My First Marathon

by Michael Bateman

Click here to go back to the home page.
I had been training since mid-December, slowly working my weekly mileage up to and then maintaining 45 miles per week, all at a 10 minute per mile pace. On Saturday, February 23rd, 8 days before the LA Marathon, I ran 8 miles. Then I began the taper. Sunday I ran 7, Monday 6, Tuesday 5. Each day my lungs and legs wanted more, but I held back. It was like I had been carrying stones on my back for the past month and now I was taking one off each day. I started to feel tough, and mean. Wednesday I ran 4, Thursday 3. Then I began the carbo load. Lots of pasta and mashed potatoes. This left me with an indescribable excess of energy. It was almost frustrating to have to run so little each morning. I was psyched and I couldn't wait for the day to arrive.

This began to worry me. Experienced marathon runners love to tell stories of young cocky 24 year-olds like myself who shoot out at 8 minute miles and then walk the last 6. I began to think that might happen to me. The advice I got from everyone was to go out at my training pace, 10 minute miles, which would have brought me in at around 4 hours 30 minutes. If however, at mile 15, I still felt like a stud, I could consider a quicker pace, say 9:30 or 9:00 miles.

Friday and Saturday brought a 2 miler and a 1 miler respectively, and a lot more carbo loading, a lot more excess energy. I was wired beyond belief. I rented a car Friday so I wouldn't have to worry about getting to the pre-race festivities, and just in case I didn't feel like riding a bicycle home from a 26.2 mile run through the LA Basin.

Saturday night I went to the Vons (I would learn that big city marathons are highly commercial) Carbo Load Dinner where they served all the potatoes, pasta, rolls and bananas you could eat. When I ate all I could, to calm my nerves, I took a 26 mile car ride coincident with the course only to discover that not only is 26 miles a really long distance, but that by running it instead of driving it you only save an eighth of a tank of gas.

Race day. People everywhere. Lots of butterflies. Some confusion. I found my way to my starting block. All runners are assigned bib numbers according to their expected finish times and are supposed to line up according to those numbers. This placed me literally 4 city blocks back of the starting line. Official estimates placed the number of starters at 20,000. Some television commentators estimated more than 1 million spectators. The gun went off. Nothing happened. I stood still for 5 minutes. Then along with those around me, I began to walk towards the start line. As we got closer, I noticed that there was a loop tape of Randy Newman's "I Love LA" playing. The crowds roared us on. People in the pack around me began to jump and cheer with excitement. Twelve minutes passed before I stepped foot on the course. I started my wrist stop watch, and we all began to trot a very slow pace.

On our immediate left was my alma matter, USC, and the Trojan Marching band. I gave them the "V" for Victory sign in the traditional 'SC football game style.

I must have run a mile and a half navigating through the mass of people to get to the Mile 1 marker. What I found most irritating was trying to get around the walkers who had the audacity to line up in the very first block of starters. I still managed to get to mile 1 in less than 10 minutes. I then grabbed a cup of water from one of the scores of volunteers that lined the water station which accompanied each mile marker. I had been advised to drink at every opportunity.

Drinking while running is a lot more difficult than it looks. I tried and soon perfected a technique I heard someone speak about once. It involves pinching the rim of the cup so that the water can be sucked out of a small hole.

Hundreds upon thousands of people lined the streets. Little children held their hands out to slap-you-five as you ran past. People who lived near the course turned stereo speakers out windows, filling the tall narrow downtown streets with music.

Mile 2: I was beginning to get out of the "box". This mile took me 9:00 even.

Mile 3: Out of the box and cruising. Sub 8:00. I got worried and tried to cool it a bit. I think I went so fast just to get away from the crowd, and I guess I let that interfere with my pace.

Mile 4: Back at 9 minutes. I suppose at this point I made a somewhat conscious decision to keep at this pace. It felt good. It didn't feel faster than my workout pace, although it was.

Mile 5 through 13. This marked the first time in my life I had ever run greater than 12 miles in one workout. My pace ranged anywhere from 8:45 to 9:15, averaging around 9:00. The highest point in the course was at mile 7: 450 feet. This left the remainder mostly downhill. I felt great.

I passed radio stations doing live broadcasts from alongside the course. Live bands and boom boxes played the theme from "Chariots of Fire" and other inspirational songs. I heard some of the best Mariachi music in my life from a group of appropriately dressed spectators. A lone Mexican gentleman stood on a street corner with his guitar and sang to us as we passed him. Some very cruel, sick people in lawn chairs along Sunset had a case of cold Budwiser and were handing them off to any willing runner. There were takers.

Miles 13 through 17: I continued with the 9:00 miles, and continued to feel good. I began to feel hot and started to pour water and ice over my head. On one corner a small boy handed me a cup. As I poured it over my head, he shouted after me, "It's Gateraid!". He was bluffing.

At the end of this section, I remember considering whether or not to make my move. For the most part, I still felt like the distance runner from hell, and what's more, this 9:00 per mile pace was going to bring me in under four hours, faster than my wildest expectations. Kicking it in could mean a 3:45 and perhaps not having to line up behind all those bozos next year.

Mile 18: The wall. This was a holy moment. I had been warned of this, but saw no advantage in anticipating it. That was a good thing, because had I understood what it was, had I believed the almost religious, fairy-tale like stories I had heard concerning it, had I known the pain that this mile would bring me, I would surely have stayed in bed that Sunday morning.

My body looked up at me and said, "Is someone chasing us with a knife?" And I looked down and said, "Well, no." And it looked back up at me and said, "Well then guess what"?

But no amount of words will do justice to the pain this 18th mile brought to my lungs and legs, nor to the swiftness with which this mile vacated my sole of every lofty and idealistic reason for ever wanting to run this damn thing. I began to remember the story behind the original Greek Marathon from a 6th grade teacher, and how the runner of this distance died immediately thereafter. I began to remember every answer I ever gave to people who would ask me why I wanted to do this, or reminded me of what a colossal undertaking this was. And I started to recognize all of my answers as such esoteric bullshit. I had no business being out here. I was completely spent and had NINE miles to go. NINE miles. How could this be?

I stopped. I got to the side of the course and stretched. I looked up at the hill that leads to Catalina. I walked it, made the turn and slowly got back into a pace. It was as if I had knelt to the Marathon God and begged passage. My request was reluctantly granted, on the condition that my cocky, proud, and exalted attitude be left somewhere on Wilshire. Every stride I took from this moment forth was made at the mercy of some supreme being.

Mile 19 - Mile 25: I don't remember this part. I know I must have ran most of it, because I averaged 13:00 per mile for this section. I recall vague images of holding my arms out, crucifix style, allowing small children to douse me with buckets of water as I staggered passed them.

Mile 26: Kicking it in would have meant getting in under four and a half hours. But aside from being impossible, it might have meant unconsciousness. Seriously. I passed by a man that looked younger than I being loaded into an ambulance after passing out cold. People were dropping out like flies while being less than 2 miles from the finish. It matters so little to be told how close one is to the finish line when you simply cannot move another foot.

At 1:36pm on Sunday, March 3rd, 1991, Four Hours, Thirty-One Minutes after the gun, I became the 7,170th runner of 14,580 to finish the 6th Annual Los Angeles Marathon.

I am told the human body never forgets running a marathon. I am a believer.