July 6, 2007

  At Seventeen
    By Bob Francis, Owner
    soundRUNNER




“I learned the truth at seventeen…”
Janis Ian

“Where is that 22-mile marker,” thought Kimberly to herself at the very moment she believed she spotted the digital timing clock perched atop a tripod a few hundred yards ahead. Like a lost seafarer hoping for a lighthouse beacon, she had grown dependent upon spotting these symbols of hope since mile 17, much in the same way Jay Gatsby yearned for the green light on Daisy’s dock. She contemplated the bizarre workings of the mind, recalling the wretched 22-mile training run five weeks earlier which featured bagels and Gatorade at a house in Sachem’s Head that might as well have been the Buchanans’.

Kimberly didn’t feel as bad with four miles to go in the Mystic Places Marathon as she had on Route 146 between Guilford and Branford that miserably hot day in September. She had felt absolutely great three weeks ago after 22 miles, but she ran a lot slower that day. This was her first marathon. When she started training, the only thought in her mind was whether or not she could finish. That had been her only goal until the people from the running store started talking about pacing, and taking the group to the track every other week to run faster, not to sprint, but to get used to the feeling of pushing oneself. After running a mile in eight minutes, resting a little, then repeating the process five more times, Kimberly began to believe that she could do better than finish. A seed of a thought had blossomed into full-blown desire. Maybe she could average nine minutes per mile and break four hours, as opposed to paying no attention to time.

The line from the Janis Ian song looped through her mind as she passed by the first two tables at the water stop beyond the 22-mile mark, opting instead for the sports drink at the end table, walking as she drank the full cup, then walking for another 20 seconds before breaking back into a run. She had slowed appreciably. “They were right about the Galloway method,” she thought. She had walked a short distance at every water stop. It made her feel much better. She immediately wondered when the clock at mile 23 would loom into view. “I learned the truth at 17…I learned the truth at 17.” Her Dad had liked Janis Ian, so Kimberly had listened to that album as a small girl. Kimberly had been one of those girls whose names were never called when choosing sides for basketball, but here she was less than four miles from the finish line of a marathon. She didn’t care any more whether or not she broke four hours. She wanted to get to the finish line. And each repetition of the line of the song was worth eight strides.

It had been easy enough to run at a nine minute pace for the first 16 miles. Deceptively easy. She did just what they told her: don’t pay attention to the minutes, look at the seconds and keep them at :00. You have the ability. It’s a safe plan. If you feel good, you can finish in 3:56. If you can’t sustain the pace, you will not be in trouble. But she learned the truth at 17, where the clock read :10. And again at 18, where the clock read :25. And at 19, where it read :55. At 20 she stopped reading the numbers, understanding in a way that otherwise could not be appreciated that the marathon really is two races: the first 20 miles and the last 6.

Kimberly had nearly passed the timing clock without realizing it. A plastic sign underneath featured the numerals 2 and 3 in a type face that looked like Helvetica Medium. She mustered the cognitive capacity to tell herself there were only three miles to go, and suddenly she didn’t feel so bad. Certainly, all of her energy was gone, despite the little tubes of energy gel she had eaten every fourth mile through 16. She had two remaining, Vanilla Bean she thought, but she was no longer interested. She had saved the Vanilla Bean because it was her favorite flavor among a set of choices not particularly robust in gastronomical terms. She was passing people now, actually passing them, even though she felt that her forward movement was as arrested as the flow of traffic over the Q-Bridge on a Friday afternoon. One guy was standing on one leg in finest flamingo fashion, apparently trying to untie the knots in his leg muscles. Kimberly couldn’t decide which leg. She didn’t think he would make it.

She couldn’t decide whether to focus on the timing clock or what appeared to be a mountain looming. Kimberly no longer cared. The 24-mile mark went by, then the hill. The first number on the timing clock at mile 25 was a three, but she had no idea what that meant. Kimberly was back in the State Park now, returning along the same path through a yellow wood she had followed at the beginning of the race, another present era. Emerging in the distance from a leafy shroud was the banner marking the finish line. It seemed a long way away. Involuntarily she sobbed a single, powerful sob, flooded by emotion.


Dear All, I wrote this a few years ago, just before Mystic Places, which is a marathon no more, but will be a half this year. I changed the girl’s name to Kimberly, my daughter’s name.

Archive of Bob’s Lane

Issue 1: May 1, 2007: Bob on the Bash
Issue 2: May 10, 2007: Bob on Dave Parcells
Issue 3: May 24, 2007: Bob on the Branford Road Race
Issue 4: June 1, 2007: Bob on Being Green
Issue 5: June 15, 2007: Bob from the Left Coast
Issue 6: June 23, 2007: When Pain is Leisure