The York Marathon, Part I
In September of 2006, Liebi and I ran a Half Marathon in Amman, Jordan.
This was a thirteen mile course through the city, which was a painful lesson about conditioning and endurance. We would both walk funny for the next few days, owing largely to inexperience and the inability to pace ourselves properly.
Nearly five years later, I decide to go for the ultimate prize. For this, I have to rent a car and drive two hours to the north, to York, Pennsylvania, where the third annual Bob Potts Marathon would take place, the only marathon in the area I can possibly partake in.
By now, I’d become a better runner, or so I thought. Whether it will be enough for 26.2 miles is another question.
On the night before marathons, you always hear about runners loading up on carbohydrates, pre-hydrating and getting plenty of rest.
Those rules are out the window less than ten minutes after arriving in York.
Shortly after I check into the Rodeway Inn, a low budget motel in the heart of York, I search in vain for a restaurant that can serve pasta and the necessary nutrients for the upcoming run.
Instead, I find an Irish pub a block away from the motel.
Aw, shucks.
Time for a drink.
Instead of the pasta, I have pita bread with a delicious fattening crab dip, as well as a glass of red wine and a pint of Harp. Dinner of Champions? Not exactly.
That said, I am amped and need to calm down in the worst way. I need a drink and distraction, which the folk duo featuring two female students, their guitars and gorgeous harmonies more than provide. I still slam plenty of water before I go to bed, which is at about midnight.
I sleep four hours and finally get up. I pound a pint of Gatorade and some Power Bar gells, large sized gummi bears really, but they seem to have the sugar I need to get going.
First I head over to the stadium, home of the minor league baseball team York Revolution, to pick up a marathon packet, which supposedly should be ready at five a.m. I am there at half past five, and there is not a soul in sight.
Another runner stops his car in the parking lot and asks where he can get a marathon packet, the kit that includes your number, a free t-shirt and a ticket to see that day’s Revolution game. Like him, I have no clue. Was there something we missed? Have they cancelled the run?
So, now I head over to York College, where the run supposedly will start and finish. I find the place easily. In the parking lot, it’s obvious that the run is on. Hundreds of runners gather around, some of them chatting with friends and family.
I head into the arena and pick up my number, 479, the shirt and the ticket to the baseball game. I pin my number to my shirt and then locate the next restroom. There are a half dozen porto potties located just outside the college stadium and long lines waiting in front of every one of them. Of course all runners have taken in plenty of liquids like me, and now it’s time to pee it out or take a dump or throw up, depending on how nervous people are.
Somebody announces through a bullhorn that the race will start in ten minutes.
Ouch. Time to relax.
You can tell who’s who at the start line. With some jokers, you know why they are here. You look at them and you know they will be at the finish line miles ahead of you, duking it out with the cheetahs while the others will be with the sloths. These are the hard core veterans who have done this before and are clearly among the contenders, not the pretenders and first timers like me.
The other runners are still chit chatting with family and friends, hugging and kissing. I can’t think about that now. I am here by myself and in it for myself. I simply gather my thoughts. Where will I be five hours from now? I try to cool down, but I am a nervous wreck.
Finally, the guy barks through the megaphone for the runners to get to the starting line.
I would like to say I am as cool as a cucumber, but the cold truth is that I am a wreck.
This was a thirteen mile course through the city, which was a painful lesson about conditioning and endurance. We would both walk funny for the next few days, owing largely to inexperience and the inability to pace ourselves properly.
Nearly five years later, I decide to go for the ultimate prize. For this, I have to rent a car and drive two hours to the north, to York, Pennsylvania, where the third annual Bob Potts Marathon would take place, the only marathon in the area I can possibly partake in.
By now, I’d become a better runner, or so I thought. Whether it will be enough for 26.2 miles is another question.
On the night before marathons, you always hear about runners loading up on carbohydrates, pre-hydrating and getting plenty of rest.
Those rules are out the window less than ten minutes after arriving in York.
Shortly after I check into the Rodeway Inn, a low budget motel in the heart of York, I search in vain for a restaurant that can serve pasta and the necessary nutrients for the upcoming run.
Instead, I find an Irish pub a block away from the motel.
Aw, shucks.
Time for a drink.
Instead of the pasta, I have pita bread with a delicious fattening crab dip, as well as a glass of red wine and a pint of Harp. Dinner of Champions? Not exactly.
That said, I am amped and need to calm down in the worst way. I need a drink and distraction, which the folk duo featuring two female students, their guitars and gorgeous harmonies more than provide. I still slam plenty of water before I go to bed, which is at about midnight.
I sleep four hours and finally get up. I pound a pint of Gatorade and some Power Bar gells, large sized gummi bears really, but they seem to have the sugar I need to get going.
First I head over to the stadium, home of the minor league baseball team York Revolution, to pick up a marathon packet, which supposedly should be ready at five a.m. I am there at half past five, and there is not a soul in sight.
Another runner stops his car in the parking lot and asks where he can get a marathon packet, the kit that includes your number, a free t-shirt and a ticket to see that day’s Revolution game. Like him, I have no clue. Was there something we missed? Have they cancelled the run?
So, now I head over to York College, where the run supposedly will start and finish. I find the place easily. In the parking lot, it’s obvious that the run is on. Hundreds of runners gather around, some of them chatting with friends and family.
I head into the arena and pick up my number, 479, the shirt and the ticket to the baseball game. I pin my number to my shirt and then locate the next restroom. There are a half dozen porto potties located just outside the college stadium and long lines waiting in front of every one of them. Of course all runners have taken in plenty of liquids like me, and now it’s time to pee it out or take a dump or throw up, depending on how nervous people are.
Somebody announces through a bullhorn that the race will start in ten minutes.
Ouch. Time to relax.
You can tell who’s who at the start line. With some jokers, you know why they are here. You look at them and you know they will be at the finish line miles ahead of you, duking it out with the cheetahs while the others will be with the sloths. These are the hard core veterans who have done this before and are clearly among the contenders, not the pretenders and first timers like me.
The other runners are still chit chatting with family and friends, hugging and kissing. I can’t think about that now. I am here by myself and in it for myself. I simply gather my thoughts. Where will I be five hours from now? I try to cool down, but I am a nervous wreck.
Finally, the guy barks through the megaphone for the runners to get to the starting line.
I would like to say I am as cool as a cucumber, but the cold truth is that I am a wreck.
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