The Portland Marathon: A Citywide Celebration

(I) An Accidental Entry

On October 4th, I ran the Portland Marathon.

Signing up for Portland was a complete accident. At the start of the year, I had pinned all my hopes for this year’s marathon on New York or Chicago. I figured: surely the heavens, however much they dislike me, wouldn’t deny me both lotteries. But the heavens were exactly that resolute — they shut a door and then riveted the window shut for good measure — I missed both lotteries, and the San Francisco Marathon, which I’d assumed was in the bag and required no lottery at all, was full. Now I panicked. With my fallback gone, I was desperate, hunting everywhere for a marathon that still had openings. Then Portland appeared before me. My wife said, just sign up for this one — you run your marathon, and we’ll make do with a little trip.

So I signed up. It was fairly late in the registration period, and the $200-plus entry fee really stung. But that’s just how North American marathons are if you miss the early bird — so I accepted it.

After that came half-hearted training. My body wasn’t cooperating this year; my right ankle kept acting up with minor injuries, so I trained in fits and starts, never finding a rhythm. With a month to go, I did some quick math and — oh dear — realized I hadn’t run 30+ kilometers even once this year. So that Saturday I mustered all my energy for a 30+, and sure enough, at 19.7 the ankle gave out again. I spent the following weeks agonizing between running and not running, and finally resolved: if a trial LSD (Long Slow Distance) run in the last week still hurt my ankle, I’d call it off. Fortunately, on September 26th I ran roughly 23 kilometers in nearly three hours with no discomfort at all, so I quickly booked flights and a hotel and prepared to take the whole family to Portland.

On Saturday, October 3rd, we arrived a day early. After picking up my bib and chip at the Hilton, we spent the entire afternoon buried in Powell’s City of Books, and only headed back to the hotel when our feet were too numb to stand any longer.

(II) Pre-Race Preparations

At 6:10 on Sunday morning, while my wife and kid were still dreaming, I headed out. We were staying at a hotel near Portland State University (PSU), very close to the marathon start at the World Trade Center — about a ten-minute walk. In the hotel lobby I ran into an older gentleman from Washington State who was also there for the marathon, so we set off together. He said he ran it almost every year, except that after finishing an Ironman in 2012 (a 3.8km swim, a 180km bike, plus a full marathon), he’d injured his knee and missed the past two years.

The early Portland morning was a bit chilly and cloudless, and by the time we arrived, my corral — E — was already packed with people. When the cold morning wind blew, every pore on my body trembled. I regretted not wearing another layer, and could only warm up in every way I could to fend off the chill.

(III) The Remarkable Woman

Because of the pre-race injuries, I went into this marathon purely as a participant, content simply to finish, so my plan was to hold about a 7-minute pace for the first half and an 8-minute pace for the second. But when my corral E stood at the starting line, surrounded by cheers and encouragement, my competitive fire was instantly stoked. For the first two kilometers, even though I tried hard to hold back, the pull of the crowd kept my pace hovering around 6 minutes. Then a remarkable young woman striding along with a trekking pole in each hand caught my eye — she wasn’t running but striding powerfully, at a pace of roughly 6 to 6:30. Just as I caught up to her, the course began a three-kilometer climb; my speed gradually dropped, while she kept steadily striding ahead of me, waving her poles. Several times I tried to pass her, but every time I’d gain a few steps, relax, and she’d catch up again. Gradually a cluster of people gathered behind her, all using her as a benchmark to hold their own pace. Seeing that passing her on the climb was hopeless, I merged into the crowd and treated her as an “official pacer,” clinging to her for dear life.

Portland is hilly terrain; the ups and downs aren’t as frequent or steep as in San Francisco or Seattle, but they’re still substantial. Barely into the 42 kilometers, we hit a gentle slope about three kilometers long. This slope was maddening, like sticky taffy that clings to your teeth — misery to chew, misery not to. If it were shorter and steeper, you could either grit your teeth and charge up in one go or just concede and walk, and either way enjoy the sweetness that followed; but this slope gave you no glimpse of any dawn where the ascent would end. The young woman walked steadily, I ran with effort, and I could barely keep from being left too far behind. Luckily this nightmare of a climb finally ended around the 5-kilometer mark: a turn, the uphill became a downhill, and I finally strode past this remarkable young woman.

Unlike the Beijing Marathon, the Portland Marathon has quite a few people just along for the ride. Not long after turning around and sprinting with the pack, I saw runners from corrals G and H, who’d started after us, already strolling on the other side of the road. I took a deep breath, slowed down, and steadied my rhythm.

(IV) A Feast of Music

The Portland Marathon was really a citywide concert held under the name of a marathon. Roughly every two kilometers there was a simple stage, where local talents showed off their stuff.

