Part 1: The Plot

Ok, I've burdend some people with my paranoid
rantings, to make sense of my race report for the
Lakefront Marathon, you need some background:

So, I was sitting at my desk, at work,
waiting for the inspiration to come to tackle a tricky
little piece of design work, staring blankly at my
monitor, and having alternating lewd thoughts about
some of my co-workers, and bouts of self-pity - in
other words, business as usual.

Then my phone rang, grateful for the distraction, I
snatched it up and snapped my usual salutation - 'This
is Jim' ....  

The voice on the other end was smooth and seductive, I
didn't register the owner immediately, and was
somewhat thrown off when he said "so .... how fat are
you?"

I quickly sensed danger. Now, it seems that every long
race I do lowers my IQ by about 10 points, 10 points I
don't have to spare, a clear case of DJS ( Dumb Jock
Syndrome ); but, like a blind man compensated with
super-sensitive hearing - I've developed an animal
instinct for self-preservation and awareness of
threats to my personal safety.

My skin tingled and my heart rate rose, I suspect my
nostrils flared slightly, and I gripped the phone
tighter as I realized who it was ... Zak. 

Zak is a thoroughly dangerous man. I hold him
completely responsible for my immersion in this whole
crazy world of marathons, ultras, and Ironman events.
He pulled me in as sure as Mephistopheles. He is
insane, that much is clear. His race resume includes
some 108 races to date of a marathon distance or
longer, including the most bizarre and perverted
events such as the recent Leadville Marathon, 24 hour
runs, and, of course, Ironman Wisconsin.

I've had calls like this before, and they always turn
out badly. Like last year, after Ironman and two
marathons, he proposed " a little race in Indiana, in
December". Oh, that was something ... next thing I
knew I was huddled in a tent in a deserted state park
in the wild plains of Indiana, with a belly full of
beer and Mexican food, listening to the coyotes as
they caught our scent and howled in anticipation of
the kill, while Zak lay in an adjacent tent, laughing
like a maniac, on his cell phone to his wife,
all the while knowing that we were going to have to
get up hours before dawn to run 31 miles over
ice-covered trails. Clearly, the gates of the asylum
had been breached.

So you can understand my trepidation; "so ... how fat
are you?" - I lamely blurted out 'hugely fat ...
terrible', as I struggled to get my footing, and
figure out what this was all about.

He continued, " Ever since Ironman, I can't do
anything, I wanted to run 6 today at lunch, I bagged
it after 4".

I still didn't know what was going on, I was starting
to panic .. ' I feel pretty good ' was all I can
manage, god almighty, what was going to happen next?

He knew he had me on the ropes now, and pressed his
advantage, his voice became smoother, lower,
mesmerizing, as he moved into position to strike. " So
... are we going to see you on Sunday? I'll be there
with Dean - but you know he's injured. He has a knee
problem to the point of not running, it happened while
he was a spectator at Ironman, twisted it while he was
cheering "

Ho Ho! THAT was it, of course, the marathon! This is
the setup for that little drama. Now that I knew the
game, I at least had a chance. You should know that
Dean is the other part of the equation. Dean is an
apprentice lunatic, just 30, he was still young, but
had long ago sold his soul to Zak, and done numerous
ultras. Dean and I have raced several times, and I've
always kicked his @ss. This has really put the zap on
him, and he wants me so bad, I'm surprised he hasn't
hired Tanya Harding to break my kneecaps.

So the plot was clear to me. This little tale of Dean
hurting his knee cheering at Ironman was pure BS of
course. Maybe he sprained his neck whipping his head
around to oogle some youngster in bun-hugggers, but
his knee? Oh Please!  Zak was clearly setting me up
for a kill by Dean. That's the way it works. Zak will
weave the web, apply the poison, and once I'm helpless
and softened up, Dean moves in and finishes me off.

I had paused in our conversation while I unraveled the
scheme. Zak sensed this of course, and tried a
different tack to confuse me - "So ... have you been
doing anything?" he crooned.

By pure instinct I attacked. "Yeh, I did Al's run, ran
30:34, felt good".

Ah-HA! I perceived a momentary falter, clearly I had
struck an unexpected blow.

His voice was a tad higher now, a slight tightness in
the throat, perhaps? "Really ... I looked at the
results- but I guess I didn't look hard enough, I
missed that ... that must have been good for the top
100?"

