It’s been a long night’s journey into day. A minor delay last night by Southwest Airlines has thrown off my schedule. An hour’s drive from Houston Hobby to my hotel meant I checked into my room around 11 pm. My alarm was set for 3:45 am so I could shower and wake up a bit before the 5:30 am early start. Surfside Beach is about 20 minutes away by car.
It’s not like I’ve been sleeping well anyway but I am dragging at the moment. Even my hair is tired. The sun isn’t up just yet and won’t be for another two hours. I’m typing this on a quick reprieve before the race starts.
There will be fits and starts in this post, a mix of tenses based on when and where I have previously found or will find time to tap letters on my phone. The one thing I know is that I won’t be tapping out prose on the run. I might compose in my head as I run the beach but then I’ll somehow have to attempt to recreate the perfect phrasing in my head in the imperfect reality of virtual text. We spend our whole lives trying to recreate or rectify the past… And I personally spend some of my life trying to capture that feeling of freedom and accomplishment that comes with a great run.
Final pre race note: I’ve broken a cardinal rule of my marathon travels. I haven’t budgeted any time for seeing the sights or experiencing much of the local flavors. I didn’t even check RoadsideAmerica.com for my usual weird must-sees in the area. But I’m pretty sure the giant statue of Stephen Austin along the highway would’ve been on the list. I couldn’t figure out how to get over to snap a photo but perhaps there’s a google image I can put in here.
I’m rationalizing this though as the point of this trip was twofold – 1) stopover on my way back to Florida and get a race in for no other reason than I had a weekend opening and 2) run a marathon entirely on a beach. The latter was a real selling point.
Quick note on my hotel – nothing quite says “super” like a cigarette burned hole in the comforter. I should be happy I had hot water for a shower. I should say it’s a good thing *eventually* as I was on the second floor and it took a good five minutes to get the warm water up to my room. It’s unclear if this place is officially a “murder hotel” but it reeks of “attempted murder” at least. Staying classy, that’s me.
In the “pro” column (and this is a SPOILER ALERT), after I finished the race I was able to drive back and grab a shower before checking out. And a shower before a flight? That’s not nothing. It’s good for me; it’s even better for my seat mates.
Anyway, as lovely as it was to run with the surf breaking next to me, the experience was paradoxically like running in the snow. At first there’s an exhilaration at doing something like that and there’s an appreciation of the unique sights and sounds. But the novelty wears off — with snow, the cold and slush quickly overtake the beauty.
In this race on the beach, the reality of the sandy sameness took a psychological toll. I had no real sense of distance as the beach stretched out before me. Complicating matters, the first segment was a 2.44 mile out, followed by a turnaround to run to approximately mile 16 and then a turnaround back to the start. The problem was that it was so dark for the early start that a lot of us missed the initial turnaround and wound up running a good bit longer. I finally made my turn at mile 2.75 on my Garmin, never having seen any signposts. I think more than a few people were trailing me and using me as a guide — let this be a lesson to us all. Never trust my sense of direction.
As the miles piled up, the sun rose.
Just after mile 12, I tripped. Leave it to me to stumble on a deserted beach. I think I read somewhere you have 8 milliseconds to recover from tripping before you fall on your face – maybe it’s more, it’s probably less. In hindsight I must have used my 8 milliseconds flailing my arms in the hopes of creating an air cushion to allow me to “hovercraft” and recover. Instead, I pounded sand. Specifically my knees and palms. While the packed sand was arguably more giving than pavement or concrete, it still did quite a number on me. My left knee was scraped and bleeding, blood mixing with sand like I was a matador in a losing bullfight. I rolled over onto my back and stared up at the sky, running a checklist of injuries. I was in a no man’s land, about halfway between the evenly spaced water stations. I could turn around and call it a day. Or I could go on. Foolishly, arrogantly, and all that is to say, MANLY, I hoisted myself up and continued with the run.
The turnaround was a long way off. The miles dragged on through the sands. A guy who was a good half mile ahead of me by this point, a guy who also missed the initial turnaround, was on his way back and shouted to me, “This one’s marked!” We high-fived in passing, a runner camaraderie bolstered by minor adversity.
And so it continued. Runners who started at the regular time began racking up their mileage, especially the half marathoners.
In the end, despite the battle scars and psychological toll, I at some point passed my high-five friend. The race announcer, who had caught us passing the start line at mile 5 after our extended initial leg, welcomed me into the finish advising the few milling about spectators that I had missed the turnaround and thus was probably finishing a 27 mile marathon. And beyond that, he said I was the first marathoner from the 5:30 am group. That was a bit of a shock, topped soon after as the first half-marathoner who had started 2.5 hours after me finished, looking fresh as a daisy. There’s always somebody faster.
I finished and given the circumstances I take that as a win. Sadly, due to a tight airline departure and the aforementioned burning desire to grab a shower, I left before the promised beach BBQ got started. I smelled it though… Grilled hamburger mixed with sea air … That’s not nothing either.
I’m sitting on the plane headed back to Orlando. We’ve already been delayed for a maintenance issue. I can’t recall the last time I was in a Southwest flight that didn’t have a maintenance issue.
Tomorrow is Gainesville, FL, which requires a 2 hour drive in the morning. My alarm is set once again for 3:45 am. And so it will begin again, just as it should when running is involved. One of my favorite movie quotes, and one I used to close out my high school graduation speech, comes from 1987’s Masters of the Universe. It goes like this:
“Live the journey. For every destination is but a doorway to the next.”
That’s kinda how I feel about marathons. Every finish line is but the starting point for the next race.
And so I quote He-Man and his friends once more: “Good journey.”