Congrats on your finish!

I know exactly how it feels to run a marathon. I have run 51, but finally quit running races a couple years ago, preferring to do everything on my own time. I’m 72, still run several times a week, and hike the rest of the time.

My daughter and I did our first marathonlet of a bike ride when she was 7, that’s the first time she did a “century” (100 mile) bike ride -- on her little Mountain Cub bike with 16” wheels halfway to San Francisco and back in the Santa Cruz mountains. She was still riding that bike when she did her first real bike-style marathon a couple of years later, when she was 9 and rode from where we live in Santa Cruz, CA, to LA. That’s 450 miles in four days, better than a century ride per day for four days in a row, and with a lot of climbing all along the way. Here 20 years later she still rides.

I have been studying my ancestors for 12 years. Having produced a couple books, am now working on what I am turning to all a marathon project (thanks to your reminding me of this word), Letters to My Ancestors. Each is/will be directed at a 17th c. ancestor or a descendant of a 17th c. ancestor. It is slowly getting underway -- and while I know a great deal peripherally about these folks, there is much more detail to flesh out the letters. I am placing them on the internet for a couple reasons -- it is pleasing for me to see them as I develop them and share with friends and relatives rather than have them in my desk drawer or on the computer. Also since I am 76 and many of my ancestors lived well into their 90s, I also know a car could strike me in NYC.

My annual marathon is hand cutting about 70 endangered species-themed holiday cards to send out in time. With a good start, this year’s project is about halfway completed.

I am Board President of, and a performer for, Fairfield Center Stage, a non-profit community theater company. Each Jun we put on a Playathon, where over the course of 26 hours from a Fri night to a Sat night, a group of playwrights, directors, and actors are assembled to write, rehearse, and perform six or seven 10-minute one-act plays and musicals with two to four cast members each. As co-producer and co-host, my role, in which I take evil pleasure, is to come up with four prompts which the writers must all include in their pieces to give the evening cohesion: an overall theme, a common line, a common prop, and a common physical action. We didn’t invent the idea: it’s done by small theater groups around the country, having been started by a New York City group called The 24 Hour Plays which uses Broadway professionals (including my singer-actor daughter Julie Benko this year for the first time). We did, however, extend it to 26 hours in honor of the 26 miles of the Marathon and dub our production the Playathon.

Unique Fundraising Marathon

In the late 1990s, when I was the ED of the King Street Center in Burlington, Vermont, we needed to be creative with our fundraising. We created two events:

1. “The Longest Mile” was a rigorous run uphill from tne waterfront in Burlington to the University of Vermont campus green. Strollers, walkers, dogs, and runners were all welcome. The sprinters always prevailed as winners but all participants had a wonderful time.

2. Then, we created “Rock Around the Clock” which was a contest to see how long you could move continuously in a rocking chair. The winner went for over 20 hours! The publicity and creativity made for a successful event. Companies “donated” the chairs.

There is something almost mystical about how you feel when you cross the finish line. If I may be so bold as to give you advice, write more about your experience. It’s more than a simple race, and it’s more than just putting one foot in front of the other. It’s a mind game. And you won.

After a few years of running for only exercise, I ran my first race ever, which was the District of Columbia Marathon... just eight days before my 40th birthday. Unwisely, I ran another one on my birthday. Not just any marathon -- BOSTON! And I wrote about it. FYI, this was in 1984.

For your amusement, here’s the article:

THE MID-LIFE CRISIS MARATHON
By
Stephen H. Lipson, Washington, DC

The hit musical NINE pokes fun at Guido Contini’s mid-life crisis. Guido is a film director who is struggling with the script of his own life. He’s been ad libbing since he was a little boy and has been behaving like a little boy. Now he’s having an internal struggle with what should be in his script for the years ahead. In “Guido’s Song” he exclaims:

My body’s nearing forty,
While my mind is nearing ... ten.

Can you identify with Guido? Me too.

As I neared forty, I responded by running away from the truth of my age. Running, of course, was easy for me, since I started running for exercise about “nine” years ago. Three years or so later, running actually became fun. Somewhere, though, I may have ODed.

While my mind was nearing ten, my body had been nearing forty, and I found that running could make me believe that I am still young. To perpetuate the myth, I decided that it was time to run a marathon, even though I had never ever entered any running race before. The one to pick? The grand daddy of them all: The Boston Marathon! And poetically, the 1984 race was actually on my 40th birthday.

