Second verse, not quite the same as the first.
My return to the Cleveland Marathon was, as I said yesterday, a trial by failure. Yes, yes. I ran faster than I did eight years ago. But whereas that day in 2009 was marked by an exultant personal record and sense of victory, the run in 2017 felt like successive shortcomings and ultimately a wearied wave off at the finish line photo.
I simply couldn’t outrun my fear. Worries overtook me and no matter what strategy I attempted to shake them off, I only seemed to fall deeper into the hole. A hole of what though? Depression? A cramping side stitch that approximates what I imagine an appendicitis might be, knowing full well I’ve grossly underestimated that pain? A hole marked by slowing paces, time creep, and just general resignation?
It was a bad day for me. There have been far too many of those races of late. Is it age? Are my fastest times only visible in the rear view mirror? What does this mean for my increasingly ill-advised Moon Shot in July?
The Cleveland course was mostly flat … albeit I swear it’s been altered with a few more bridges since I was last here. I distinctly remember a long stretch in the back half along the waterfront. But maybe I’m confusing it… or maybe in the intervening years the city has changed and the route with it.
We started at the “Q” arena, the Quicken Loans Center that would later that evening host a semi finals game between the Cavaliers and the Celtics. While the inner arena was off limits, the entire outer ring on multiple levels was open to the runners, including every single restroom. It was a luxury that not all races can afford. Having said that, the concessions weren’t open; the mouthwatering advert for Nestle Cookies that indeed had me salivating like a Pavlovian pooch, proved a craving I could not satiate.
The arena’s signage did have oodles of local lore factoids and I snapped a couple for educational purposes… or in the hopes that Alexa’s Jeopardy app soon has a “Land of Cleves” category…
The start line was breezy but sunny. As I think I mentioned yesterday, the weather forecast changed to have rain arriving by 10 am… we all were hoping it would hold off even later than that but damned if the weather people didn’t call this one right… but more on that later.
We passed various Cleveland highlights – including the world’s largest outdoor chandelier and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
And then we sorta settled into the long mileage stretch of community and neighborhood streets.
By mile 11, the half marathoners split off and those of us doing the full were ever more spread out. Pace groups were surging and I got passed by 3:15 somewhere in here, despite the fact that according to my watch I was at that moment on target for a 3:13. That projection would prove crazily optimistic and entirely inaccurate.
I’ve written too much already from the self-pitying morass of my darkened soul. So suffice to say things went poorly here… and then just kept getting worse thereafter.
By 10 am, the rains came, slowly at first, a light drizzle, almost refreshing. And then the downpours soon followed. I was already having problems swiping open my camera app on the iPhone but the rainfall made it just a shade left of impossible. I tried to snap a few atmospherics but missed the money shots.
Time ticked by. Pace groups passed me. I walked, holding my side in pain. I’m pretty sure I was crying somewhere in there, I’m not sure whether out of fear of missing my 12:30 flight out of CLE or out of disappointment and frustration with my inability to pull myself together to just finish the damn race. It was probably both. And more.
In the end, I crossed the finish at just under 3:29. I grabbed a courtesy towel and dried my phone, snapping a quick soaked shot at the finish, a phony smile highlighted by awkward framing.
I made it back to the car courtesy of google maps. And I made the flight to LA via a brief layover in STL. On one leg, a woman next to me was scrolling through her photos of the 124 sighted species she saw on her “birder” weekend. They were quite stunning. Next to her was an unaccompanied minor, a kid who couldn’t have been more than 12. He was visiting his dad and had gone to Cedars Point to ride a bunch of roller coasters. He said his girlfriend back home didn’t like coasters and didn’t come; she was missing him so he was flying back early. Again, the kid was no more than 12. The birder and I were speechless.
I’m not sure why I have included that story. I think I did it because it struck me somehow as important or revealing … but about what I’m not sure. It just felt like a detail that needed telling. Maybe in the race of life, I am feeling like this 12 year old is far ahead of me… and I’ve got 28 years on him. I’m really feeling old and weary. More than I’ve felt in a long time.
Cleveland, I’m sad to say, most assuredly did NOT rock.
But as I reread this, a lot written in a late night frenzy and a few lines composed in the sleepless night thereafter, I dislike hate the tenor and tone of the wallowing wordplay. I’ll therefore end on a note of true rocking and rolling.
Thanks to my buddy Brent Simon, and the benevolence of the traffic gods, I made it to the Rose Bowl to see the 30th Anniversary Tour of U2’s “Joshua Tree.” The hour long taxing on the LAX runaway meant we missed the majority of the Lumineers’ opening act set but we did get to enjoy the main show from the General Admission floor.
In keeping with the running theme, here’s a shot from “Where the Streets Have No Name”:
It was in retrospect then a beautiful day… mainly because I got to hang out with U2 superfan Brent; I’m a big fan of the Irish rock band, but an even bigger fan of Brent’s. A good way to end the night then — thanks for the ticket and your patience with my travels and travails, Brent!
