The Longest Half Marathon (Sept 2019)

 

The Longest Half Marathon

By Kerry Soper

(Published by Utah Life, Sept 2019)

This is the sad tale of how I signed up for – and didn’t run – the St. George Marathon. About 10 years ago, all my buddies were talking about their cool running accomplishments: doing a 10K for charity, anchoring a difficult leg of the Ragnar, getting a personal best in the Hobble Creek Half. Having nothing to add other than a joke about achieving a personal best in burrito consumption – I decided to jog onto the bandwagon.

Setting my sights high, I signed up for the St. George Marathon. Then came weeks of boring jogs, “fun runs” that taught me the meaning of the word “oxymoron,” and perpetually sore knees. One of my overachieving, athletic friends, seeing that I was struggling, suggested I run a half marathon in Provo Canyon, which he was confident I could handle, it being almost completely downhill. If I could complete the race in under two hours, he assured me, I would have no problem with that longer race in St. George. 

 I began obsessively overpreparing. This included upgrading my shoes and running shorts (which needed to be shorter and flimsier, I guess, even though that’s an awkward look for a chubby middle-aged guy); buying a little belt with holsters for hydrating flasks; and learning about the beauties of carb loading. 

It was my enthusiasm for the latter that sent me on a trajectory toward misfortune. To settle my nerves in the days before the race, I ate a ton of bread and other dense treats as part of my brilliant carb-loading strategy. The night before the race, I even insisted on making an oversized pot of spaghetti for dinner. 

When my wife expressed skepticism about the wisdom of the volume I was consuming, I got defensive, explaining that I was “super-carb-loading.” At least my kids believed in me; they gazed in awe as I worked my way through three heaping plates of pasta. 

 Full of anxiety, and with my digestive system in full rebellion, I slept fitfully that night, waking up repeatedly from nightmares about my shorts getting increasingly smaller as I neared the finish line and my hydrating flasks being filled with stupid marinara sauce. Fatigued and foggy-brained the next morning, I struggled into my new gear at 4 a.m. and rushed to catch the shuttle at the River Bottoms shopping center. Packed in tightly with other oversized joggers, I had the dark realization that I should have super-carbo-unloaded before I left home. 

 TENSE MOMENTS FOLLOWED as the bus wound slowly up the canyon, past Vivian Park and up the windy road past South Fork. When we finally arrived at the Big Springs parking lot, I danced on my toes in the aisle of the bus as people seemed to disembark in slow motion. 

 Once free, I set a personal best in the 100 yard dash as I sprinted to the blue outhouses. To my dismay, there were just five potties on-site, each with lines about 20 runners deep. With tightly clenched glutes, I held my breath as my line inched forward. 

 With five people still ahead of me, a voice came over the PA system announcing that the race was about to begin. This triggered a general panic, and everyone began jogging en masse, like cattle, toward the starting line. I can’t explain what I did next (given the acute distress I was in)… Obeying some kind of deeply ingrained competitive impulse, I turned and followed them. 

 At the starting line, I came to my senses and tried to turn back, quietly whimpering for the crowd to let me through, but it was too late. And then suddenly the race was on. I had no choice but to lurch down the road, gravity and my fellow runners propelling me along. 

 My goal of completing the race in under two hours immediately evaporated. I just wanted to find a restroom. This resulted in a slow, mincing jog for a full mile, until one of those blue beacons came into view. I won’t share the details of what happened next. Let’s just say that it took a while and people nearby may have heard some muffled cursing and crying. 

 RETURNING TO THE RACE, I was drained mentally and physically. I tried to run, but my body wouldn’t respond. The best I could do was a zombie-like shuffle that was probably slower than walking. Watching numbly as hordes of casual runners passed me on both sides and the miles ticked by, I lapsed into a catatonic state. 

 Things did perk up briefly near the bottom the canyon when I thought I was enjoying a small moment of redemption. I spotted another runner in the distance who also seemed to be struggling and so I set the modest goal of at least passing this one person before the end of the race. 

With just a quarter mile to go, I did it—I caught up and passed my rival! 

My elation was short-lived, however. 

I realized in shock as I passed that it was actually a pregnant woman who wasn’t even running in the race – she was just out for a brisk walk, pushing an oversized stroller. 

 My wife and kids looked worried when I finally staggered across the finish line, a full four hours after starting the race. I tried to lighten the mood by joking in a cracked voice that even though I ran a poor race, I did manage to get first place among non-competing, power-walking pregnant women in their third trimester. I didn’t get any laughs though since they had no idea what I was talking about. 

 Later, as they led me to the car like a fragile mental patient, no one seemed surprised or put up a protest when I quietly mumbled that I probably wouldn’t be running in that marathon in St. George after all … and that I’d been toying with the idea of going on one of those cool, low-carb diets.