The Marathon

The Marathon

My name is Samuel Winston and I have a story to tell. But first, a little history before we get to the main course, so bear with me.

My wife, Melody, and I were in our late twenties when we met Jacob and Laurie Larrabee. Newly married, we were moving into our new home in Palo Duro. Shortly after the truckers finished unloading and transferring our belongings into our home, our neighbors appeared on our doorstep, welcoming us to the neighborhood. The elderly, gray-haired woman held forth an aluminum foil-covered casserole dish, clasped firmly with oven mitts, containing homemade lasagna. Her balding, slightly rotund husband grinned and held forth a loaf of freshly baked bread. They modestly assumed we had little time or energy to make dinner after working all day. They assumed correctly. A week later, our labors of reorganization finished, they invited us over for dinner and drinks on their lanai.

Although the couple died several years ago, I still remember my conversation with Jacob that day on his lanai. It must have made an impression for me to remember it so well. Maybe because it was once a dream of his, long ago fulfilled, but having a profound impact on his life. As I recall, the wives were in the kitchen busy with the after-dinner clean up while Jacob and I were nursing our beers on the lanai, relaxing in the Adirondack chairs.

 During our conversation, I asked Jacob how he and Melody ended up together. He fell silent, a smile creasing his wrinkled face. His faded brown eyes stared off wistfully as he revisited distant memories, a gentle breeze ruffling his thin white hair. I didn’t think he was going to answer, but after a time his eyes cleared as he returned to the present and looked at me pensively.  He took a sip of his beer, cleared his throat, and related the following story to me. And now I’ll tell it to you.

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Jacob met Laurie in 1978, introduced through mutual friends. But it wasn’t until ’80 that things all came together for him. And for them. Back in those days he drank too much, ate too much, and had the bad habit of jumping from woman to woman, probably the result of his painful divorce ten years prior. Worse, he was a Sergeant in the local police department and worked shift work, neither conducive to a sunny outlook on life. But dating Laurie helped. At least she slowed his skirt-chasing.

He was 38 years old in 1978 when the decision was made to take up jogging, a struggling attempt at a healthier lifestyle. It was difficult considering how low he had sunk, but Jacob managed to stick with it, and by the end of the first year he had entered and completed, several 5 K races. If you are unfamiliar with the metric system, that’s 5 kilometers and equates to 3.1 miles.

            Jacob always harbored the idea of running a marathon, a dream he never told anyone. Then, with a few 3 milers under his belt, he got cocky. But a marathon? That was 26.2 miles! Worse, he wasn’t built to be a distance runner, standing 6’2” and carrying 220 pounds, thick in the legs and rump. Exactly how and why he made such a daunting leap of faith was a mystery to him. Regardless of the cause of this epiphany, Jacob set the goal of training for and completing a marathon as a fortieth birthday present to himself in ’80. Insanity, he knew. A pipe dream. It would have made more sense to buy himself power tools, cool clothes, a newer car (his 72’ Ford van was well past its prime), or maybe take Laurie on a nice vacation.

But Laurie, bless her heart, was understanding and supportive of the whole undertaking. Dark-haired, a foot shorter, and half his weight, she lacked nothing when it came to spunk. When he told her what he planned to do, she looked at him for a few seconds, cocked her pretty head, and smiled. “Well, Jacob, I think you’re crazy, but that’s not exactly breaking news. So, what can I do to help?”

Having made this questionable vow—and he did not take those things lightly—Jacob realized he would have to invest in a certain amount of training to cover that daunting distance without seriously crippling himself. So, faced with the possibility of pavement pounding, pulsating pain, he figured he’d better do a bit of research. Since this was in the primitive, pre-internet age, the research was accomplished through old fashioned books and magazines as well as talking, “networking” in today’s parlance, with other runners who had, or were attempting this insanity. Eventually, he compiled a training schedule based on all this shiny new knowledge, with the literal guarantee from several authors that, if he followed their advice, he would finish a marathon relatively pain-free. Yeah, right; he should have taken those comments with a grain of salt.

Nevertheless, Jacob selected and set his goal for, the Detroit Free Press International Marathon in October of that year. It was international because it started in Windsor, Ontario, Canada, and finished in Detroit, Michigan, U.S.A. It sounded pretty cool; they would close the Detroit/ Windsor Tunnel to vehicular traffic during the first segment of the race while the runners went through. The tunnel connected the two countries beneath the Detroit River. Glad he wasn’t claustrophobic.

Goals set, training regimen locked and loaded, he was off and um… well… running. During the ensuing months, Jacob logged 1000 miles on the roadways surrounding his home. He followed his training program religiously. He kept the training runs as interesting as possible, plotting different routes and terrain, never taking the same course twice in a row, running them in opposite directions, even using the local high school track occasionally. Every few weeks he’d participate in organized road races of varying distances held in nearby cities for added spice and experience. There were no iPods or MP-3’s in those days. Hell, they didn’t even have cell phones. It was the technological Dark Ages for runners.

