The 4-H Marathon (Omaha Marathon, September 25, 2005)

This is what I have heard about the Omaha Marathon, since the first time I knew that it existed: that anyone who ever ran it called it “the 4-H Marathon”. This was not in honor of the club. This moniker was courtesy of the fact that Omaha comprises hills (always), heat (sometimes), and humidity (always), and these things combined over 26.2 miles lead you straight to hell.

So I was never all that interested in this race. I was in 4-H as a kid, but never that “in” to it. Sure, I loved it when my sister Sue and her friend Debbie practiced their cooking demonstration, making cherry coffeecake over and over again, and somebody had to eat the exhibits. But my own demonstrations always seemed to be boring stuff. Once, Kay Schroeder and I did a demonstration on a healthy salad, and we created a concoction whose main ingredients were canned peaches and cottage cheese. Compared to cherry coffee cake? Puh-lease. As far as I was ever concerned, I wanted to avoid 4-H as much as possible.

But could I really avoid this race? After all, it’s in my family’s backyard. I grew up very close to Omaha, and most of my family still lives either in or around the Omaha metro area. How could I ever justify running another Nebraska 26.2-miler in my quest for the 50 states, and not stop off in Omaha? And so it is that I’m registered for the Omaha Marathon on September 25, 2005, and praying for cool, dry weather.

The bus tour. I’ve flown to Omaha and Mom has picked me up at the airport. This is the third in a trifecta of marathons that she’s been to in the last year, starting with the Blue Springs Ultra Marathon in Missouri last October, and including the Marathon to Marathon just a few months ago in Iowa. But she’s never been to a proper “expo”, so my packet pickup on Saturday morning is a new experience for her. It’s really a respectable expo for such a small race: a number of booths hawking running clothing and gear, a few local booths, and a great pancake feed. I stoke up on pancakes while Mom eats a small fraction of what I consume, and then we wander around a bit.

Dick Beardsley is the running celebrity on hand for the race festivities, and since it’s not crowded at all, I take the chance to chat with him and buy his book. What a great guy! He is, as he mentions frequently in the book (that I devour in the couple of days post-marathon), a very talkative guy, and he makes me feel completely at home here. He tells me that since he’s recovering from a broken ankle, he’ll just be running the 10k on Sunday. His enthusiasm for the race and all things running is infectious, and I think for a few moments that the time I’ve had chatting with him is worth the trip alone.

The marathon offers a bus tour of the course, and we’ve decided to check it out. I’m a bit dubious about the reports of hills. After all, I live in Colorado and do most of my long runs in the mountains; how horrible can these hills really be?

A yellow school bus pulls up outside the convention hall, and Mom starts to laugh. She is new to marathon “stuff”, and – like most “normal” adult Americans – has not ridden on a yellow school bus in eons. I think that for Mom this is some kind of treat, since it’s so unexpected for her. For me, I’m just trying not to hydrate too thoroughly since I know that our tour bus does not sport any facilities!

The president of the Omaha Running Club climbs onto the bus with us, and guides us through our tour. For a mile or so, it seems like no big deal – Omaha as I know it. But then we head south and just outside of the downtown area, we hit the mountains. Yes, mountains! In Omaha!! Who knew? It amazes me – and puts the fear of God into me – to see the size of these hills. And they don’t stop. Up and up and up and then down and down – but it seems that it is up much more than down. I start to get an appreciation of the 4-H billing of this race. When we finally get back to the start/finish area, I simply turn to Mom and say, “well, there goes any thoughts I ever had of running this thing fast. It’s going to take me well over 4 hours tomorrow.”

A family affair. My pasta feed on Saturday night is a gourmet experience cooked up by my sister-in-law Connie, who makes a yummy homemade pasta sauce just in my honor. It’s a full house at my brother Stan’s this night – in addition to his wife, the chef, and their three kids, my mom and sister Sue and I all spend the night. It’s really a nice low-key night. Before dinner, we head down the street to the local park so that the kids can play. Adam, my 2 ½ year old nephew, decides that he wants to race Aunt Judy, so he and I run most of the way down the hill to the park, and what do you know, Adam wins. Nicole (11) and Kim (9) ride along on their bikes. Kim makes a point of telling me that she swam a mile recently at the Y program the kids belong to, and she’s very proud of her accomplishment. Heck, Aunt Judy is extremely proud of her swim – in 65 minutes, at that. I have hopes that I will turn my nieces into tri-athletes.

