Chicago Marathon: The Unrated Version

When I went to Chicago to run (and, mostly, walk) in the Chicago Marathon, I was confident I could finish the first and last miles. The 24.2 miles in between worried me, though.

I spent the weeks leading up to the marathon worrying about whether I would finish and how long it would take. I never went more than 17 miles during a pre-race run. I was so worried that I was sick to my stomach during the drive up to Chicago.

Fortunately, I was with Marathon Makeover and MM is, among other things, a support group for reluctant runners like myself. My roomies, Robert, Ben and Sexy Rexy, kept things positive. Even if one did point out that “You don’t look like the classic marathoner.” But he meant that in the best way.

On race day, I found myself in a sea of humanity at Grant Park. I started way, way, WAY in the back of the field of 33,000-plus. It took more than 20 minutes just to get to the starting line. Along the way, you had to step over piles of discarded clothing. No extra layers were needed as it turned out to be the hottest Oct. 12 in Chicago in 40 years with temperatures of 80-plus.

I never knew how many people read this blog until I got to Chicago. Everywhere I went, people were calling out my name and cheering me on. Oh wait, my name was on the front of my race jersey. I can dream, can’t I?

My worries were over once the race started. I didn’t worry about when I would finish. I did my run/walk intervals for as long as I could (14 or 15 miles) and then I just kept walking. I quit looking at my watch after 20 miles. My only goal was to keep moving.

I got to see a lot of Chicago that day. I passed through the Mexican, Chinese, Greek and Polish sections of the city, among others. I also passed through Boys Town, which was a very festive area. The sights included cheerleaders and an all-men’s rifle team. Those guys could dance.

At Mile 18, a man who was very happy and a little drunk (or vice versa) came up to me in the street and shook my hand. “You’re doing great, you’ve made it 18 miles,” he said. “You’re my hero, Charles!”

The hero worshipper pointed to the sidewalk where another man was handing out drinks in front of a bar.

“Go over there and get a free shot,” he urged me. “That will take your pain away.”

Shockingly, I declined and kept going.

During Mile 20, my lower back started hurting. This was a first after nine months of training. I periodically stopped to bend over and try to relieve the pain. I seriously considered dropping out of the race. But how? The aid workers had left. I stopped by a Chicago Transit Authority ambulance, hoping the two CTA workers standing next to the ambulance would take pity on me. They ignored me. I kept going.

Finally, I came to a corner in Chinatown where a police officer and a sanitation department supervisor were watching a fleet of street sweepers in action. I slumped against a barricade. They asked if I was all right. I said no. The cop unfolded a chair and I gratefully sat down.

The officer asked me several time if I wanted him to call an ambulance.

“No,” I said, “just let me sit here for a minute.”

After a few minutes I got up, telling the two men I was fine. They didn’t look convinced. The cop told me that I was at Mile 21. There was no way I was going to stop now.

People were giving me funny looks as I staggered down the sidewalk in Chinatown. It was if they had never seen a salt-covered, sweat-drenched madman with a thousand-yard stare before.

Finally, finally, FINALLY, I reached Mile 25. The last mile seemed to take forever as I kept stopping to bend over. In the photos of me approaching the finish line, I look like a drunken sailor, tilted to one side and staggering onward. I didn’t even bother to try to run the last few yards. I crossed the finish line. They gave me a medal. Then they took me to the medical tent.

I knew I was dehydrated. Plus my back hurt. Heck, my entire body hurt.

“Do you feel disoriented?” a doctor asked me.

“No more than usual,” I said.

Gatorade, water, an air blower and a bag of ice on my back set me right. I celebrated reaching the finish of my marathon journey by taking a cab back to the hotel.

Many of the people I know can’t believe I finished a marathon. “Nobody in our family believed you could do it,” one of my daughters told me after the race. Thanks and I’ll remember that at Christmas.

But I can’t blame people for doubting me. I had doubts myself.

“What’s next?” some have asked.

That’s a silly question. I’m getting ready for the next race.