Blood Sweat And Maple Syrup

The dull sky was pregnant with sticky moisture, hanging like a soggy blanket over the streets of Burlington.

All the rain from the past weeks had caused big-time flooding in Vermont and raised the level of Lake Champlain so that the KeyBank Vermont City Marathon had to be rerouted in places.

The forecast was for temperatures to start in the 60s and rise up through the 70s over the next couple hours, hitting the 80s around noontime. With luck, we would be across the line before then. I hate running in the heat.

Five of us had driven in together for the race. It was hard to miss the starting area, which was spread out over Battery Park. Lines of people in shorts and singlets stood in the wet grass outside the porta-johns. Meanwhile, at the edge of the crowd, a number of runners dawdled by the trees, shuttling between their jumbo bottles of sports drink and the well-watered vegetation.

It was still fairly cool, so I kept my fleece and sweatpants on, participating in the nervous ritual of hydration. I gulped a packet of super-sweet Gatorade that they had given us at the race expo and chased it with some of my lucky Swedish fish. Dave, Vermonter through and through, unscrewed the cap to a complimentary vial of maple syrup and downed the contents.

Dave’s parents had hosted us in their house the night before. Our ranks included Dave, Gabe, Anders and me. We four had run together in the New York Ragnar Relay the week before. I had also brought my friend Gray, who had run XC with me in high school.

Roger and Heidi treated us to a hearty meal of pasta, pasta salad, chicken, veggie burgers and potato salad followed by delicious watermelon and embarrassing stories from Dave’s youth.

I had sprung awake at 5:45 that morning to get downstairs and begin my all-important pre-race ritual of tea and oatmeal. The others got up too, filling themselves with bananas and coffee.

In the park, we waited by the trees until the last possible minute when we jogged over to the start line. 

The wheelchair division went off three minutes before the rest of the pack. They hurtled out in their sleek three-wheeled racing machines. Then it was our turn.

From the start line, Dave, Gabe and I fell into a pack of three with the green shorts and purple singlets we’d worn at the relay two weeks earlier.

The night before, we had made a loose agreement to take it out a 6:29 pace, which would get us all a solid 2:50 marathon. This was a bit faster than I had planned to run, but I decided that the psychological boost of running with others would help pull me along the course better.

At the first mile we had a slight uphill through some Burlington neighborhoods. We still hit it at about 6:20 pace, caught up in the excitement of the start. This was faster than we had planned but no disaster. Along the way, we chatted with some of the runners, including a couple that were also aiming for 2:50. We would see their faces again at various points along the next 25 miles.

When we hit a decline, Dave started to pick up the pace. He had already told us that he was going to push the downhills, so Gabe and I hung back and slowly reeled him in. Then we were back to joking and chatting the way we had been before.

These 10 miles were really meant to be low-effort (if they weren’t, we’d be looking at big trouble in the miles ahead.) We could relax in our pace and enjoy the love from Burlingtonites lining the course. Families camped out on lawns, cheering the runners on.

One dour-looking gentleman had scrawled out a message for us on a piece of cardboard: “Worst Parade Ever.”

Then there were the water stations at every mile and a half or so. Dozens of hands thrust out into the course.

“Water! Water!”

“Gatorade!”

With tables set up on either side of the road, it was like running a gauntlet — you know, without the whole getting beaten with clubs part.

Every other stop I would snatch a cup and slop the contents onto my face and shirt. I even managed to drink some of it.

Miles 3 to 9 were an out and back leg on a highway. Gabe, Dave and I were able to see the frontrunners powering well below a 6-minute pace. After we turned around, we had a view of the rest of the field. At the water stations, the ground was strewn with the debris from hundreds of paper cups, stomped beneath the heels of the oncoming hoards.

Though I was having a fun time, I began to worry that Dave and Gabe were going faster than what I could hold. I deliberately let them pull ahead a bit. I still hadn’t decided to drop back, but I wanted to see how comfortable I was with letting them gain a lead. I caught up to them one time and then let them gain a larger lead. It still rankled me to think about them getting away, but I also worried about blowing myself out by keeping a pace that was too fast.

When we came to 12 miles, the suspicion that I might have been traveling at an unsustainable pace met with an uncomfortable awareness of the state of my digestive system. The oatmeal had let me down.

The good news was that now I had an excuse to let Dave and Gabe pull away.

I steered myself towards a cluster of broadleaf vegetation and took care of business. 

