Thousand Miles to Salamanca

My Happy Place

For two years to the month, I believed I would have a magic moment on a track somewhere. A moment where I looked back on everything I’d gone through—all the miles, injuries, sweat, shoes, money, broken muscles and fractured relationships—and have a moment of bliss. A moment where all the hard work paid off and I proved to myself that it’s possible to go back.

The truth is that I don’t believe I ever wanted to go back in the first place. Why would I? I was a neurotic, incredibly insecure kid. Who would ever want to go back during that time in one’s life?

Neurotic and insecure. It’s a theme I’m probably yet to shake, until maybe recently that is. I remember times when I’d get myself all worked up emotionally. I’d hold my shoulders high, panicked, trying to calm myself down and I’d hear voices that said: “find your happy place.” You know something? Everytime I heard that voice, I’d try to find that place only to realize a few years back that I never really had one happy place.

I remember a time when I was standing in the Gulf in Destin, FL as a recently turned 23 year old after a very hot summer. It was a beautiful place with beautiful people. And even though I was standing there, knee deep in waves, I was worrying, fretting, agonizing about where I wasn’t, my family or whatever thoughts passed through my mind. The saddest thing was, try as I did, I couldn’t reach back and find one happy place.

Through the last seven years since then, I really and truly couldn’t find one. And, of course, I worried and fretted about why I couldn’t relax when I was convinced everybody else could relax. I gave up on it I suppose.

Two years ago I started this project after finishing graduate school provided a void in my life. For the first time in as long as I remembered, I didn’t have a goal. I remember sitting with my friends at a pizza place in the Arboretum, a full 35 pounds heaver, and pitching them about my idea of both this running project and my blog. They didn’t seem much interested, for that I don’t blame them.

But for some reason it stuck, and to be honest, my goal truly was just to lose a little weight. I was single again for the first time in a while and I kind of wanted to get back in the game. Although I framed the project as an academic experience it was primarily a way to keep myself accountable and to get fit.

And now, two years later, as I approach the anniversary of my blog, I find myself wondering just how far I’ve come, just what, if anything, I’ve accomplished.

I needed this vacation. Having worked in an unintentionally high-pressure project over the past year and a half, I found that I hadn’t taken more than two days off. The Marathon was just the excuse to go to a laid back place and do some thinking. I’m from a small town myself, and Duluth was just what the doctor ordered.

I rolled into Town without a map, and as I approached the first gas station I saw I asked the couldn’t of been more than sixteen year old attendant where the Voyageur Inn was, and of course, he was clueless. But an odd looking woman, who repeatedly leered at me said: “follow me, I’ll take you there.”

At first, I thought she was making her move, but it turns out she was just being what she was: A Minnesotan. She drove ahead of me and I followed her and when we arrived she pointed to the motel and drove off.

It was a quaint little place: “A dandy place,” said another older fellow in that gas station. After I chucked my stuff in the room I immediately felt at home. I was ready to go walkin’ and explore. I immediately was greeted with gigantic “Go Runners” banners all over the place. And, I gladly, and confidently, accepted that title.

It’s taken a while to accept that title, considering I was lost in the wilderness for eleven years. In high school, running was my identity. About the only thing I was good at. I didn’t go to the prom, homecoming, or even have much of a social life for that matter, but I got to go to sectionals a few times and my name was called out on the morning announcements whenever I’d win a meet or a race. That was nice.

But as many of you know, my fantasy died when I hit the world of Division I athletics. Not nearly fast enough to compete at that level, I moved onto something else. The high-stress life of college, the crazy summer jobs and ten years that seemed to fly by faster than my best half-mile. After weighing in at 129 pounds as a senior, I found myself in January 2002 getting up to 200 pounds, 70 pounds heavier.

The next morning, I decided I was going to run the last three miles of the course. I hadn’t trained hard for this marathon, I didn’t hide that too much, but the weather that Wednesday morning was just too perfect. So I put on my shorts, a couple layers in shirts and headed out along Superior Street and found my way to the famous Canal Park. Uhhh. It still takes my breath away when I think about the perfect cool breeze hitting my face and blowing my thinning hair. You know, I wasn’t the slightest bit nervous about the race. I was confident I was going to hit my goal of a negative split.

But it wasn’t until Thursday night, when I was bored out of my mind looking for something to do that I laced up again and decided to run the last few miles of the course. After I ran through Canal Park, with a borrowed iPod in hand, I went to the pier to do some stretching. The sun barely holding on, I could hear the waves crashing against the rocks through the Coldplay ringing in my ear. As I felt a chilly breeze hit my bare legs, and I caught the lighthouse out of the corner of my eye, I realized something.

There was no place in the world I wanted to be at that moment than right where I was standing. It couldn’t have been more perfect.


It won’t take much pontificating here to know why I felt that way at that moment. I realized, that from now on, for the rest of my life, I will have at least one happy place. Something I could never say I truly had before, at least one that I can remember.

Why did I feel to good on that pier? First, it’s a gorgeous place, but more importantly, I felt good because I was doing something positive. Something for me. Something that’s taken a lot of damn work to get to. A lot of early days, a lot of bad runs, humbling experiences, passed up happy hours. I really can’t explain it very well, but I was positive that no matter what happened two days later, I knew I was going to enjoy the experience. Because. Because I’ve enjoyed the process.

I had a feeling we were in for something when I had to close my window in my room because I woke up sweating. It had gotten hot outside. I didn’t panic because I’d learned a ton from my last few races and after Freescale I promised myself I would not get too worked up over a race. When I finally woke, at 4 am, I got up, went to the bathroom, started drinking water, took a shower, ate breakfast and caught the bus.