           The training costs for this undertaking were relatively inexpensive. The bulk of his training occurred during the spring and summer, so his capital outlay for basic clothing was modest—t-shirts, shorts, and socks. But running shoes—well, maybe you can run in almost any clothing, but you can’t skimp on the shoes. The old saying “you get what you pay for” applies here. Cheap shoes will hurt you. Good shoes will run you—no pun intended—extra bucks in your training, but the cost is well worth it.

Jacob did not belong to a running club or have a running partner to share the burden of the long training miles. He plodded through all those long months of accumulating mileage by himself… technically… sort of… except for his diminutive, non-running Laurie.

Laurie studied her cookbooks and prepared nourishing meals for Jacob. She went through countless tubes of Ben-Gay, administering back and leg massages to alleviate his inevitable aches and pains. She encouraged him to keep going when his spirits lagged, and he questioned himself or his goals. If he couldn’t finish a long run, he’d find a payphone and call her. She would hop in her car, drive out to wherever he had faltered, and rescue him. Years later, Jacob attempted to explain to their grandkids what payphones were: depositing money in a coin slot in a metal phone box, often enclosed in a tall, doored cubical, the handset connected by a metal cord to the phone box and… well, he finally gave up and told them to Google it.

But the times that stood out in Jacob’s mind were the late-night long runs. He worked shift work and, after a 3 p.m.–11 p.m. swing-shift, often headed out for a scheduled run, like a 10 to 12-miler. The small city he lived in was in a semi-rural area and, in those ancient days, there weren’t any convenience stores or gas stations open after midnight. And hydration, as any distance runner will preach ad nauseam, is always of paramount importance. So, trudging down the road in the wee hours, he’d find Laurie sitting in her car at a prearranged location, reading a book with a flashlight, waiting for him. As he lumbered to a stop, she’d give him water, see if he needed anything, offer words of encouragement, then drive on to the next rendezvous, and patiently await his arrival. During that long spring and summer of 1980, they continued working together through those endless, tedious miles. Laurie was indispensable.

Jacob was among more than 5,000 runners who gathered on a crisp, sunny October morning near a city park in Windsor, Ontario, Canada. He milled around the starting line with his ­­­­­fellow runners, slowly moving back to mingle with the slower runners, closer to the rear of the huge, amorphous mob. His muscles were chock-full of carbohydrates from Laurie’s big spaghetti dinner the previous night, and her stack of pancakes at 5:30 a.m. that morning.

Jacob made his final trip to the port-o-potty. All systems were go; he was ready.

As the 9:00 a.m. start time neared, he went to the side of the road, took off his old grey sweatpants and sweatshirt, and handed them to Laurie. She smiled and critically looked him up and down, eyeing his blue shorts and tank top. “Not too bad, Jacob, you’re looking pretty good,” she finally said, nodding approvingly.  

He had started at 220 pounds and weighed in that morning at 195, so he knew it wasn’t empty flattery. He stood a little straighter, his chest out a little farther, his smile a little brighter.

Laurie rolled her eyes heavenward, shook her head, and grinned even more. “Okay, big shooter, let’s go over your pre-race checklist.” She glanced at his race number pinned to his shirt, tugging on it to make sure it was secure. “Race bib in place. Check. Have you stretched?”

He nodded. “Check.”

“Shoelaces double knotted?”

He looked at one foot, then the other. “Check and check.”

She handed him a jar of Vaseline. “Time to grease up.”

Jacob daubed on a liberal amount around his armpits and inner thighs. Constant rubbing from a tank top on the upper arms and the nylon shorts on the inner thighs could cause some serious chafing. Especially the inner thighs. He did not want to end up walking around like a tiptoeing, bowlegged cowboy after a long day in the saddle. The mid-thigh, spandex running shorts hadn’t come into vogue yet.

Next, she handed him two band-aids. “Okay, get those nipples covered.”

He took them gratefully. The same friction principle applied. Those little nubbins would turn into small mounds of raw flesh from the constant chafing during a long race.

Laurie produced a small map and studied it. “I’ll drive ahead and will be waiting at the 10, 15, and 20-mile markers to see if you need any extra water, Vaseline, or band-aids.” Standing on tiptoes, she smiled and gave him a lingering kiss. “Good luck, my big stud. You can do this. I’ll be waiting.” She then moved back into the crowds lining the roadway but managed to remain in the front row, prepping her camera.

Jacob was busy with the churning mob of excited, chomping-at-the-bit runners nervously swirling around him. A few were stretching and jumping up and down to stay loose and warm.

