Chevron Houston Marathon

Before arriving downtown on race morning, I had done a most excellent job of pre-hydrating myself. I had done such an outstanding job that my bladder was screaming at full volume about being at full volume. I claimed a parking space in the first lot I found within reasonable distance to the convention center and immediately dashed off. A couple blocks later I entered the GRBCC, then started panicking a little when I saw porta-potty line dozens deep. Then my previous experience of running the Aramco Houston Half twice before paid off, because I remembered that there was another bank of porta-potties set up along the back wall, and they only had a line eight deep. Whew! Only after relieving myself did I finally return to the lot, which was directly in front of Toyota Center, and actually drop money into the pay station. I did want my car to still be there when I got back, after all. As it turned out, I got a little lucky as it turned out to be a $2 lot at the time.

I returned to the convention center, emptied my bladder a second time (I wanted to do everything possible to avoid the early porta-potty lines on the course) and then walked out to the corral just minutes before my wave was to start. Just like at the start of the Sugar Land 30K, I settled in right behind Felix-the-Flag-Bearer next to the 5:00 and 5:15 pace groups. The first rays of the dawning sun were now reflecting off the windows of the tall buildings above and illuminating the runners, who had been patiently awaiting on the dark pavement below. Then the air, which had been thickened with anticipation, was ruptured by a cannon blast and euphoric cheers went up along Crawford Street.

The starting line of the full marathon course is on Crawford Street, right in front of the home of the Houston Astros, Minute Maid Park. Three years ago, the first 5K I had ever dared to enter was the Astros Race for the Pennant. As I assumed my small role in the wave of runners shuffling past the stadium, I pondered about how my "race career" had now come back, returning to this same site. I took a deep, chilly breath of air and went on my way. As I crossed the mats, I thought, "Feet, let's get to work."

As the runners rose up and out of downtown on the Elysian viaduct, a father and son Elvis impersonator duo gave us the first smiles of the race. Since the half and full courses share virtually the same streets for their first nine miles, this part of the run played out like the opening refrain of an familiar anthem I had sung before. This year's two-wave start, in my opinion, was a great success, because it did cut down on the frenetic dodging and weaving among runners of differing paces that had characterized the Elysian merge previously.

The streets and boulevards of Woodland Heights have several dips and rises. Thankfully, this section was in the first five miles of the course, so I almost didn't feel any of it, not even when our path took us on underpasses beneath Interstates 45 and 10. My Sauconys were humming along the pavement, while I was humming Foghat's "Slow Ride" to help me keep everything at a conservative pace. It was hard to contain my enthusiasm, however, as one home was triumphantly playing John Williams' theme from the 1996 Olympics out of their window.

At mile 5, I consumed my first packet of GU gel. Right before the IH-10 underpass, the crowds started to thicken in numbers and excitement. I joked to the runners beside me, "Are they cheering for us, or are they cheering because traffic is actually moving on the Katy Freeway at this time?"

As far as sheer numbers was concerned, the biggest crowds I saw were on the Studemont/Montrose segment between IH-10 and Richmond Avenue. Spectators were solidly two and three deep along this segment for miles 6 through 9 of the course. I handed out countless high-fives to folks here, and some stereo systems and a couple of live musical performers had this street high on energy. Mile 8 had me smiling because I was running right past my alma mater, the University of St. Thomas -- GO CELTS!

Right after the UST campus, I saw the large inflatable pylon that marked the turnaround point for the half marathon course. As I watched runners around me pull away and start their return journey to downtown, it finally became real. There was no turning back this year. Remember when I said that miles one through nine were like the opening refrains of a familiar anthem? Well, if this was a musical score, this is where the sightreading begins.

Having separated from the half'ers, the course was suddenly a lot less crowded. My hydration levels were apparently still fantastic, because I found myself ducking into one of the porta-potties on Montrose Boulevard. When I shut the door, I think I must have whipped the latch back so hard that it bounced back open, and another runner popped the door open briefly while I was still in there, which was a little embarrassing.

Resuming my run on the course, I entered the Museum District. As I turned at the Mecom fountain, I caught a glimpse of the Sam Houston equestrian statue in Hermann Park and gave the general a salute. Now I was on Main Street and I had the towering edifices of the Texas Medical Center on my left. I thought briefly about some of the kids who are undergoing treatment at institutions like M.D. Anderson Cancer Center and Texas Children's Hospital and their families. At mile 10, I ripped open my second GU packet and swallowed its vanilla goodness.

As I made the turn onto University Boulevard, I could sense the nagging irritation on the inside of my foot that was a warning sign of blistering. I stepped off the street, leaned on one of the many trees on the edge of the Rice University campus, and took off my shoe briefly to adjust my sock.

Back on the boulevard, I ran past Rice Stadium. With a capacity of more than 70,000 seats, I believe this is still the largest stadium in Houston. Back in 1962, President Kennedy gave a famous speech on this football field. I swear I could still hear his words echoing with us:

"We choose to go for a run. We choose to go for a run on this Sunday, and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because we are hard-headed...."

I'm pretty sure that speech went something like that. Anyway, back on the marathon course, I had entered the enclave of West University Place. This neighborhood had turned out in force to cheer us on, and this section of University Boulevard was solidly punctuated up and down the curbs with American flags. I felt more like I was in a community parade than a race. My sister had come up to this point of the course to cheer me on, which I really appreciated. One of the more memorable water stops was here near the 13.1-mile point, with colorfully dressed Bolivian dancers moving to festive music.

