PUBLISHED 09/13/2006
I blame it on Russell. He's my pal whose seemingly no-sweat first marathon drew me out to the New York City course in 2004, where I got swept up in the spectacle of two million fans cheering tens of thousands of runners through their 26.2-mile odysseys. Although I'd lived in New York for nine years, I had no idea how intoxicating the marathon could be. At a postrace party, Russell said he'd felt like a superstar out there with all those strangers chanting his name. Having never in my life been someone you'd even charitably call an athlete, I found the idea of becoming a superstar to be irresistible. I immediately called my brother Ken and insisted that we run the next year's race together.
So maybe I should blame it on Ken. He'd turned 40 the previous March and had just finished his own first marathon--so he functioned as a shining inspiration for me as I approached my own 40th birthday and stared into the abyss of my middle decades. I wouldn't call it a crisis, exactly--but the funk of facing 40 became far less odious when I contemplated training for the impressive goal of running a marathon. Never mind that I'd never run a race before--I wanted the glory of the full 26.2, and I wasn't the only one with grand ambitions: Roughly a third of the 40,000 or so New York City Marathon runners every year are first-timers. And since about 98 percent of participants finish, it follows that a goodly number of first-timers actually manage the feat.
Full disclosure: I am an undisciplined sloth. A lifelong procrastinator. I spent college cramming for every test and pulling all-nighters writing term papers, and my career as a writer and editor has featured far too many wee-hours sprints to hit already stretched deadlines. More than once I have joined a gym, had the monthly fee debited from my checking account for a year, and worked out exactly never. And so, unfortunately, for the next six months all I did about training was contemplate it.
Ken did his best to help, sending gung ho e-mails throughout the spring, suggesting that I consider a start to training, and, as an extra incentive, seducing our younger brother, Chris--who had three marathons under his belt--to cast his lot with us. But I couldn't overcome my essential nature. For me, not starting to train until 18 weeks out, with no base of general-fitness running to build on, was pretty much status quo--until I had lunch with an old friend, David Willey, who just happens to be the editor-in-chief of this fine magazine.
I can definitely blame it on Dave. He sat across the table from a guy who was about to turn 40, who had not run at all in at least three years, who was a little overweight and a lot underfit, and who was probably on his second glass of wine as he proclaimed his commitment to running the marathon in just five months. Finally, Dave stopped me and patiently explained that my mission was ill-advised. Much better, he said, to have a base of six months of consistent running before I even start training for the distance. I could get hurt. And forget about four hours, I would be lucky to finish in faster than five--walking--if I finished at all. I laughed, maybe nervously, and said, "So?"
Dave shook his head and sighed. The only way I was going to survive, he said, would be to get--and follow--the best advice possible. Luckily, he knew just the folks who could customize an Out-of-Shape Middle-Aged Non-Runner's Crash Course Marathon Training Program. Coach Ed Eyestone would tell me when and how far and with what intensity to run; body experts Jim and Phil Wharton would show me how to stretch and build just the right muscles; nutritionist Liz Applegate, Ph.D., would consult with me on what I put in my body; and RW editor Warren Greene would get the proper shoes on my feet.
All of which posed a problem: If I failed now, with all this firepower behind me, I'd have no one to blame but myself.
Not uncharacteristically, my wife, Liza, figured out long before I did that procrastination isn't a viable strategy when preparing for a marathon, and she made no secret of the fact that she thought I was a lunatic to try it at all. A reckless lunatic at that, wagering my pride or an opportunity to best my brothers or whatever it was that I thought was at stake against the likelihood that my heart would give out and I'd leave a widow and two young sons suffering in the wake of my folly. I had to meet two conditions before I could secure her reluctant blessing: pass a physical exam and quadruple my life insurance.
Both of which I accomplished before training began in earnest, all the while grumbling that Liza was missing the point, that all I really wanted to do, as middle age encroached, was get in shape. And didn't we both know that this project, with its powerful stew of motivators--midlife crisis, sibling rivalry, a looming deadline, the specter of race-day agony--was about the only thing to get me off my ass to do so?
I had my own concerns, which mostly revolved around the question of how I was going to squeeze the training in. My job as editor of Popular Science magazine tends to be consuming; my sons, Rex, 9, and Teddy, 3, have this endearing quality of occasionally wanting to spend time with me; and I am emphatically not a morning person, so waking up predawn to stumble out for a run while the family slumbered seemed inconceivable. Then I had a revelation: I could run to work! My apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan is about four and a half miles from my office, and two-thirds of that distance would be in Central Park. Each Monday I'd bring in several changes of clothing, and voil?-I could transform roughly three commutes a week into training sessions.
