years ago, and the Mardi Gras Marathon a few years before that, thanks to unseasonable tropical storms which blew through each city the night before. I remember stopping dead in my tracks on Boylston Street in Boston with the finish line in sight, desperately urging my legs to move out of the concrete which must have set up around my ankles. I remember wandering around aimlessly in my space blanket for what seemed like days after finishing the Disney Marathon, searching for a ride back to my hotel. When I finally arrived at my room, my family (including my ex-wife) had already packed up for a day at Disney World, leaving me alone to soak in the tub.
Welcome to my life, at least my life as a marathon runner. Now don’t start playing the violin. I’m not looking for pity. But for some reason, I’ve never seemed to be able to master this event. And to be honest, I don’t really care about mastering it, I just want to get through one with some semblance of a running gait over the final mile, and I want a finish photo that’s worthy of framing and displaying on my desk.
My trouble zone is usually between miles 15 and 19. I can tell if I’m going to have a good or bad day by how my body responds during that dreaded stretch. On this day at Kiawah, I struggled a little from 16 to 18, but once I hit the turnaround, I found a welcome tailwind and regained my cruising speed. I saw my wife at mile 20, smiled for a picture, and gave her an encouraging “thumbs up” to signal that things were going well… so far.
My friend Steve, who had graciously volunteered to accompany me, had been monitoring my pace like a drill sergeant, keeping me on my very conservative game plan. My goal was simple… finish with dignity. Just once. That’s all I was asking. So, after passing 21 with plenty of gas in the tank, I started to feel like it might just happen. Yep, I was cruising and nothing could stop me now…
Except The Twitch.
Somewhere between mile 21 and 22, my hamstring twitched. Just a little twitch, but I knew what it was. Dang! Here we go again. I slowed down, stretched, and walked a little. I hoped that would take care of it, but I knew history was not on my side. When my legs start to cramp, it’s the beginning of a long, slow funeral march.
Sure enough, the next 4+ miles were gruesome. It felt like someone would occasionally reach out, grab my legs, and squeeze everything out of them. On each occurrence I would stop, stretch, and hope this was just a bad dream. At one point, between 24 and 25, my hamstring knotted up so badly all I could do was stand still like a bent over statue. I was so pitiful that one of those walkers in a purple Team In Training shirt who start hours before everyone else, passed me and offered me a salt tablet (which I refused but Steve accepted and said it almost made him sick).
Steve was very patient, but I could sense his frustration as the seconds, and minutes ticked away. It’s amazing how quickly the world can change from thumbs up to thumbs down. Just a few miles ago, I was on top of the world, scripting my wonderful marathon experience in my head to all my friends. But as I finally staggered toward the finish line, I didn’t want anyone to know I was even there. Same old story, different chapter.
It’s tough for guys my age (I just turned 55) to achieve things like we used to do, at least from an athletic standpoint. It’s hard to accept running “just for fun” in a 5K, or pulling out a 7 iron when a 9 iron used to be plenty of club. We still have that pride, and yes, a little bit of ego, but our bodies continue to knock us to the mat.
I guess that’s why I loved the final Rocky movie (Rocky Balboa). During the movie, Rocky battled his inner demons of what he once was, and struggled to come to grips with what he should be in the next phase of his life. In the end, he finally came to peace with it, but not without one more shot at glory.
Maybe that’s why Brett Favre has such a hard time retiring. In fact I think most of us guys have a difficult time “retiring” from one chapter of our lives and moving on to the next one. It’s hard to forget the glory days, I guess.
The day after the marathon, I was sore, but no worse than all the previous marathons I ever ran. I “eeched” and “ouched” my way down the stairs, and moaned my way out of the car when we stopped at rest stops. Within a few days I was walking normal, and back into the usual grind of everyday life. When people asked about the marathon, I raised one eyebrow and said “well, I finished, but it wasn’t pretty.” They seemed impressed nonetheless.
I guess finishing a marathon is still quite an accomplishment, no matter how long it takes or how ragged you look when you finally arrive at the finish line. So, just like Rocky, I’m at peace with that. But I’m still not ordering the finish line photo!