It’s an early night, and I’m up again in the darkness to eat a toasted bagel and guzzle a cuppa joe before anyone else in the house is stirring. Stan has very graciously volunteered to get up and drive me to the race start, and we cross paths in the kitchen where he is loading up a go-cup with coffee for the drive downtown. We head out the door and walk straight into a warm, misty rain. Stan comments that it’s cold, and I groan in response. This? I say. This is way too warm for a marathon. It’s not even cool!

But one thing I’ve learned about marathons is that the weather will be whatever it will be, and we will go out and run, no matter what. Stan lives on the western side of town, and as we head east to the start of the marathon in downtown Omaha, his windshield wipers work constantly. This is not a good sign. But as we approach downtown, the weather seems to clear a bit, and it’s dry when Stan drops me outside of the convention center. We talk about where we might see each other during the race, and then I’m on my own, and Stan is driving home to, hopefully, catch a few more minutes of shut-eye.

Race start. A beautiful thing about this race is the indoor facilities available while waiting for the start. I cycle through the bathroom line a few times before dropping my clothing bag at the bag check. Soon enough the race director is leading us out the door and up the street to the starting line. The clouds are hanging low – it seems more humid now than when Stan dropped me off, if that is even possible – and you can’t see the tops of the tall downtown buildings. The sound crew has not shown up for the start of the race, so we all strain to hear last minute instructions; the Star Spangled Banner is offered up by an a capella group: I’m sure it was lovely, if only we could have heard. As soon as the anthem is done, the rain starts. It’s a light rain – more of a drizzle than a downpour – and with that, the gun sounds for the start of the race.

For a small race, this one is first class. Chip timing – I was amazed when I picked up my packet on Saturday to find a chip in the race materials. Now at the start, I like the idea that I don’t have to rush to the starting mat. While the marathon itself is not huge, the other two races starting at the same time – a half marathon and a 10k – fill the street with runners.

It’s a slightly downhill start, going in exactly the opposite direction that seems logical. We run down the street for a few blocks before making a right-hand turn onto a deserted street. It’s just beginning to get light out now, but it’s the people around me who impede my view. I notice – almost too late – that there are orange traffic cones set out to guide us runners onto a narrow lane on the side of the road. Later, when we retrace this part of the course as we start the second half of the marathon, the orange cones will make sense. For now, they are simply a hazard, and a guy directly in front of me takes a header when he gets tripped up on one. What a rotten way to start a 26.2 mile journey. I’m just grateful that I escape this part of the course without any personal mishap.

The course turns right again, and then left, and we’re heading towards the Missouri River. The rain is light, and there is actually a small crowd of fans along this stretch of roadway. The time is ticking away, and I realize, too late, that I’ve missed the first mile marker. We’re still heading slightly downhill, and I’m feeling pretty good. The road bends around and we turn another 180 degrees and then another sharp left into the Con-Agra International Headquarters Campus.

Con-Agra is one of Omaha’s premier businesses, with a large headquarters presence here near the Missouri River in downtown Omaha. The roadway leading through the campus is new cobblestone, something that made me cringe when we drove over it during the bus tour yesterday. But today, it seems smooth as silk, and doesn’t trip me up as I had expected. We hit our first aid station in this section of the course, and I’m incredibly impressed. The volunteers are handing out water cups with lids and straws. What a concept! No water spilling for me at this aid station, and I can’t help feeling proud of my near-hometown for such an innovative and practical approach to such a basic marathon staple. I’m feeling quite good as we exit the Con-Agra campus and start our true course south.

The dreaded hills. When we leave Con-Agra, we move back onto the city streets, and directly under a train crossing, and then the hills start in earnest. There is no warning, just rounding a corner, and the road looks like it goes straight up in front of us. I’m extremely grateful for the bus tour yesterday; if not for that, this sight might crush my spirit. But I’m ready for the hills, and dig into the climb.