But who’s kidding who? I couldn’t just enter Boston. Runners have to qualify, and for a forty-year-old it would have meant having completed a certified marathon in 3 hours and 10 minutes. Twenty-six miles, 385 yards in 190 minutes. Me? Forget it! I’m stuck on LSD -- long slow distance.

Then another opportunity jumped off the page as I was reviewing the Mid-Atlantic schedule in my issue of Runner’s World: The Fourth Annual District of Columbia Marathon on April 8th. If I ran a marathon -- in the Nation’s Capital, the city where I work -- just a week before I turned forty, maybe that would help me believe that forty is still a small number.

So in January I started to train, and train, and train, and train. Other marathoner friends cautioned me of all of the risks, all of the things to do and not to do, built me up, tore me down. And everyone warned me that “the last six miles will be the longest, toughest six miles you’ll ever run.”

The weeks of training evaporated to days as the miles passed beneath my feet. I sought added pressure to do well in the race by telling most everyone I knew about my latest challenge -- my latest folly. The pressure mounted as April 8th neared. I had to succeed.

April 8, Race Day: Sunny, clear, and crisp, temperature at race time in the low 40s with gusty winds. Along with about 1500 other fanatics, I was on the Mall preparing to hoof it through all eight political wards of the City. And I was ready. I really felt well rested and energized. I knew that I would succeed. The Mayor was there to encourage us to “run through” Washington while he would “run the City.” Then pro football legend Jim Brown squeezed the trigger on the starter’s pistol and we were off.

Paying attention to all of the warnings from friends, I was pacing myself just a tad slower than normal. The first three to four miles of a run are always a struggle for me, and this was no exception, but I finally began to loosen up and was feeling pretty good.

Around the fourth or fifth mile I found out what it means to participate in a hometown event. I heard a familiar voice shout, “Go get ‘em Steve,” and looked back to find a cheering section of some friends who hadn’t known that I would be there but just came out to see the race. What a great surprise and a great kick. Other friends were also strewn along the course to cheer for me, and each one provided a shot of adrenaline.

At halfway I felt great, like this was just another training run. As I passed 18, however, I realized that, “I’ve never gone this far before!” Other runners were stopping and dropping out, and I thought about how hard they must have trained and worked to get there, and I encouraged some to continue with, “You’ve gone too far to stop now.” Not much later that became, “I’ve gone too far to stop now.”

At 20 miles, the repeated pounding was taking its toll on my feet, legs, and hips, but I thought about my father’s knee surgery the week before and the pain he endured, and I pushed on. Twenty really wasn’t as bad as they had all warned.

Twenty-one was in Anacostia Park, on a flat road in a beautiful setting along the Anacostia River with a fabulous view of the City. But that’s where the pounding caught up with me. I stopped and walked a few steps and started up running again. Walked a few more steps and started up again. Walked a few more steps and started up again. Five brief stops to walk over about three miles or so.

Can I make it? “I’ve come too far to stop now!” On Pennsylvania Avenue a couple of blocks before turning onto Independence Avenue, a friend surprised me by jumping out from the sparse crowd of spectators. He handed me a Ziploc bag as I hustled past. Orange pieces! What a welcomed treat! Concentrating now on eating while running in cruise control, I polished off the oranges and got enough new life to get me to the downhill on Independence Avenue.

As I passed the Capitol Building, some of my co-workers were there waiting, and one’s thirteen-year-old son came out and ran alongside of me for the last mile. That was the biggest charge of all, and he helped me pull up an energy reserve that I didn’t know I had. And as I entered the last block of the race, I sprinted to the finish line -- passing a Marine half my age as if he were standing still. 4:02:47.

It was over. I had a goal, and I made it. It wasn’t even as tough as I’d imagined it would be or I had been led to believe. I still felt pretty good. But enough is enough. Now it’s time to get on with other priorities, and accept the truth that forty isn’t so bad, especially for someone strong enough to run a marathon.

But this had only whetted my appetite for more. One more fantasy remained: BOSTON. Thousands of people run in Boston who don’t qualify but simply follow the pack for the thrill and fun of being there. Now, I had to do that too.

With a stroke of good fortune, I got an invitation to stay in Boston with another runner and his family. On Sunday, April 15th, I traveled to Massachusetts, almost ready to run a second marathon in only eight days. My host saw my insane enthusiasm and helped me discover the fulfillment of a related dream. He knew that I was eligible for membership in the American Medical Joggers Association and that through AMJA I could get registered and obtain an official number for the race. I joined, registered, and got my number, official B.A.A. T-shirt and more excited.

