Two Better Than the Devil

Have you ever run so far that your nipples bled through your shirt?

Jogger’s nipple. Some call it red eleven or big Qs depending on how the blood looks dripping down your front. You're running for so long the fabric of your shirt gets damp with sweat and is just constantly rubbing and rubbing against your skin and your nipples chafe so badly that they start to bleed. The good runner's shops will have special tape you can put over your nips to protect them. You can usually find it between the ace bandages and the energy gels. Me, I just use good old-fashioned band-aids. They work just fine.

It's about 6:30 in the morning, and I go through my stretching routine while eating my wheat toast with almond butter. Kellie is wearing my old military fleece, staying warm, and yawning between sips of hot coffee. She’d definitely prefer to be back in bed, but I’m glad that she’s here. Marathon running is lonely work.

I adjust my shirt, checking that my band-aids are still in place. My bib number is safety pinned to it. Number 668. Two better than the devil, I muse.

The gun will go off at 7:00 and we'll all start racing through the streets of Kansas City. Around the Sprint Center, down Ward Parkway to 75th Street, and back up again ending at Union Station, hitting all the major neighborhoods and monuments along the way.

People always ask me: Marathon, huh? How far is that?

26.2 miles. It's Far. Farther even than you're imagining it right now.

When I was working at Belton Regional—a small hospital in an outer suburb of Kansas City—people would ask me the question when I told them I was training. Marathon? So how far is that? I used to tell them: step out onto the highway right here in Belton and run until you get to downtown Kansas City.

Wow, they'd say. That far?

Almost, I'd respond. Once you’ve gotten downtown, you'd still have another six miles to go.

This only sounds healthy.

Ten minutes before the race starts, I retie my shoes. This is important. Too loose, and your foot will be sloppy inside and you risk a twisting injury. Too tight, and your foot will have no room to swell into it. And after this kind of mileage, your feet will definitely swell.

I give Kellie a quick kiss and head into the chute, about three-quarters of the way back. I do a few last-minute toe raises, thankful that I remembered to trim my toenails the night before. When you’re starting out, you spend months reading about stretching and hydration, picking out important information. You spend a whole afternoon taking advice on which shoes are just right for your specific gait. What nobody tells you is that if you don’t keep your toenails trimmed short, a few of them will crack in half around mile eleven. Some things you just learn by doing.

The gun goes off, and we all start trudging forward until the pack loosens up enough for us to spread out. The first mile is stiff. My body rebels against it. Like a prisoner of war moaning "no, not again" when the interrogator walks in, it knows the horrors that are coming. But by mile two I’m properly warmed up and loose and it's all systems go.

We all turn left onto 18th street heading toward the Jazz District. They’ve rerouted the course in recent years to go directly in front of the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum, right at about mile four. A band is playing, I can smell KC smoked brisket coming from somewhere—maybe Arthur Bryant’s—and I am feeling good. Really good.

In response to extreme stress, the body can produce endocannabinoids, a naturally synthesized form of THC which incidentally is the same drug found naturally in marijuana. The body also produces natural painkillers—endorphins—in response to physical discomfort. The combination of the two can sometimes give a runner a sense of euphoria.

Runner’s high. This is why your nipples can bleed for miles before you even notice. But it’s also why running can be so exhilarating.

How far is a marathon? Go to your favorite ballpark and run the bases like you just cranked one over the fence. Now run the bases 384 more times.

At mile five, we have a long, shady downhill stretch for a few miles until we get to the art museum. At the bottom of the hill, at around mile eight, the half-marathoners stay straight on Emanuel Cleaver Boulevard toward the Plaza. They’re only half-crazy. I know because their t-shirts told me so. The full marathoners, myself included, turn left across the creek. We’ll need to run through the southern neighborhoods and back up before our course merges with theirs again.

I carry energy gels in little packets that I’ll need throughout the race to help keep me going. They’re in a little pouch on the side of my hand-held water bottle. I also have good approximations of how much Powerade I’ll need at each aid station. I grab a little dixie cup off the table as I run past and take a sip; not too much but not too little. Too much can make you nauseated. Too little and you’ll eventually get dehydrated to the point that your leg muscles will seize up around mile nineteen and it’s game over. Excessive buildup of lactic acid. You'll be lucky to make it to the side of the road and flag down medical. And then you have to go home with the dreaded DNF.

Did. Not. Finish.

Statistically, ten percent of us will quit before reaching the finish line. Eight months of training and there’s still no guarantee that I won’t be among those who drop out.

I pass the giant banner that reads Mile Ten. My feet are ok so far. My right shoe feels just a hair too tight, so I consider whether to stop and adjust it. I decide it’s fine the way it is. For now.