These hills go on for nice long stretches – almost like the Newton hills in Boston, but maybe even longer – or so it must seem, just owing to the difference in where these hills hit in the race. But the pain of a long uphill expanse is quickly broken up by the sight of the lead 10k runners doubling back on the course and heading for home. It seems so early to see people going the opposite direction! But here they all come – the front runners, looking focused and strong, and then at the number six spot is my new buddy Dick Beardsley! I yell a greeting to him and feel honored to have had this chance to share a race course with him. For a 49 year old guy with a recent broken ankle, he sure is tearing up the course. But then, many of the 10k runners impress me. Shortly after I see Dick Beardsley, a kid goes running past, smoking the rest of the field. After the race I will look up the finishing times and see that a 13 year old finished in 13th place overall. Not long after the kid, the lead female runner goes smoking by, and like all the runners around me, I cheer her on and yell encouragement. The second woman to go by on the return trip for the 10k looks oddly familiar, and then I figure it out – she’s the race director who issued the last-minute instructions. Wow! To me, this is incredible. That the race director can actually enjoy her own race says much about the organization and volunteer effort at this race. Everyone gets to have a good time, since so many people show up and make it happen.

Watching the 10k runners go by takes the sting out of the hills for a while, so the distance just clicks away. Soon enough we’re running past Rosenblatt Stadium, the site of the annual College World Series of Baseball. As an Iowa resident for so many years, I’ve long been aware of the College World Series; I just never realized that it was such a big deal to warrant a stadium that appears to be on par with the pros. I’m growing more impressed with Omaha.

The road twists around, and now I see a sign that says “Pachyderm Lane” or somesuch, and I realize that we’ve come into the zoo via the back entrance. The race literature boasts about the fact that the marathon course runs directly through the Henry Doorly Zoo, but we weren’t able to traverse this section of the course on Saturday’s bus tour, so I have no idea what to expect. I know that I visited the zoo many years ago, as a kid, but I don’t remember anything about it. And now, here we are, in the hours before the zoo opens, and it’s a really cool place to run. The road twists around, and we have it entirely to ourselves, and it’s quite beautiful. Lots of low hanging foliage, turning to fall colors in varying degrees, form a canopy over the curving road. The zoo is no different from the rest of this part of the course in one respect – it is still extremely hilly – but it’s fun to keep an eye out for the zoo inhabitants. I see a few peacocks wandering near the road, and a few other animals (some kind of African hooved creatures, and some very colorful plumage) behind their barriers, and then we’re exiting the zoo. It has gone all too quickly.

We pass mile marker 5 just as we exit the zoo, and turn back onto a city street. I happen to look up on an embankment on the right hand side of the road just now and see my cousin Sandy, who spots me at the same moment; now we’re screaming at each other! Sandy is a very special cousin – my memories of her go back as young as I can remember anyone in my life – and we have always had a special bond, even if we don’t see each other very often. In the weeks leading up to the marathon, we’ve emailed many times, but Sandy did not commit to being on the course, and I didn’t expect her to show up - after all, it’s barely after 7:30 on a Sunday morning! But now, there she is, and I’m overjoyed to see her, and the moment hangs in the air. I’m starting to feel that this marathon is quite blessed.

But there are two more miles of hills on this outbound course, and I turn my attention back to the marathon. I’m feeling remarkably good, and my splits are faster than I expected them to be, and I start to think that maybe this race won’t be quite as slow as I’ve expected. I notice that my heart rate creeps into my red zone on the uphills, and rather than scaling back, I decide to take a calculated risk. I think that maybe I can recover enough on the corresponding downhills – they are a match to the uphills – in order to keep the lactic acid accumulation down. And so I run along at what feels to be the “right” pace.

We finally hit the turnaround, and the return back – mostly on the same road, although we don’t go back through the zoo on the return trip – seems just as hard as the outbound trip. In fact, I start to wonder how it can feel like I’m always going uphill, without the benefit of the downhills that should be there. I think of the stories of parents or grandparents who walked 2 miles to school everyday, uphill both ways, and that seems to apply here today. Given all of the uphill on the outbound journey, it seems that there should be proportionately more downhill heading back into downtown, but it is just not to be.

This race course is almost a figure 8, and we cross the start line at the midpoint of the marathon before heading out again on the same route. There is a small crowd on the road in front of the convention center, and volunteers are directing traffic – half marathoners to the right and full marathoners to the left. As we pass by the half marathon turn-off, we can hear the cheers for the racers who are already finishing over at the side entrance of the Civic Center. It seems a bit lonely and desolate on this side of the building, and a bit weird to cover these same blocks for the second time in the day. It’s no longer raining – that lasted only a short while at the start – but the humidity is incredible. I notice that my Race Ready shorts are soaking wet – something that never happens in dry climates, and it feels like I could wring them out. And there is still 13.1 miles to go.

