On the bus, there was simply no extra room to house another traveler. We were already cramped with our existing crew. There was no way I was going to burden those guys with another passenger. In the spirit of being a team player, I had to make sacrifices. The bodywork and massages would have to wait until Day 51.
By the time I had signed everything and talked with everyone, it was getting on into the afternoon.
“Shouldn’t we be going now?” I asked Dave. After all, we had a 425-mile drive to Mississippi ahead of us.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, but there was still stuff strewn everywhere. Our Moroccan bazaar looked like the victim of an unexpected windstorm.
When I eventually climbed aboard the bus, I found Nicholas perched in the driver’s seat, in the rightful place of English, who occupied the passenger’s seat across from him.
“Dad, Memphis is so cool!” Nicholas gushed.
“Are you having fun?” I asked.
“We’re having a blast!” he announced, then bolted for the door, giving English a high five on the way out.
“Reminds me of my kids when they were that age,” English said, with a proud smile on his face.
Nicholas, of all people, seemed to have broken through English’s English reserve, and we got to talking. I learned that he had been driving a rig like this across the country for the past twenty-eight years. “Don’t use a map anymore,” he told me. “No need.”
Crew members busily filed in and out of the vehicle as we chatted away. Finally, Koop came in and shut the door. English glanced over at him and casually asked, “Are we a bus?”
Koop pointed around with his finger, taking a head count. “We’re a bus,” he said.
English started the ignition, and soon the buildings of Memphis were behind us, though the memories lived on within as we rumbled down the highway.
Knowing Better
Day 3
September 19, 2006
Mississippi Coast Marathon
Gulfport, Mississippi
Elevation: 12'
Weather: 87 degrees; very humid
Time: 4:30:19
Net calories burned: 9,561
Number of runners: 20
T
he drive to Mississippi sucked.
It was a seven-hour straight shot due south on Highway 55, all the way across the state to the Gulf of Mexico. The road was in a third-world condition of disrepair—a rutted, potholed strip of neglected pavement that caused the bus to jostle around incessantly like a space shuttle on takeoff.
“Why is the road so bumpy?” I asked English.
“We’re in the South,” he said. I guess that was sufficient explanation.
Everybody was starving, but we had too much ground to cover to stop anywhere, and any effort made to cobble together some type of meal aboard this storm-tossed schooner produced disastrous results. Food was splattered everywhere. Plates slid off the counter if left unattended. Jars of peanut butter and jelly rolled around on the floor.
A couple of hours into the trip, we were treated to a gorgeous pink sunset, though it was disappointingly short-lived, and the ensuing darkness only heightened our restlessness and claustrophobia. Not that the darkness had much of an effect on my view from the back of the rig. The vinyl wrap that completely enclosed the bus provided wonderful sponsor branding on the outside but virtually negated visibility from within. One of the aspects of the Endurance 50 that I had most looked forward to was the chance to see the varied geographic beauty of America, but because of the skintight, semi-opaque suit of advertising our bus wore, I had the odd sense of being teleported from one race site to the next without experiencing anything between them, except cabin fever and nausea.
Also bothering me throughout this long night of discomfort was my blistered foot, which needed attention. I should have changed to dry socks during this morning’s marathon, or at least immediately afterward. Standing around the Finish Festival in wet socks had allowed the blister to fester; now it was tender and red.
Tips to Prevent Running Blisters
• Wear running socks made from moisture-wicking materials such as CoolMax.
• Wear socks with minimal seams, especially across the toes.
• Break in a pair of new shoes with a couple of short runs before going long.
• Keep shoelaces sufficiently tightened; sliding feet can create friction.
• Lubricate known trouble spots on your feet before you start. Bodyglide and Aquaphor are my personal favorites, though some people prefer a dry lubricant such as talcum powder.
• Remove pebbles and debris from your shoes as soon as you notice them.
• If possible, stop running the moment you feel a hot spot developing.