A couple of turns later, we were out of West U and came face to face with the hill on the course that I lovingly dubbed "Mount Westpark." Now, I'm guessing that any of you who do significant hill training probably wouldn't even think twice about Westpark Drive's overpass of railroad tracks. But it looked intimidating enough to me to deliberately stop and take a walk break to the "summit" before continuing. On my way down, I ripped open my third GU gel.

At mile 15, I stopped to do a couple minutes of stretching underneath the Southwest Freeway while waiting for another porta-potty opportunity to open up. After the porta-break, runners got an extra impetus to run faster, because the air around the freeway feeder road was laden with what smelled like raw sewage. I couldn't get myself onto Post Oak Boulevard fast enough.

Miles 16, 17, and 18 on Post Oak, San Felipe and Tanglewood turned out to be the last really good miles I would run. I was thinking of the folks that were tracking my splits online as I hit the 30K chip mats. "There's your update," I thought. Little did I suspect that no one would be getting any pre-finish splits delivered. I drank the remainder of Gatorade that was in my Amphipod handstrap bottle and hung it on the back of my Nathan waistpack.

Soon after I crossed those mats, I started to struggle as I entered Memorial Park. Looking back, I do wonder if this was caused by going out too fast or not. Until this point I was averaging a quick (all things considered) pace right around eleven minutes per mile, but still my 13.1-mile split was 10 minutes slower than my half marathon PR time. Or perhaps I'm still not well-conditioned enough. Anyway, my running endurance was falling flat and fatigue started exerting its force on me here. I knew I was having issues when I passed by the belly dancers and failed to muster any enthusiasm.

I had reached another significant landmark in the park when I saw the red metal sculpture in the grassy median of Memorial Drive. Now I don't really care for the piece aesthetically. It looks pretty much like any lame piece of metal abstract art in Houston. What is notable about this piece is that the artist gave it the name "3/4 Time" and it just happens to sit near the Mile 20 point of the marathon course. None of my training runs exceeded 20 miles, so I knew I was in uncharted territory. I tore open my last GU gel and devoured the fake strawberry flavor within.

My legs were feeling weak, both of my forefeet were aching with every step and the finish line seemed very, very far away. Miles 21 through 25 were quite an experience that I will remember for the rest of my life. I walked significant portions of these miles, as my emotions were a spinning wheel of anguish, determination, fury and cursing myself for thinking this race was a good idea. I would periodically look down at my right wrist, where I was wearing a baller band with the word BELIEVE on it. The first glimmer of hope returning was at the Westcott intersection, where I first spotted the tops of the downtown buildings above the treetops. I knew that if I could hold on for just three more miles I would be OK. I had "VINCE" in large letters taped to my shirt, and it paid off as I got some valuable words of encouragement from spectators on this stretch.

With two miles to go, I saw the 5:15 pace group pass me by. I didn't care. Not one bit.

At mile 24-1/2, I finally chugged into the beer station. At this point it took very, very little persuading to get me to stop for suds. The runner next to me spontaneously hoisted our glasses together. "Beer," he said, "makes marathons suck a little less." And who can argue with that logic?

As I crossed under the I-45 overpass, the return to the cool shadows of Houston's downtown skyscrapers re-invigorated me. Escaping the heat of the sun, knowing I was in the final mile and the rest of the way would be totally flat made a total difference in my mindset. I picked up my running cadence one final time, and would never drop it again. I made the last turn and I could hear my voice echo through the concrete canyons as I bellowed, "It's Rusk Street, baby!"

Gun Time: 5:32:20
Chip Time: 5:19:50

Finish line video on YouTube embedded below:



In the video I'm the way-too-excited guy in the white cap and white shirt.



After collecting my finishers medal, souvenir mug, and devouring my breakfast plate at the convention center, I took one more porta-potty break, but not before I opened the door on a guy that apparently had a latch malfunction as well. (These things are never-ending fun, aren't they?) They had run out of finisher shirts in my size, but I did get to meet a man named Cody Westheimer, who was visiting Houston for the first time to run the marathon in honor of his father who was afflicted with cancer. He also happens to be a descendant of the guy after whom they named Westheimer Road. I thought that was interesting.

I stepped back out onto the streets and saw that with a Rockets game preparing to start, the price for a space in the lot I was parked in had jumped to $20. Timing is everything, right? I drove down to my sister's place. I got a soothing shower and got treated to a nice bowl of yummy mandarin oranges. (Thanks sis!)

To prevent myself from stiffening up, I wanted to keep mildly active. So in the mid-afternoon, I proceeded to my regularly scheduled volunteer shift that afternoon at Ronald McDonald House down in the TMC. I came in wearing my finisher's medal and got some congratulations from the resident families and the House manager. After finishing up at "The House That Love Built" I treated myself to a indulgent dinner at Popeye's Fried Chicken and Biscuits, visited with my parents, then finally got some quality time on my Serta mattress.

Now that I've had some time to reflect on those final miles, I realize that what happened to me in 21-through-25 this year is virtually the same ordeal I went through in 10-through-13 at the 2006 Houston Aramco Half. So I consider it all yet another lesson learned during this "running thing."

So here I am, a newly minted member of "Club 26.2." It was a heck of an initiation rite!