I was much relieved when I stepped back onto the course and let myself start out again easy. The runners who had caught up were going at a slower pace. Soon, I started to feel lively again and let myself start to pass people. Meanwhile, more people on the course were cheering on my team name—Dave and Gabe had got them warmed up. I’d given up on catching them for now and was enjoying picking off various runners. 

I saw my parents cheering for me for “The Assault on Battery Hill” at mile 15. A booming percussion section of a dozen or so drummers set the air vibrating with thunderous noise. It was easy to pretend that the thudding was actually one enormous heart propelling me upwards. People screamed from the sidelines, making it impossible not to power the hill. As I reached the crest, I saw the telltale green shorts and purple uniform tops. It was Dave and Gabe—in sight and running together.

I allowed myself to crank it up a notch or two, wondering if I could close the gap.

The course wound through neighborhoods, forcing us to slow down for right angle turns. Slowly, I began to gain on the quarry. Even if I caught them however, I had no way of knowing if I could keep up for the next ten odd miles.

I closed in on Dave at about 18.

“Hey Tom.”

“Hey.”

Gabe meanwhile, began to pull away. I understood that he was a goner—in the sense that he would not be caught. He had run the right race. I don’t think my appearance was exactly psychic fuel to Dave, who had probably thought me long gone. Still, my pleasure at catching him was dimmed by my growing fatigue and a creeping fear that I would have to drop out.

We ran together briefly and I took the lead. The course wound down through a swampy woodland area, forcing us to run on bouncing boards.

I wanted to take more water and more fuel into me but my stomach was already too swollen from the other water stops.

Some kids were handing out energy gel and I grabbed one with gratitude.

I bit down into the foil and sucked out its guts, swallowing the orange energy glop within.

Suddenly, it was as if I had broken through to another level and tapped into a hidden well of unlimited strength.

Just kidding. Actually, my legs were completely shot. My form could have made a passable imitation of a broken wind-up toy.

I multitasked my suffering with some motivational speaking, offering myself some timeless words of encouragement like “You can’t make it” and “nuhhhhhh!” 

When I came to the bike path at Mile 22, the volunteers were out in force, holding out Gatorade that I couldn’t make myself drink, offering cheers that barely registered.

“You’re almost there!”

I’m about to drop out.

Another splendid percussion circle was on the course, striking their drums in a wild syncopation. This time I was too spent to be inspired; the drum beats merely plinked off of my numbed consciousness.

I slowed down again to appease the desire to quit.

Gabe was surely long gone. But what about Dave? When would I hear his footsteps closing from behind? Surely he’d be there any minute. My only hope was that he had made the same miscalculation that I had and was suffering down the course like I was. In fact, it seemed like plenty of people had overstretched themselves today—started out with the confidence of jackrabbits and felt their strength empty out with the miles. I went by five of these fellow victims of ambition, while five sensible runners ran me down in that final stretch. Dave told me later that he had made plenty of ground on me along the bike path and almost closed the gap.

The flooding had spilled out onto the course. I stopped trying to go around and stumbled numbly through the puddles like a moose in a swamp. “Nuhhhhhhhhh….”

The 25-mile mark. I remember that in the last marathon, I managed to put in a painful kick over the last mile. This time I could barely muster a painful shuffle. I forgot that marathons are actually 26.2 miles, not 26.1.

“What the hell is this?”  I asked no one in particular when I failed to see the finish line at the last turn.

I saw my parents again for one more time when I brought it home for that final stagger.

Two medical volunteers were at the finish line to ask if I was OK. I draped my arms around both of their shoulders and let them walk me to a place where I could sit.

They sat me down with a medal, a banana and a bottle of water. I owe those guys big time.

Dave came in a bit later and we sat on the grass for about 20 minutes without the ability or desire to get up. I’m still hobbling around for now.

I had managed to get 35th in a time of 2:52:57—not as fast as my last marathon, I’m afraid. Gabe was the best of our group with a 22nd place finish in a time of 2:48:15. And he’s still got two cross-country seasons in front of him. I also got out-kicked by one Jodie Conway, who put two seconds on me and by a 54-year-old ultra-athlete by the name of Jack Pilla who had a seven-second lead. I recognized him from the Green Mountain Marathon last year where I had let him block the wind for me for a mile and then passed him. This time, victory was his.

The overall winner of the race was Dan Vassallo who brought it in for a time of 2:24:09. Heidi Westover was the first woman, taking a 2:46:49 for her win.