A few minutes later they quieted, and a hush fell over the crowd. Caps were doffed as the strains of “O Canada” floated around them. As the last notes faded into the cool morning air, the beginning chords were struck for the” Star-Spangled Banner.” As the two host country’s National Anthems ended, a thunderous roar arose from the runners, the excitement from the thousands palpable.

The runners quieted in anticipation. Several long seconds passed. Finally, the bang of the starter’s gun from near the front. In the rear, they couldn’t move until the hordes ahead started, and it was a slow walk until the tightly packed competitors in front gradually picked up speed. Jacob was so far back in the pack it took him over five minutes to get from his position to the official ­­starting line. Not that he was going to break any speed records anyway. The pack of 5,000 made their way down the closed, four-lane highway, slowly unwinding like a gigantic human accordion.

Five miles later they entered the Detroit/Windsor tunnel. Runners were still grouped, laughing and joking, adrenaline and excitement still coursing joyfully, voices echoing in the huge underground chamber. Soon they exited the U.S. side of the river and entered Detroit.

By the ten-mile mark, the runners were spread out, no longer conversing, finding their running rhythm and pace, settling in for the long haul. Jacob spied Laurie among the people lining the curb, jumping up and down and waving. He felt great but managed to resist the urge to run over and hug her.

At fifteen miles he was right on target, hitting each mile in 8:30, give or take 5 seconds. He heard Laurie’s voice in the crowd before he saw her. “You’re looking good, Jacob! Keep going, you’re doing great!” They exchanged waves as he loped by.

Jacob did feel great and made sure he hit every water stop to stay hydrated. Every few miles there were musical groups set up in front of businesses and along the roadway—trios, quartets, high school bands—playing different types of ethnic music, entertaining the runners, keeping their minds off of the growing aches and pains.

At twenty miles he was still clocking the same pace as the first mile, still strong. He passed runners the last several miles, runners who misjudged their pace and were beginning to fade. And again, there was Laurie, shouldering her way to the front of the sideline crowd, jumping up and down, waving and yelling. The fans lining the roadway were becoming denser as they neared Belle Isle, where the marathon would finish. He blew her a kiss as he passed.

She returned the kiss with her camera free hand, her yell echoing in his ears. “Go, Jacob, go! I’ll see you at the finish! You da Man!”

He crossed the small bridge onto Belle Isle and began the last few miles of the race. At just over twenty-three miles, his legs finally tired; his body no longer dispelling the buildup of lactic acid in the muscles. He hoped it wasn’t serious. There were no cramps, just a leaden sensation in his legs; the same effort expended but a slowing pace. “Hitting the wall” was the term used by many runners.

Jacob struggled on, keeping his leaden legs moving. He was soon rewarded when the finish line came into sight, surrounded by brightly colored flags and masses of spectators. Cheering crowds lined both sides of the route. He coaxed his exhausted body into a finishing sprint, “dashing” across the finish line in arms raised, victorious triumph. He walked…well, wobbled through the finish area. Race officials asked if he needed any assistance. Maybe he didn’t look so good, but still declined, of course. He took off the bottom half of his race bib to give to them to record his finishing place, a time of 3:50:11. Almost four hours of something he once thought impossible—

Suddenly, Jacob’s panting, weak and unsteady body was bolstered, propped up by Laurie who magically appeared with one of those silvery, light-weight space-age blankets provided by the race organizers. She gently placed it around his shoulders. She circled her arm around his waist to steady him, and he draped his arm over her shoulder for the same reason. They both knew better than to let him sit or lie down; his legs would have cramped up immediately. They walked around, leaning on each other, until his legs stopped trembling, Laurie’s expression wavering between a smile and a look of concern.

When she was certain he wasn’t going to keel over, she gushed, “You did it. My hero. My ‘hunka hunka burning love.”’

He just grinned stupidly and nodded.

“How are you feeling? Are you okay?” she asked, smiling but looking at him closely.

Jacob continued to grin and nod, allowing the joyous reality to seep back in.

Another minute or so passed in silence as they walked. With her arm still around his waist, she rested her head against him. “So, what now, oh great marathoner?”

He felt good, felt like laughing again. Finally, “Home, I want something to eat, a lot of something. A long, hot soak in the bathtub. Maybe, one of your special back and leg rubs. Then, early to bed.”

Laurie looked away, smiling coyly. “Well, at least that last part fits in with my birthday plans for you.”

So, in the end, Jacob had achieved his secret goal two years in the making; a hard-won personal gift for his fortieth birthday—a marathon. But, as he now realized, his greatest reward was in finally understanding the obvious. Not only had Laurie had been with him, and supported him, from the beginning of their little adventure, but more importantly, it made him understand that she had been a part of his life from the first—a part that he loved, wanted, and needed. Always.   

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That’s the end of my story. Three years later Jacob was gone, and Laurie followed less than six months later. Two of the fondest memories I have of Jacob and Laurie are the two that you now know about—the homemade lasagna and the tale I just gave you…   

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