The lonely second half. The second half of the race heads out north, and the first part of this route goes past the Creighton University soccer fields before heading into a deserted light industrial area. This is the most desolate part of the entire race course. There are some low profile buildings, but it seems like there are more deserted buildings and abandoned parking lots with weeds poking through cracks in the asphalt than fresh life. We run past the Siena/Francis House – a shelter - and a group of homeless men are lined up outside. It’s a sorry site, and I feel a pang of guilt at the ease of my own life compared to the sad souls who stand and wordlessly watch us run by.

But there are a few other runners near me on the road here, so I turn my attention in their direction. There are a couple of young, tall, GQ-looking guys running together right next to me. I first noticed these guys way back in the zoo: when I struggled to get a gel pack open – my hands were too slippery in the dampness, and I didn’t think I could get the packet open – one of the guys offered to help me out just as I finally ripped the thing open. Now here they are again. Only, one of the guys is clearly starting to hurt, and he suddenly slows quite dramatically. His buddy runs alongside me and another racer, and asks, “what should I do?” We learn that this is the first marathon for both guys – they are in their late 20s – and that they made a pact before the race that if either of them was having a good day, he was to go on. But the guy running with me is clearly not okay with this strategy – “after all, we did all of our training together, and you don’t leave a buddy behind!” – and he’s struggling with the question of what he should do. But then he takes off, looking strong, and I’m running on my own.

The next few miles get a little lonely; there just aren’t that many people on the course anymore – the 10k and half marathoners are along gone – and there isn’t much crowd support out here. The good news is that after a few miles in the desolate and deserted industrial zone, we enter Carter Lake Park, and the scenery improves vastly. Crater Lake was formed when the Missouri River changed course at some time in its history, and left behind this body of water that parallels the river. I’ve never really been to Crater Lake before, but it’s just across the road from Omaha’s Epply Airfield, so I pass it every time I fly into or out of Omaha. My view of the lake has always been from the east side, but today we’re running along the west shore. Before the marathon, I never knew that there was such an expanse of parkland on this side of the lake. The trees are unusually tall, and provide good cover.

Shortly after I enter the park, Stan and Mom drive by and shout at me, and they pull off the road a short way ahead. There is so very little traffic –runners or vehicles – that it seems a relief to have someone to run towards. Now Stan is out of the car, and he meets me along the course with a cup of nice cold blue Gatorade. Yeah! When Stan asked if he could bring me anything along the course, I had replied that there would be plenty of aid stations, so it wouldn’t be necessary, but if he really wanted to, he could grab the Gatorade that I stuck in his fridge. Now it tastes like the nectar of the gods – it’s cold and sweet and far better than the Powerade being served along the course. I am extremely grateful for this fresh surprise.

Stan jogs alongside me for a short distance so that I can hand the cup back to him, and he tells me that they (he and Mom) have lost the rest of the family, and that they will try to regroup before seeing me up the road in a few miles. And then they are gone, and I’m looking for runners to pick off.

The course spends several miles inside Carter Park before exiting just before mile 20. But as soon as we’re out of the park, we hit a steep – albeit fairly short – hill, and it looks like Everest at this point in the race. But there are people waiting at the top of the hill, including Stan and Mom, so I motor on up and try to ignore the pain. Stan runs alongside me again with that magical elixir Gatorade, and it’s the perfect reward for making it up the hill. I take off north along Florence Boulevard while Stan mumbles something again about losing his family. Sure enough, it’s still just him and Mom here, and I wonder if I will see the rest of the family on the course.

From the map, I know that this stretch along Florence Boulevard is an out and back, and I’m looking forward to hitting the turnaround point. But this stretch seems to go on and on and on forever. The neighborhood is a surprise – we are in north Omaha now, and I have long heard references to this part of the city as a gang-infested violent and dangerous place. But Florence is a lovely boulevard with an attractive grassy median and old lovely homes with well tended lawns set well back from the street. It’s one of those places that so surprises you in its difference from your expectations that I can’t help gawking at the homes along the route. And, as always in the Midwest, people out sitting on porches or working in the yards all smile and wave.

But the pleasantness does not affect my growing desire to just be done. Following my strategy of racing the last 6 miles, I’ve turned up the effort level to maximum, and it’s a sufferfest. The sun peeks through the clouds briefly, and we get a taste of what the day might be like without this generous cloud cover: pure misery. Although it stopped raining early in the race, my clothes are sopping wet; my shorts in particular are clinging to my legs in a way I’ve never experienced before. The clouds win out, and I’m extremely grateful that we are spared the full steambath that the sun would generate.