I was embarrassed to tell Koop about the blister. Not taking appropriate prophylactic measures was a rookie mistake. There shouldn’t
be
a blister on my foot—not in marathon number two. I decided to just air it out and otherwise not mess with it much. With any luck, the skin would stay intact.
Every runner is familiar with the sin of knowing better—of stubbornly pushing ahead despite warnings from the more sensible parts of our minds. The desire to keep running until the task is completed or the goal achieved is so great that it overrides our better knowledge and our self-protective faculties. Here are a couple of typical scenarios:
1. On a long, hot run in the summer, you run out of sports drink with an hour to go and think,
I should stop at a convenience store and use my emergency five-dollar bill to buy another bottle
. Then you think,
Nah, I’ll be fine
. Then you overheat. Recovery over the next several days is a grind, and your training schedule is disrupted.
2. In the early weeks of your marathon training, you develop a pain in your shin that gets a little worse each day. You think,
I should take a few days off
. Then you think,
I can’t take a few days off. I’ll get out of shape. The pain will probably go away on its own
. So you keep training, and as a result you develop a stress fracture that sidelines you for a month.
Grandmother’s advice was prudent: “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” Yet every runner I know, including myself, has committed the sin of knowing better. Most people eventually learn to avoid repeating certain costly mistakes. Not me. As many miles as I’ve logged, I still make remedial blunders—like the one that had just turned my foot into an oozing, ticking time bomb.
It was nearing two in the morning when we reached our hotel and approaching three o’clock when I finally lay down to rest.
Two down
,
forty-eight to go
, I thought. My body felt like it was still running.
When I stepped outside the motel door in my running attire three hours later, I was greeted by a wall of warm, swampy air and a swarm of aggressive mosquitoes. Twenty hardy souls had signed up to run with me today, and it would be a test for all of us. We met up near the front gates of the Stennis Space Center, a sprawling NASA rocket testing facility located in a vast emptiness near the Mississippi–Louisiana boarder. We glistened with premature sweat and swatted our hands ineffectually at buzzing vermin as the thick air folded in upon us.
The Mississippi Coast Marathon is a flat, out-and-back course that travels along a quiet stretch of rural highway. And I mean flat. Its only hill is an overpass. We could nearly see the turnaround spot from the starting line. The mercury rose steadily as we ran. Waves of heat and moisture wafted skyward from the highway, blurring the horizon. Thick green foliage lined the roadway. A pungent, earthy vapor permeated the atmosphere, like a spinach salad being microwaved.
My blister began complaining almost immediately. By mile six it was shouting. At the halfway mark, it was screaming bloody murder.
Garrett and Koop met us at the turnaround holding plates of cut bananas. Reaching for a slice of banana, I stuck my finger right through its yellowy-brown skin. The sun had roasted the exterior into oblivion. The innards were syrupy brown, but I was hungry, so I slurped down the warm mess with both hands, dribbles of pudding-like extrusion running down my chin. What runner hasn’t done something similar? Replenishment takes precedence over vanity.
Almost exactly one year earlier, the area where we were now running had been pummeled by Hurricane Katrina, and there were lingering signs of devastation everywhere. We passed houses and shops missing roofs and windows, felled trees, and mangled road signs. At one point, we passed a bog that smelled of rotting animal carcasses.
Knowing When to Say When
Toughness and determination are good qualities to have as a runner, but there can be too much of a good thing. Sometimes you need to be smarter than you are tough or determined. Here are four circumstances under which you should immediately stop running and “live to fight another day”:
• Never try to run through more than moderate pain in a muscle, bone, or joint.
• Stop running whenever you experience dizziness, light-headedness, confusion, or blurred vision—all of which are symptoms of heat illness and severe dehydration.
• Don’t try to continue training as normal when experiencing signs of overtraining syndrome, including persistent fatigue, declining performance, lasting muscle soreness, and low motivation.
• Do not attempt to run when experiencing a fever, flu-like symptoms, or other ailments, including diarrhea and food poisoning.
