Marine Marathon: Twizzlers and Pilgrims

I still remember watching the marathon in the 1972 Olympics.  Frank Shorter won the race, the last American male to win it.  (An American woman, Joan Benoit, won the first women's olympic marathon 12 years later).  ABC Sports portrayed it as an epic race.  I, like millions of people, became fascinated by the mere idea of a marathon.  Running in junior high and senior high, I always imagined running a marathon.

A few decades later, in 2003, I actually ran one.  The Marine Marathon is known as the People's Marathon because of the number of first timers running the race and the lack of prize money (it is not a marathon for socialists).  I still recall feeling great for most of the race, as it's truly exhilarating to be part of the mass of runners, to be cheered by anonymous crowds, to be achieving a childhood dream.  I also recall starting to feel exhausted all of a sudden during the race and looking up and seeing the sign for mile 20.  I found out stories of hitting the wall at 20 miles are true. 

By the time I was running, trotting, and walking across the 14th Street Bridge, I was dying.  People around me were also expiring on the bleak expanse of highway, devoid of encouraging spectators, the earlier giddy excitement replaced with not subtle signals from their bodies saying no to running anymore.  Just in the grimmest moment, a guy in a batman costume holding a plastic halloween jack-o-lantern asked "Do you want a Twizzler?"  I took one and it brought me back to life.  I started running/trotting for a mile or so, enough to get me over the bridge and onto the home stretch.  Though I walked some more, the roar of the the crowd lining the course the last mile, screaming and encouraging their wives, husbands, dads, mom, kids, friends, and even strangers to make the last steps of the race encouraged me to the finish line, where one young marine placed the finishers medal around my neck and another knelt down before me and removed the timing device from my shoes and shook my hand.

A year later I did the marathon again, finishing almost 20 minutes faster.  My girlfriend and future wife who had met me on the course at a couple points, even handing out twizzlers, met me at the finisher's area and asked, "Are you done now?"  Though I've done shorter races, I haven't done another marathon and probably never will.  But ever since, I've gone out to the 14th Street Bridge and handed out Twizzlers to runners and cheered them on.   Not the sleek 3 hour finishers, but the 4, 5, 6 hour finishers.

They needed someone to cheer them on on the concrete expanse where their bodies were in full revolt with their minds.  They needed some little charge to keep them going, a cheer, a snack to keep them going.  The folks were profoundly grateful for the sugar boost and people to encourage them through the grim trial of the bridge.  Profuse thanks and relief were common.  People recognized me from previous years--"Thanks for coming again, this saved me!"  A teacher from the school where I was an administrator came up to me and said "I want tomorrow off."

Last year, following the Boston Marathon bombings, the authorities closed off the bridge to spectators, with Marines and armed policemen guarding the approaches to the bridge.  The bridge was closed again this year.  I met other folk who wanted to encourage folk on the bridge with cheers and food who had also been "saved" by anonymous folk on the bridge who were disappointed by the draconian security.  We were saddened by the thought of the runners alone on the bridge without seeing anyone caring about their ordeal.

This year and last year I took the train back to DC and gave away Twizzlers to runners on the approaches to the bridge.  The second half of the runners are full of triumphs and tragedies.  Parents pushing their disabled children on carriages.  People holding the hands of spouses and friends as they hobble off to the side.  People limping in pain and struggling to continue.  I realized it's a modern day pilgrimage.

Until this century, many people would make pilgrimages to churches and sacred sites to find themselves and their spirits.  In a secular world, people find other ways of testing themselves and proving themselves outside their habitual life of work.  Many do it in private through treks or travels while many do it in public before thousands in a marathon.  Though it was gratifying to hear people's thanks for cheering them and providing snacks, it was more inspiring to watch them run, some carrying flags on poles, some wearing photos of children in the services, some wearing uniforms of the services or fire departments, some running in children's or friends' memories, some even on crutches, or some simply trying to achieve a dream, but all struggling to push themselves beyond their normal lives.

Bravo marathoners.