Monday morning, April 16, 1984, and I’m now forty. The morning greeted all of the runners with rain, mid-forty temperatures, and easterly winds. Worst of all, I didn’t feel good. I didn’t feel bad, just not good. Not energized. Blah. If I’d been at home I might have settled down with the newspaper instead of even a short run. But I didn’t come to Boston to read the paper; I came to run, to fulfill a surrealist lust.

At 9:15 AM, I arrived in Hopkington, but the gym and hallways at the school were already jammed. Nowhere to sit. Nowhere to stand. Nowhere to breathe. Outside it was still raining, windy, and cold. Some of us commandeered a school bus and took refuge there. We waited, and tried to relax. At 11:30, we headed for the starting line, and watched with glee as the rains vanished. This just might be a great day for a race.

The AMJA starting area must have been hiding, and since I couldn’t find it, I just ducked under the rope and into the middle of the pack. At noon sharp, we were off. Here I was, on Fantasy Island.

But oh how I wished that I could have felt better, more like I had a week earlier or for that matter four days earlier. Wishing, however, wouldn’t help today. So I ran. After about five miles, I began to loosen up and feel better, but hungry. What about the orange pieces that hundreds of spectators bring to the race? Can oranges appease my hunger? No. For those of us who run slowly, what we get most is just a chance to run over orange rinds.

Around eight miles I felt that I was beginning to deteriorate. This just wasn’t my day, and I had no business trying to run a marathon. And it was raining again, still cold, and the headwinds just made things worse. But I didn’t come to Boston to quit, I came to run. And so I did.

Somewhere between 12 and 13, I felt awful, and began to contemplate dropping out. Should I? I knew I should. “If I really feel this bad, is it a disgrace?” At a water station at 14 I stopped running for the first time and walked about 30 yards while I sipped. I wanted to stop. “Where is the best place to drop out?” I ran a bit further. From 14 to 16 I looked for a familiar face anywhere in the crowd, someone to help me if I stopped. But I’m from Washington, not Boston. The faces were friendly but not familiar. I pushed onward.

At 16 miles I was captured by a gang of guerrilla terrorists armed with clubs and baseball bats who began beating me over all parts of my body. I ached from the top of my soggy head to the tips of every waterlogged toe. I could feel that my body temperature was dropping, and I had never felt so bad in all my life. “This is a helluva way to celebrate your fortieth birthday!”

From somewhere came the thought, which I repeated often in the next two and a half hours: “I’ve trained for this. I’ve worked hard for this. I’ve earned the right to be here. I’ve earned the right to be miserable, and dammit, I’m gonna be miserable if it kills me! I kept pressing. Running, walking a few steps, running some more, walking again, running, walking, running.

I had never felt so lonely. Thousands of unbelievably supportive people around me, spectators and runners alike, but this was my race. They couldn’t help me. In retrospect, I know that they did help me. I don’t believe that I would have gone past 12 or 13 if they hadn’t been there. The other runners, like me, were all crazy to be out there in the rain and cold winds, but the spectators don’t have insanity as an excuse. They had to be there out of a spirit of support, of community -- because they knew that we needed them, especially those of us who run slowly and are at or near the back of the pack. If I could, I would take the time and effort to thank every last one of them personally. They are all so special.

What motivated me to keep running? A goal, determination, fear of disgrace, stubbornness, the three people waiting for me at the finish line, the spectators, the other runners? I remembered a few days earlier amateurishly boasting to a co-worker who cautioned me not to run Boston so soon after the D.C. Marathon that, “I’ll die before I’ll quit.” I wanted to finish. Again, “I earned the right to be miserable, and I’m gonna be miserable if it kills me!”

Just as I stepped over the 20-mile line, I was passed by 76-year-old Johnny “The Elder” Kelley. Inspiration! I told myself, “Sure, he’s almost twice my age, but he didn’t run a marathon last week. I’m gonna finish this race. I know I can and will ... even if it takes me until August.”

After about 22 or 23, I began talking with two or three other runners as we ran along together for a few hundred yards. Just after 24, someone joined me and said he’d help me not stop over the final two miles. I know that he helped me push forward until I couldn’t run another step and just had to stop. He then made me run another quarter mile until I convinced him to go on without me. He helped more than he’ll ever know. I walked a few more steps and a spectator yelled, “You start running again or I’ll tell your mother!” Who could live with that kind of guilt? I ran again.