When you’re training, if your shoes are too tight, you’ll get Morton’s neuroma. This will make you feel like you have a marble under your foot and every step is murder. OK, fine, I'll take it easy, you say to yourself as you're looking over your training schedule. I'll only go nine miles today instead of my scheduled twelve. Then, on the off days, you continuously roll your foot over a soup can, hoping the marble-feeling goes away so you can get back on track.

This only sounds well-adjusted.

I’m getting close to a friend’s house, here around mile twelve. Her whole family is out to cheer me on. I wave and try to look strong.

Some runners, their toes turn black. Subungual hematoma. The most likely cause is excessive, repetitive trauma. A marathon is approximately 40,000 steps, so each foot is slamming down on asphalt about 20,000 times in a row over a course of several hours. The constant pounding creates pockets of blood under the toenails making your toes look black.

Excessive, repetitive trauma. That’s the name of the game in this sport. Endurance, plain and simple. How much can your frail body really take before your body systems shut down? In the months leading up to race day, you read articles about seemingly healthy people who die of cardiac arrest while running a marathon.

And someone once asked me about blisters.

Mile sixteen, and I slow to a walk. I was expecting this. At my age and weight, I was not going to maintain a jogging or running pace for the entire race. My wife is up ahead a bit, right at about mile seventeen, close to our house. After the race started up near downtown, she drove down here to the most southern point of the route and met up with friends to cheer me on. I’ve been running for almost three hours.

After a brief hug from Kellie and some more water, I’m on my own again until the finish line. Assuming I make it.

I turn right onto Ward Parkway and I’m now heading north. I have to run for a little bit, then walk for a little bit, then run for a little bit. This is how it will be for the remaining eight miles.

Once in a while, someone will overhear that you're training for a marathon and they jump in and brag that they run, too. And you smile and nod and encourage them, but the little two-mile route they run every Sunday is barely a warmup. And that spiky little pain they get in their kneecap? That’s just a little patellofemoral chondromalacia. Also known as runner's knee. That’s standard issue in every starter kit, along with shin splints and iliotibial band syndrome.

Pop a couple of Advil, rookie, and quit yer bitchin’.

Have you ever run so far that you peed blood afterward?

Marathoner's hematuria. Also known as runner's bladder. You get done with your sixteen-mile run on a scheduled Saturday, limp into the bathroom, and your urine looks like tomato juice. Nobody is quite sure what causes this, but the prevailing theory is that the excessive, repetitive trauma on your whole system shreds blood cells and proteins that are later flushed out in your urine.

This only sounds discouraging.

No, the real discouragement comes on race day at miles nineteen and twenty. This is where most runners hit The Wall. The wall is the point where the body’s store of glycogen becomes completely depleted. At my pace and my weight, I will have burned over 4,000 calories before reaching the finish line. That’s about two days’ worth for the average person. That’s the calorie content of seven Big Macs or one thousand M&Ms. Unfortunately, the human body cannot store that much energy, so after twenty miles, my tank is officially empty.

How far is a marathon?

Run until your body starts eating itself.

No matter how much you carbo-load the night before, no matter how power-whatever your breakfast was, no matter how many energy gels or half-bananas you eat along the way, eventually your body will just run out. So, to keep moving forward, it must enter a state of ketosis where it burns its own body fat for energy instead.

This only sounds simple. Because—instead of smoothly transitioning into ketosis—the body’s first and most natural impulse is to STOP.

Hence, hitting the wall.

The sign that reads Mile Twenty-One is just up ahead. From this point on, I move forward on determination alone. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. Forget speed. Forget time. Forget the nagging ache in your hip that you’ve been ignoring since mile fifteen.

 It’s all I can do to shuffle forward. I have zero energy, and I still have over five miles to go.

People always ask me how far a marathon is.

Just keep moving. Just keep moving.

I keep repeating those three words to myself like a Vedic mantra. Some sports psychologists admit that chanting a mantra can give you some kind of psychological boost, but I’m too tired to recall it fully right now. I just know I can’t stop or slow down.

I just keep moving. Just keep moving. Slowly. Too slowly. If I slow down too much, my muscles will start to cramp. Mile Twenty-Two. I’m finally coming back up to the Plaza now, so I—

Oh god. Oh godshitjesus.

My calf. My right calf feels like it’s in a giant knot.

Muscle spasm. Lactic acid buildup. Electrolyte imbalance. Whatever is causing it, I have to stretch it out and try to hydrate. I limp to the side of the street and dorsiflex my foot against a tree hoping it’ll relieve the cramp.

I’ve stopped. I’ve stopped running.