Now here’s an aid station, and the kids working it are just going crazy yelling and cheering. I take a couple of cups of water, mostly because they seem to want to help SO much. Thankfully, the turnaround is finally here, and now we just have a straight shot back to the race start/finish. We pass through the same aid station, and the kids are still yelling their heads off. I take more water, but realize that I’m getting close to the point of sloshing, so I drink only a bit and splash the rest on my face.

I see Mom and Stan one last time as we pass the top of the hill point again, and this time I wave off Stan’s proffer of Gatorade – just too dangerous to take on more liquids with my stomach feeling like this.

It’s a real race now. I’m passing people, one at a time, very gradually, but still passing them. The population of runners is very spread out , and so I play a game of spotting the next runner – sometimes as far as a block or two ahead – and then put all my effort into passing that person. I pass a woman I’ve seen several times today – she’s wearing a gray jogbra that is soaked through with sweat. Just as I catch her, we both pass a guy with a “4:00 Pace Leader” sign on his back, but he’s not looking so good, and he’s running alone. He tells us both that we’re looking strong and that we’ll beat four hours if we keep it up.
There is a group of three kids on a corner up ahead, and I see that they have water balloons. As I pass by, they ask if I want one and I say “Sure!” But the throw is too gentle and the water balloon merely grazes my back and drops to the pavement with a plop. At this point I’m not sure that more moisture would help to cool me, anyway. I’m sweating like a fiend.

The finish. There are more people to pass, and finally I can see the Civic Center up ahead. I motor around a couple of women who are alternating between walk and run. Up ahead of them is a woman wearing flag shorts, and she seems to be suffering; I go around her, too. But just as we approach the Civic Center, there is another pesky uphill – not terrible, but at a terrible point in the race – and it catches me flat footed. I just don’t have anything left to attack this thing, so I slog up it. I can hear someone at my shoulder, and look to see Ms. Gray Jogbra go bounding past me; she must have saved a gear for the finish. And then Ms. Flag Shorts goes around me, too, and it feels just horrible to lose that hard won advantage.

But the 26 mile marker is at the top of the hill, and right next to the marker is Stan – and my two nieces. What’s more, in a complete surprise to me, my nieces come out and say “can we run with you?” and I’m just thrilled. Nicole and Kim have clearly been plotting this, since they are both wearing running shoes and shorts, and they fall into step on either side of me. This is like a dream come true to me. We’re following Ms. Gray Jogbra and Ms. Flag Shorts, and I think we might catch them again, but I just don’t have a kick. As we make the last right hand turn before the entrance to the Civic Center, Kim says “wow, I’m getting tired already”. The girls spot their mom before I do, and tell me they will stay with her, and they peel off. I’m on my own as I run through the entrance to the Civic Center – this is an odd indoors finish – and down the green mat and across the finish line. As I enter the Civic Center, my heart lurches when it sees the race clock already past the four hour point, but then I remember the chip timing. The four hour pace group leader had it just right: I click on my watch at 3:59:56, just barely under four hours, but it feels so good to, once again, beat that invisible but real barrier..

My family is all there at the end of the finish chute when I get there – how did they get here so fast? – and it’s a pretty wonderful feeling. After a quick shower, we’re all on our way out of the post-race area, in search of some post-race grub, but we notice that the awards ceremony has just started. We watch the overall winners, and are almost ready to start walking again when they start the age groups. I’m so surprised when they call my name that my brother has to prod me – and then I’m sprinting up to the podium to accept my second place age group award from Dick Beardsley, which is a complete thrill.

A few weeks later, Mick and I are watching an episode of Jeopardy that we’ve Tivo’d, and the final jeopardy clue is a cinch for me. “What is 4-H!” I yell before Mick has a chance to beat me to it. He looks at me, incredulous that I know this fact that seems so obscure to him. I just nod and recite, “head, heart, hands, health – those are the 4 H’s”. I tell him about Omaha and the 4-H Marathon, and how I’d thought about the nickname for the marathon a few times since the race. To be sure, we had the heat, hills, and humidity. But hell? Hell no. Maybe the race wasn’t quite heaven either, but it sure wormed its way into my heart.