' 83rd', I snapped, gloating and getting cocky. I saw
it now;  Dean and Zak, huddled, scheming in front of a
results page, drunk with the anticipation of my
destruction, but missing the vital clue. My back was
no longer in the corner on this one, I had a chance.

But Zaks a tricky b@stard; I wasn't going to turn the
tables - yet. He got right back into his plan of
planting the seed - "I think what you should do is
just go out really hard, just try to set a
half-marathon PR, and then hang on from there .."

I blocked and fended off the blow - ' you know I
always do everything you say, coach ', not this time
buddy!

And yet, I started thinking, picturing the clock at
the half way mark, I can see it, clear and in
Technicolor 1:25:00 or better 1:23:00, and me
sprinting past ... I had to shake myself back to
attention. Judas Priest, the spell almost had me, that
evil, evil man.

So there it is. I'll be running on Sunday with Dean
slabbering on my heels like rabid wolf, and Zak
chuckling from behind, waiting to offer soothing
condolences as I sit on the gutter, broken, bleeding,
and their b!tch for life. The stakes are high, this is
life on the edge.

Part 2: The Race

As you recall, I was left shaken and disturbed by the
sinister phone call by Zak, revealing the conspiracy
against me by him and Dean.

But I'm a survivor. Certainly, that's why they do it to me.
A common trait amongst predators; witness the cat and
the mouse, prolonging the kill adds a thrill to the
salacious mission.

Saturday I prepared myself for the contest.
Meditation. Visualization. A short session on the
treadmill and elliptical trainer followed immediately
by the consumption of a box of Eggo frozen waffles
saturated with 12 ounces of Pure Honey. Carbo loading.

The ingestion of nearly 1,000 g of carbs largely in
the form of simple sugars in less than 10 minutes has a
profound effect on ones physiology. Waves of heat
washed over me, my brain pushed against my skull,
beads of sweat broke out on my forehead.  My mind
screamed at high RPM's, out of control; I computed
splits and outcomes at an outrageous pace - where
would Dean be? Where would Zak be? Where would I be?

I began to wonder if I was paranoid; but I realized
immediately that if Zak perceived this weakness, I was
doomed. I struggled to push the thought from my mind,
but maybe he already knew ...

I was able to regain control by driving at top speed
all over town, looking for double-caffeine PowerGels,
the XM Heavy-Metal station playing full blast. Music
soothes ...

I awoke Sunday morning before the alarm. Snapping to
conciseness in a milli-second. A strong cup of coffee,
PowerBar, four waffles, and a glass of milk. I
showered, shaved my head, applied deodorant. My
motions calibrated, exact, mechanical. A brief falter
when I had trouble locating my lucky socks in the
dark.

Now the Lakefront Marathon is a point-to-point race.
The finish is in a park that thrusts out into the bay
in the center of the stretch of Lake Michigan
shoreline that Milwaukee claims. No San Francisco, but
not bad either.

I cruised into the city in the dark, the sky was clear
and starry. The air was unusually warm for this time
of year, 61 degrees - still. I had the window open,
the smells of the city and the lake heavy in the damp
air.

An ordinary citizen, stumbling upon the early-morning
scene of a race start, would suspect some dire
disaster - an attack at least, perhaps an invasion.
Legions of official-looking people with flashlights
issuing commands; buses, ambulances, great stores of
bottled water and porta-johns. Harsh shadows from
generator-fired lights. At least we know FEMA wasn't
involved.

I parked, and boarded the darkened school bus, took a
seat next to a dozing Asian youth. The bus ride is
sobering. Every lurching turn of the bus is pavement
that needs to be covered on foot, the full measure of
the distance is revealed.

At last we arrive at the start, a high-school in a
small community north of Milwaukee. I'm early, there
are few runners here. I wander the halls for a few
minutes, then take refuge in the darkened gymnasium. I
lay down near the bleaches, in a pool of light cast by
a lone fixture high in the ceiling above. I close my
eyes, feel the coolness of the floor, listening to the
air moving in the cavern of the gym. I rest.