“This area got hit pretty bad,” said a gentleman in his late forties running next to me, who introduced himself as Jeff. Many of the runners in our group, including Jeff, lived in the area and had lost homes, businesses, and even loved ones in the storm.
“My shop was destroyed,” he continued with surprising matter-of-factness. “But I was lucky. I had insurance and I was able to rebuild. A lot of other local business owners had no insurance.” Unfortunately, however, many former residents had left the area, leaving Jeff with a fraction of his former customer base.
“You seem very resilient,” I said.
“Do you want to know my secret?” he asked.
“I’d like to.”
“Running,” he said. “As funny as it sounds, it’s running more than anything else that’s given me the strength to get through it. No matter what else I lost, I could still run.”
Through pants and puffs, another runner told me that he had recently lost eighty-five pounds. His doctor, a runner himself, had inspired him to change his life. “That’s him next to you,” he said. The two of them had driven all night to get here.
“Talk about going the extra mile for a patient!” I quipped.
There was a healthy crowd of supporters, local officials, and media folks awaiting our arrival at the finish line, and before I even had a chance to wipe the perspiration from my brow, a reporter jabbed a microphone at my mouth. As I answered her questions, my thoughts trailed back down the road with the few straggling runners, three of them first-timers, who were still on the course. I wanted to greet them at the finish line. Then maybe enjoy a cold margarita poolside with the whole group.
Instead, Jimmy Hopper escorted me over to the mosh pit to do several more interviews.
“Hey, Hopps, this is kind of draining,” I said. There’s nothing I hate more than being a complainer, but I just couldn’t help myself. I was sweaty and tired, and I really just wanted to chill for a few minutes.
“Hang in there, bro,” he said, handing me a bottle of water. “I feel for you.” I thanked him, took a quick swig, shook my head like a wet dog, and tried to regroup for the line of reporters standing there.
By the time I heard those familiar words “Are we a bus?” I was nearly comatose. This was no time to take pity on my own sorry self, however. The crew had worked their tails off to make today happen. They had erected and then deconstructed a small city, moving thousands of pounds of equipment and supplies, and had kept twenty-one marathon runners safe and healthy in brutally hot conditions. We slumped into seats on the bus and stared at one another numbly, wondering how this could go on for forty-seven more days.
“Things have got to be tighter,” Hopps said.
I looked at him in surprise. He seemed so young. When I’d first met Hopps, he had an unbridled youthful exuberance that was partly expressed in the golden locks of hair that dangled down to his shoulders. Now his head was shaved, and a new veneer of manly responsibility shaded his boyish lack of restraint.
“The process needs to be revamped,” Garrett agreed. “We need better structure.”
Dave nodded in apparent agreement but said nothing. As Hopps, Garrett, and Koop began to earnestly trade ideas about how to better manage the press, decrease my workload, improve the runners’ post-race experience, and streamline the Finish Festival setup and breakdown procedures, I clumsily made my way to the back of the bus, struggling to maintain balance as the vehicle rumbled down the rough Southern highway. Pulling my shoe off, I saw that the blister was getting worse. It had grown wider, deeper, and more discolored. Why I hadn’t immediately attended to it after the marathon today was beyond me. I knew better.
Koop was working as hard as he could to keep my body glued together, and here I was sabotaging his efforts by making a truly amateurish mistake and then exacerbating the problem by keeping it hidden due to my embarrassment. I was sure he’d be pissed, as he had every right to be, when I finally did tell him.
Past midnight I wandered to the front of the bus, expecting to find everyone asleep. Instead, I found Hopps, Garrett, and Koop still sitting around with papers spread everywhere, discussing plans and jotting down notes, their cell phones at the ready. They had taken matters into their own hands.
Just as important, despite their almost nonstop workload, they had somehow managed to collect a young lady’s phone number today. Like me, they now stood at three for three.
The Amazing Miracle Marathon Diet
Day 4
September 20, 2006