I stretch my calf and stretch it again, but I barely have the energy to do it, and I can feel my other muscles slowly tensing up. My body is in a partial state of Halleluiah because I’ve stopped torturing it, but mentally I push that away. No. We’re not done yet. Every muscle in my body is starting to tremble. Low blood glucose combined with overexertion. My whole body is shaking and cold. I frantically massage my calf and pray to any god that will listen to just give me four more miles while I guzzle the last of my water.

This only sounds desperate.

I’m so close. Only four more miles. I’ve been running for four hours. I’ve been training for eight months. I am not going home with a DNF.

My other calf is starting to get a tight spike in it, too, now. It’s just begging to cramp up and now my right knee is about to buckle. I can barely stand, let alone run another four miles. I massage my calves as best as I can, sweat stinging my eyes. Goddamn it, come on, loosen up! I can feel a few tears welling up in my eyes, and it’s not just from the sweat. I start to get a sense of dread like it’s all over for me.

How far is a marathon?

Run until your heart breaks.

All my body wants to do is lay down on this patch of grass and fall asleep. If I don’t get moving again, my mind will truly believe that it’s over, my entire body will cramp up, and I’ll never finish. Knowing this, I force myself to start limp-jogging down the road again.

No matter how badly my right calf is still hurting, I find that I’m able to keep hobbling. The spike in my left calf has started going away now that I’ve started moving again, but my right is still on fire. If I remember correctly, there’s an aid station just about a half mile up the road. A banana and some Powerade will do me some good. I pass by house after house, and eventually, I make it.

The aid station doesn’t have bananas, but I do get some Powerade and refill my water bottle. I feel a little refreshed, but not much. I just hope that some of the energy gels I’ve been eating will hit my bloodstream and I can drink enough water to loosen my leg muscles.

Miraculously, I reach the sign that reads Mile Twenty-Three. I briefly stop to take a picture of the sign with my smartphone. This is a new PR. I’ve never run this far before in my life.

I still have 3.2 miles to go, so I better pick up the pace. The route is uphill now, but I jog as often as I can. My right calf is starting to loosen up again, but barely. Dig deep, Marine I say to myself. Somehow my internal monologue has taken on the tone of my old Drill Instructor at Parris Island all those years ago. Move it, Marine, I want my 26. Aye, Sir. What’s your bib number? 668. And what is that? Two better than the devil.

Prove it.

This only sounds motivating.

It is possible, albeit rare, to exercise for so long that the pain and fatigue causes delirium. I sure hope this isn’t it. I go through a make-shift checklist in my mind. My name is Aaron, it’s 2018, I’m running the Kansas City Marathon, and I’m married to a woman named Kellie who is at the finish line waiting for me.

I’m ninety percent sure all of that is true, so I don’t think I’m delirious.

A thousand years later, I reach Mile Twenty-Four.

I’m starting to feel like I have some energy again. Whether the energy gels have hit my bloodstream or I’ve finally transitioned to ketosis, I don’t know. I’m not moving fast, but at least I’m back to a recognizable pace.

I’m starting to see crowds, cheering and banging their cowbells and holding up poster signs with words of encouragement. It’s giving me a boost. Positive encouragement is instinctive. In fact, it’s hard to imagine coaches, spectators, and even fellow competitors not yelling out encouragement. There’s not much physiologically that cheering and support can accomplish, except for maybe giving an athlete a slight adrenaline rush. But it sure makes for a healthy psyche. Whatever the reason, it works, and I’m jogging more than walking again because of it. I’ve passed Mile Twenty-Five, and the route is downhill again.

I’m trudging along, and to my left, I see a fellow marathoner pass me. There’s a small group of two or three people running with him. The marathoner is carrying a little flag with him that I recognize from the starting point. It’s a pace group. I make a sudden decision to fall into step with them. There’s probably something to be said about pack mentality or teamwork, but I don’t know what it is. It feels good to have companions, though. I can say that.

Together, we run down Main street, passing the Federal Reserve. Union Station, and the finish line, are up ahead.

We pass mile twenty-six and enter the chute. The final fifth of a mile. I’m going to make it. I suddenly get a very sharp pain in my left ankle. I hardly care what it is. I have less than fifty yards to go. The pace group gets ahead of me, but I’m able to keep going. Have you ever seen those videos of marathoners crawling over the finish line? At this point, I’m pretty sure I could get shot in the abdomen and it wouldn’t stop me.

I glance up at the digital clock above the finish line as I cross. My official time will be five hours, fifteen minutes, and eleven seconds. Slower than I wanted, but still well under the six-hour requirement. I am a marathon finisher.

People always ask me how far a marathon is.

Have you ever run so far that you conquered the world?