Back on Commonwealth Avenue. Almost there. When I approached the intersection of Massachusetts Avenue, I closed my eyes for a few seconds and pleaded with myself, “Please don’t let me stop again,” and I started to run as hard as I could. One block to Hereford Street, a right turn, up the slight hill passing lots of other struggling runners, left on Ring Road, sprinting now. Finally ... under the clock. 4:42:22.

Numb. I wandered aimlessly around the finish line and the Pru Center parking garage for several minutes. I felt no better, just relieved, maybe satisfied, really upset that my time was so much worse than the previous week. Later that night it began to sink in, “Forget the slow time. Two marathons in two weeks. The Boston Marathon on my fortieth birthday. What a great memory I’ve created. An unparalleled thrill.”

Home again at last. Recovering, getting back to work and other responsibilities. Ready to put running in its proper perspective for me as the personal recreation and fitness activity that it has been for the past several years. Ha! Easier said than done. The thrill is infectious, and I know now that I cannot stop. Many other mountains and PRs remain.

Not a crisis, a wonderful mid-life beginning!

I started running 33 yrs, 8 months, 12 days ago. I keep track of my running: day, mileage, place, time.

I never knew ANY of my grandparents, all Polish immigrants. They had all died before I was about a year old.

Back then I came to the conclusion that I didn’t have good genes and wanted to give myself a better chance at a longer life. Back then I gave myself a gift of a clock with the inscription, “I’d rather be running...” without the closing, “than dead.” I am now older than all of the grandparents, but I do have some health issues. Hmmm, who doesn’t.

Since then I’ve run over 61,000 miles, almost 2-1/2 x’s the circumference of the Earth. I’ve run more times than all those days because of multiple jogs on one day. I have missed a number of days due to injuries and accidents. Now my current streak is about 18 months.

Marathons = 2 NYC, ‘92 & ‘93, where I ran as a guide with the Achilles Track Club, accompanying a disabled athlete each time. ‘92 = Keith from Jamaica who was nearly blind. He suffered a seizure coming up 1st Ave, and I eventually finished alone. ‘93 = Henry from Jersey City in a wheelchair, a regular one. We did finish together, with a “backstory” there. Both marathon experiences were wonderful and each finished under 5 hours. I am now retired from teaching high school physics for 47 years and I’ll be going out for my SLOW, EASY, daily run of 4-5 miles in a few minutes.

Mine has been lifelong; after an exuberant, love-filled childhood, in my college years I began to have minor times of being down. In 1966, the genetic bomb exploded and I suffered through six months of emotional horror, anxiety, and general misery. This was followed by about three months of utter joy and insight into the workings of the cosmos. I was certain that this state would continue for the rest of my life. But no: it was followed by another six months of agony, caused, I believed, by the traffic death of my beloved cat.

And so it went for years. I three times planned my suicide to escape the agony, only to be spared by ingesting a Valium, which gave me enough relief to fight on. I knew, from memories of my childhood, that joy was possible, even it not for me. Finally, after years of fruitless psychotherapy, I was sent to Langley Porter Neuropsychiatric Center in San Francisco and the care of Dr. Enoch Callaway. Together we experimented with the common antidepressants, to no avail, until finally he prescribed Parnate, a little-used and potentially dangerous drug. After six weeks of using Partite and watching my diet, my depression cleared up like fog in sunshine, and I was able to rejoin the ranks of the living. My emotions became responsive to circumstance: I felt joy when good things happened and appropriate sadness when my mom died. I was free, finally, of the agony that had haunted me for so many years. At eighty, still using Parnate, I remain symptom free. It had been so tempting to commit suicide, as so many bipolar do, but I kept slogging one foot in front of the other and finally won my personal marathon.