Dead silence on the bus. There’s nothing like one-way course to remind you how far a marathon is. If you think about it, it’s a half-hour by bus. Just sitting there, two by two. Few words spoken. And just when you think: Man, we’ve got to be there soon, you see a sign that says: Half Marathon Start.

Grandma’s is a beautifully organized race. Love the whole bussing concept. Note to Austin Marathon Organizers: this beats a traffic jam that delays the start of the race. I had four, yes, count them, four bowel movements that morning. But yet I hardly waited in line. I really focused on eating lots of food the night before and that morning. I wasn’t going to make the same mistakes again. And, I’m not ashamed to admit it, I went to the starting line with a Gatorade bottle and promptly filled it when I had to go.

After a few minutes, the horn sounded and we were off. My strategy was to stick with the 3:30 pace group through the half and then re-assess. I stuck right with them, almost in a stupor until mile 10 I believe. Around then, I started to doubt myself a little until I was “woken up” by a man who yelled: “Get those damn things out of your ear. I was trying to get by.”

Completely thrown off guard, I was wearing an iPod, I politely said: You have a good race too. A few strides later I asked him where he was from. He, a little surprised at me, said: “Twin Cities” begrudgingly. “Good Luck, keep it up,” I responded. He sped up, but then I found my legs waking up. I decided to stick with him a while and I found myself thinking: “If this asshole runs a 3:00 I’m sticking with him.” I honestly believed I could. I concentrated on this guy, and next thing I know I clocked a 7:30 mile. Unfortunately, he slowed down to take a gu at the next water stop. That was the last I saw of him.

That’s the guy I don’t want to be and I hope I never become. I can understand purists who don’t believe in listening to music on a run, and for the most part I’m one of them. I was just giving it a try. But I imagined what his life must be like, to be carrying so much anger, especially in a pastime that requires so much patience and understanding. It was odd but I learned that I have the capacity to get worked up about small things. I promised myself right there, at mile 11 on the course, that I would never be that man. But I thanked him for waking me up.

Honestly the next 8 miles or so clicked off right on pace. I didn’t hear my split beeps, because of the iPod, but the pace was quite comfortable. Each water stop had tons of locals cheering us on, and I gulped as many cups as I could grab. My nutrition was doing well too. I remember thinking that I had three gu’s before the half. For some reason I thought that was a lot, but if my plan was every 20 minutes, I guess I should have had four. Oh well.

I started to feel hunger at around 16 or 17, but there was no water stop in sight. I chose to break out the enevertine a little early because I knew I could take it down without water. Wanting to conserve one until later, I hesitated on drinking the second one. I thought about it for about a half mile and then wolfed it down. I wished I brought more though.

Up until mile 19, I had no doubt in my mind I was going to hit my goal of sub 3:30 and run a negative split, probably a 3:25. But at about 19.5 miles, I found myself getting super thirsty. “Where’s the gd water stop,” I said to myself. There wasn’t one from miles 18-20. I found that odd but whatever.

I think when mile 20 came, I felt it was too late. So I stopped to try and “rehydrate” and save my race. But the stop in momentum wasn’t a good thing. I felt the potential for cramping so I drank down two Ultimas. I tried to stomach my last gu but almost puked. After I thought I was ready to go, I saw some balloons about 50 yards ahead of me.

It was the 3:30 group that flew by. I never would catch them. But I did get back up to about a sub 9:00 pace until the left hamstring locked completely up. I could only yell “Ahhh.” I stopped and did the only thing I thought of. I stretched until it was gone. Then I ran again and floated along at about a 9:00 pace until “Lemon Drop Hill.” “You’re sweeter than this,” the signs said and as I was halfway up, it happened again.

Then a funny thing happened, after I stretched it out, I heard everybody cheer. They were cheering for me because I kept going. I must’ve looked like hell but it was a lift. I got through the next couple miles okay and finally found the 25 mile marker which was right downtown. “I could finish with my fastest mile if I really felt like it,” I thought. “But I already blew my chances of hitting my goal, why exert the effort?” I must’ve been delirious. I didn’t have much left and I had some tender hamstrings. That’s all I needed was to have both lock up.

But I tried to pick it up a little. Unfortunately I’d pay dearly for it. As I approached the finish line, with less than 100 meters to go, My left hamstring and calf locked up. I didn’t know which to grab. With bleachers on one side, and people 10-rows deep on the other side I just stopped and gasped. I didn’t know what to do, so I stretched and then I saw a race official come running out to me. He stood behind me and told runners to go around while I stretched it out. Finally, I started again, hopping on one foot and as I did it I heard a roar. Everybody went nuts.

I hobbled my way all the way through the finish line. And as I crossed, I remembered the woman I met my second day in Duluth at “Va Bene.” She was the first person who asked if I was in town for the Marathon. I looked around for her at the finish line, but didn’t see her. She told me at the restaurant that: “we got the best medals we ever got.” No doubt, I thought the same thing as it was put around my neck. This was hands down my favorite marathon.

This is going to be my last post for a while. I will definitely write again on November 7, 2006.

I set out on this path for a very specific reason and I still intend to do everything I can to reach my goals. But I know what I need to do in order for that to happen. And what I need to do, is not pontificate, fret or research, I just need to run. I need to take my watch off, run through some hills, some trails, farms, and cemeteries. I need to eat some good food and have fun. I do plan to write about my experiences, just not on a daily basis, and in a personal journal.

As far as my plans go over the next year or so. I plan to have more moments like I had on that Pier. And I’m confident each one of them will include some smelly running shoes and the ecstasy one gets with a workout well done.

Over the past two years, I hope I’ve inspired a few people to try something difficult. Although this last thousand miles is over, I know that, for me personally, I have a thousand miles to go until Salamanca.

posted by Gray @ 9:25 PM