After a time, I hear a rustling, feel the vibration of
footsteps on the floor. Then I'm touched, a quick poke
on the shoulder, another, then a sinister chuckle. I
snap my eyes open - Zak, himself, with a small
entourage; he is never alone, always his disciples
follow. " Are you all right? ", yes, yes I am.

Dean arrives. The tension builds. Stretching. Banter.
Sidelong looks at legs and calves. Jokes.

Soon it's time to start. I emerge into the daylight.
It is a stellar day. Blue sky, sunny, light breeze,
about 65 degrees. I lose Zak, Dean, and the accolades
in the crowd. A short jog, a light stretch. I line up
about 20 yards back. This is a small marathon, field
limited to 2300. Nearly all runners. The course is
considered fast, a favorite for BQ's.

The start is smooth. I feel loose and strong, flowing
easily through the first mile in about 7, as we leave
the small town and head east into the countryside,
past farms and fields. I love this part of a race, I
truly feel free, no cares. As long as I stay in this
place, I'm very very happy.

I settle into a very consistent pace, 6:44, 6:47,
6:43. The miles are clicking past nicely, I'm smooth
and under control. I'm moving up through the field
fairly consistently. It's not hard, there is plenty of
room, the benefit of a small race.

The half goes by in about 1:28, I can feel I'm
working, but it still isn't hard. I'm starting to
think about breaking 3 hours. But there is a lot of
race to go. There is a surprising amount of spectators
for this race, little knots here and there, at
favorite vantage points they line both sides and press
in.

At mile 17 or so, my legs are starting to feel it, I
notice my pace is dropping off to 6:50's. I increase
my GU consumption, and feel OK.

At mile 20 I'm still on pace for a 2:58 finish, but it
is starting to get hard. My legs are a little sore,
and feeling a bit heavy. I see my buddy Whil on his
bike. He talks to me and I helplessly babble nonsense
and drool on myself.

Mile 22 and I'm working hard. My pace is falling off
to 7:20's or so. Still, I'm not getting passed, but I
am not gaining on anybody.

At mile 23 the nature of the course changes
dramatically. For the last 10 miles or so, we have
been running through old suburban streets, very
pretty, big houses, big trees, but now we come to the
top of  largish hill, and prepare to descend to the
lakeshore. The final miles are within yards of the
beach, following the curve of the bay towards the
finish. I always find this suddenness of space hard to
cope with. You can pick out the finish area in the
haze across the bay, it seems so far.

The other factor here is the wind. It now seems gusty,
and directly in our faces. The sailboats on the lake
are heeled over hard, whitecaps stand in ranks on the
water.

I'm struggling. A bike passes me, a race official
glancing over his shoulder, one of the lead women
passes me. Mile 24 is hard, mile 25 is harder. 2:55:xx
I know sub-3 is lost. We make a few tricky turns,
start to head out onto the point of the park, the wind
is stronger. Along the marina.

My arms are high, my jaw is locked. I'm checking my
shoulder, looks empty back there. I can hear the
finish, see the tents. Mile 26. It hurts. A final
sharp turn, I see the finish, the crowds. I see the
clock turning over 3:02:xx, a few hundred yards. A
figure in black darts past my right shoulder, moving
well. WTF? Where did he come from? I know him, he is
in my AG. I try to answer, but his kick has him past
me. I finish. The fellow who passed me was Dave, nice
fellow, I give the bastard a hug, he PR'd, happy guy,
apologizes for passing me! Cripes, I don't mind an
exciting finish.

By the time I get some water, grab some goodies, and
wander around, results are up, how efficient. Turns
out I'm 5th 45-49, 49th overall. I'll take it.
Hardware goes 5 deep in AG's here, so I'll have
something to show for the beating, anyhow. Final time
was 3:03:xx. Got the hardware for 4th, overall masters
was in my AG.

I consult the list again, hmmm, no Zak, no Dean? I
hobble around the finish. Again, the best corollary to
the scene is some kind of disaster drill. Bodies lying
wrapped in mylar blankets, faces in pain and shock.

Hmmmm, after 4 hours I begin to wonder, think, worry.
Then it strikes me. Wheels within wheels, plots within
plots, I've been set-up and knocked down again. It's
not THIS race that trap was set for, it's NEXT weekend
at the Chicago Marathon. Oh, the brilliance. Here I am
now with legs pounded senseless, crippled and
helpless, run down and ready for the kill.