When I was a half-year from turning 30, I pondered the mythic qualities of that fabled turning point and decided to do something about myself. I was overweight and under-active and wanted to discern if there was someone else inside my body whom I could conjure and, well, become. I started skipping rope because I could do that just outside my apartment, which I needed to do to be near my little daughter. Eventually, I worked up to 30 minutes a day and never missed. One gorgeous winter day, after she was old enough to take to a nursery school, I was skipping rope and just couldn’t stop myself -- I had to run. I’d never run in my life, but I ran and ran and when I got home, I drove my route and realized it was 3 miles. I abandoned the rope and took to the road, adding minutes and miles at a time. One day, when I had lots of time, I ran and ran and ran and when I traced that route, I’d run 13 miles. (There was a LOT going on in my life, away from or maybe toward which I was compelled to run.) I’d seen a movie with Joanne Woodward called See How She Runs, about a divorced mother of two who’d started running. Someone told her that if she could run 13 miles, she had what it takes to run a marathon -- and she did. That was my impetus for running one myself, and I did. It was the last Baltimore Marathon, so rugged - Satyr Hill, at the farthest point from the Inner Harbor, was one mile up, and we ran it twice - that the organizers took it off the schedule because serious runners were losing so much time on it. I kept running, but never ran another marathon because ... why?

A poem about my marathons:

Then and Now

Then, it began as a way out
Of creeping, gnawing self-doubt.
Memories of youth well behind me
Fears of old age still not near.
The hopes, dreams, ambitions held dear.
Few realized, most never coming true.
I wanted to strike a blow
Against all of these, and then some more.

Then, I thought of the Marathon.
Marathon -- the myth.
Marathon -- the hallmark of endurance, commitment and achievement.
Do it once, and forever will people say
“There goes a Marathon Man”.

Yes, that’s it! The Marine Corps Marathon!
The Few... The Proud... The Marines!
Semper Fidelis.
The Monuments, the Mall, the Crowds
The bands, the medal...
Yes, that for sure will cure what ails me.

Then came the training.
Endless runs.
Some smooth, some rough.
Aches and pains, bruised nails, sprained joints,
Cold packs and hot packs, Bengay and Advil.
Through it all, I kept pushing, saying
Wanna be, gotta be “A Marathon Man”.

The day of the race
Cold, drizzly and gray.
Ten thousand faces,
But not one that I could say
“Hi there. How are you?”
Mile after solitary mile,
Running in a crowd, by myself,
Bands playing, people cheering,
Pounding the pavement.
Drizzle, turning to sprinkle, turning to a steady beat,
Wet shoes splashing through puddles.
Muscles cramping, joints banging,
Through it all saying to myself...
Wanna be, gotta be “A Marathon Man”.

Then came the end,
A soggy, muddy, achy finish.
Grim determination etched on the face,
Crossing the finish line, more a relief than triumph.
Strange faces surrounding me,
A chilly rain soaking through the bones.
I did it! I did it!
I finally am “a marathon man”.
******************

Now, it began as a dream,
Almost a whim.
When my son said,
“Let us do a marathon -- father and son.
It will be such a marvelous run.”
My nephew joined soon after
Making it a threesome.

Now the training was leisurely,
I knew it could be done.
Nothing left to prove,
Doing it only for fun.
Fittingly enough, the race was
“Marathon in the Parks.”

Days went by, and then a year.
Life took its own turns
For the three runners,
The father, the son, the nephew.
Then the day of the race sneaked up on us
When we had to lace up our shoes
And do the run that we promised.

A bright sunny day in the fall,
Leaves still out in their vibrant color.
A thousand runners in all,
Of all shapes, form and vigor
Gathered at the starting line.

Mile after mile, a nice easy pace
We ran together in this race.
An occasional walker
Encouraged us on
“Only 20 more miles to go!”
With a smile and a wink, and then he was gone.
We chatted and we shared
Our aches and pain.
As one slowed, everybody cared.
The father worried, “I hope my babies are OK.”
Became the standard refrain.

The miles started piling
And so did the pain.
The son’s face started showing the strain.
The nephew, ever so gentle,
Urged him on, mile after mile
With his good humor and smile.

The father worried, “These are the feet
I played tickle with
Are now covered with blisters.
Should I make him quit?”

The son kept going,
Putting one foot in front of the other
Through hurt and pain, without slowing
The nephew promised, “By golly, we will finish together.”

Slowly but surely,
The hours went by
And so did the miles.
Now only twelve miles left,
Then only ten.
After a while it became a matter of
Not IF, but WHEN!

Now only one mile to clear,
The crowds’ cheers told us we were near.
All three with linked arm,
Started running in good form.
Our names came on the speaker
And we started to shout and holler.

We crossed the finish line, oh what a rush!
Hugs and kisses
Tears running down our faces.
Kept saying again and again,
“We did it, we did it!”

Now the shadows are gone
I know I can!
I finally am,
“A father, an uncle, a marathon man!”