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Grandfather Mountain Marathon – The Run
Showtime for the Grandfather Mountain Marathon.
Oddly enough, I didn't have nearly the jitters I had before the first marathon in York over a year ago, simply because now I established that I had done it, that 26 miles were not the trip to the moon I'd expected.
Oddly enough, I didn't have nearly the jitters I had before the first marathon in York over a year ago, simply because now I established that I had done it, that 26 miles were not the trip to the moon I'd expected.
There were still a few lingering concerns, however.
The trail marathon in York had been an easy marathon, by all accounts. It is mostly flat, and the trail doesn't take such a pounding on the knees – in many ways it's the perfect marathon for first timers. This is the Grandfather Mountain, a marathon that ends 1000 feet above where it starts. That means plenty of hill to climb. Granted, my training itself in high altitude La Paz was nothing to sneeze at, but here my stamina will be seriously tested. Here, you are given a time limit to finish – six hours, or something in that neighborhood. The question I keep asking myself is not if, but when my muscles finally strike out on me and order me to walk like any normal breathing forty something human being. To say that there are doubts would be an understatement.
I dress up at my dorm at six o'clock after a shower and make my way down to the Rock, knowing the start time will be at half past. Again, here I just want to mentally focus, not chit chat with anybody. I walk up and down the football field, made of 100% artificial turf, and await the start announcement from the guy with the pistol at the start line. He gives me last minute instructions, but he could just as easily have been speaking Zulu, because that's how much I understand of his heavy southern drawl.
We all do understand and hear the pistol shot very well, and we are on our way, rounding the track once before heading out of the Rock, me at a painfully slow pace. Again, like with the first marathon, I am thinking, 'Lord, what have I gotten myself into here?' or 'Boy, these people sure are fit'. Again, I am not out to qualify for the Olympics, but to finish and get that runner's medal when all is said and done. Well, not quite true: secretly, I hope I can finish at under five hours, since I had finished the trail marathon the year before at 4:25:00, or thereabouts. I also understand perfectly that the hills in the end might deny me that wish or prevent me from finishing altogether.
The weather, as you would expect at six thirty in the morning, is fairly cool and foggy, so there are no issues there for at least a few hours, luckily. Again, as we run out onto King Street, runner after runner passes me as I just seek to warm up. I remind myself of the gimpy legged Jewish runner with the yarmulke in York the year before and know this will be an aberration, that eventually they can't all run that fast. At least I hope they don't.
The first three miles are flat, running on city streets, yet we discover that will be as flat as it will get all day. Many runners are chit chatting, but I am in my own little world. Let them waste their oxygen talking, I will need every bit of it.
Before mile three the first climb…and the first walkers. At mile 3 already? No way, I'm thinking. But I am guessing that is all part of a plan. No way am I going to walk yet, though. If I start now, that will take care of any chance I had of finishing.
There is a downhill run of about a mile from mile 4 to 5, yet here I will not take the bait and sprint downhill as if to save my village from King Kong raiding it. I go slightly faster, yet let all of the wannabe cheetahs pass me if they think it will help them.
I continue slowly but steady and brace myself for what happens past the halfway mark, which will be the telling point of the race. This is at mile 13 following a downhill run. I don't drink any water or Gatorade until mile 8, since I am well hydrated already. I remember having to pull over twice for potty stops in York, and I want to avoid that this time around. Mind you, I still haven't walked yet, even though there are already some uphill battles that virtually beg me to.
At mile 13, it's déjà vu all over again, and I remember York from last year. This is where a lot of runners go into walk-run mode while I have now found my groove and am locked in, the hills be damned.
Not only that, but now I am able to relax and catch a glimpse of the beautiful Blue Ridge Parkway, its forests and fairy tale like streams all shrouded in a cool mist. Past halfway, I see Grandfather Mountain in the distance and think that it is still far away. Besides calling the Grandfather Mountain one of the most difficult marathons, I'm sure many people rank it among the most scenic.
Yet here I am chugging along, happy that all my training in La Paz is, again, paying off. While other people are now in full walk mode, I am actually getting faster with each mile. Thank you, Bolivia. This is almost a carbon copy of the York marathon, except that I am still running uphill. I literally pass hundreds of runners, those who are supposed to be in such great shape, on my way to the finish line. There is no stopping now, and now it remains whether I can finish the run without walking.
Yet here I am chugging along, happy that all my training in La Paz is, again, paying off. While other people are now in full walk mode, I am actually getting faster with each mile. Thank you, Bolivia. This is almost a carbon copy of the York marathon, except that I am still running uphill. I literally pass hundreds of runners, those who are supposed to be in such great shape, on my way to the finish line. There is no stopping now, and now it remains whether I can finish the run without walking.
Eventually, we hit Highway 221 all the way to Grandfather Mountain and MacRae Meadows where the finish line is and the Highland Games, where grown men wearing kilts (quite a few runners are wearing them too, come to think of it) are competing against each other in some mind blasting competitions of strength.
Meanwhile, I am at mile 24, people at the side of the road are still there to support the runners (I always tip my 'A' Mountaineers cap in return), and for the first time in a marathon I am beginning to hit a wall, like some strength has been sapped from me. So be it, I'm thinking. At mile 24, I could care less.
Finally the mountain, a volunteer pointing us toward the meadows, and the first cheers from the stands. That moment will be remembered forever, no matter how Hollywood it may read here. There is one lap around the track to go, I get goosebumps from hearing the bagpipes play, and I finally cross the line at 4:33 – I grin as I accept my runner's medal and then leave the arena to find more Gatorade.
Eventually, I take the shuttle back to the stadium, pack up my gear and leave the dorm quickly to rejoin my family down in Spartanburg, again wearing a big grin on my face all the way from Boone. Without exaggerating, I think this was my finest run yet, given the course. Better yet, I will always have the medal to remind me of it.
I have conquered Grandfather Mountain!
I have conquered Grandfather Mountain!
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