The scenery along the way was lovely, and with music for company, my mood lifted a great deal. Unlike the Beijing Marathon, everything felt fresh to me, so I ran while snapping photos, which cost me some energy.

(V) Misadventures on the Road

The first 21 kilometers were uneventful. To avoid bathroom stops, I hadn’t drunk a drop. After the half-marathon I started hydrating and looking for a chance to refuel. I had four small energy gels in my pocket, and my plan was one every 5 kilometers after the 25km mark. At this point the aid stations along the road, besides drinks, began offering Vaseline. But the volunteers offered it in a peculiar way: blobs of Vaseline skewered on bamboo sticks and held aloft, like lollipops. Being a bumpkin, I didn’t know marathons provided Vaseline — the only one I’d officially run, Beijing, hadn’t offered any — and with the stuff skewered on sticks, I assumed it was some kind of energy food. A young guy ahead of me swiped his finger along a stick, scraped all the white solid onto his hand, and then brought his hand to his mouth. Seeing this, I did the same, scooped up a big blob, and without a second thought put the whole white mass in my mouth. It was slick and tasted odd; I was just wondering what it was — fat? — when the guy ahead began smearing it on his neck, his armpits, his thighs. Only then did it hit me: damn, this is Vaseline — not for eating, for smearing! The guy probably was applying it to his face at first, or his lips.

The stuff had already slid down my esophagus into my stomach; it was too late to spit it out. I didn’t dare look back at the volunteer offering the Vaseline — I imagined the poor guy must have been petrified!

After the race my whole family mocked me mercilessly. My brother sent me a screenshot from Baidu Zhidao, and, weeping, told me this stuff is non-toxic with no side effects and can be eaten freely; my dad joked that now I wouldn’t have to worry about dry stools…

(VI) The Heartbreak Bridge

Though the whole course rolled up and down, the most painful stretch was the big climb before the St. Johns Bridge, around the 27-kilometer mark. When I picked up my bib on Saturday, a volunteer introducing the course had mentioned that the stretch before the bridge is Portland’s Heartbreak Hill. Standing at the foot of the hill, gazing up at the magnificent bridge, even if ten thousand voices in my heart told me to push on — that after this stretch it would be smooth sailing — my feet began to drag and my breathing grew ragged. Most runners here switched to walking mode; I gritted my teeth for a while, then gave up too and joined the walking army.

The view from the bridge really was beautiful, impossible to resist stopping to photograph. I leaned on the railing gazing into the distance, enjoyed the view for a while, and only reluctantly returned to the course. Perhaps because I’d suddenly exerted myself after stopping, before my leg muscles were ready, within a few minutes back on the course the calves of both legs began twitching uncontrollably, one after the other: at first the twitching area was about the size of a thumb, then it gradually spread. Seeing that I couldn’t keep running like this, I moved to the side of the bridge and slapped my muscles to relax them. At this point, out of ignorance, I made a very wrong move: I tried to squat down and stand up to relax the muscles, and the moment I squatted, the whole calf muscle of my right leg seized up stiff; I hurriedly straightened both legs and pounded away wildly, then did all sorts of leg stretches. There were no volunteers on the bridge, and in that instant I was terribly afraid that if I couldn’t handle it, the marathon would end in vain halfway.

Fortunately, I rescued that muscle in a thoroughly unprofessional way. Nothing seemed seriously wrong, but after about two or three minutes of running, both calves started twitching again. I had no choice but to switch fully to walking mode.

(VII) Pressing On

I’d been running hard for three hours with no sign of hitting the wall, but my calves could cramp at any moment. With about 14 kilometers to the finish, for the rest of the way I could only alternate running and walking. I power-walked two or three kilometers at roughly an 8:20–9:00 pace, which was passable. Apart from my calves, the rest of my body was in good shape: no chest pain or ankle pain like I’d had in training, and even the spots that usually chafed had grown calluses from repeated wear, so there was no broken skin or pain. At 25 kilometers I took a gel, and along the way I supplemented with a handful of the official gummy bears, so my energy was more than sufficient. Unfortunately my calves wouldn’t cooperate; I tried to run several more times, each time forced to stop and pound and massage those two muscles to soothe them.

At the 37-kilometer mark I hit a small downhill of four or five hundred meters. Taking advantage of the slope, I gritted my teeth and ran a full kilometer in 6:32. That kilometer was sheer agony; after 700 meters my calves began to feel terrible, but I forced myself through the remaining 300 just to see how much energy I had left to tap if I gave it my all. This was actually quite dangerous; when I heard the Codoon app announce my split, I quickly stopped by the roadside to stretch and massage, and only then averted disaster.

All along the way, the residents along the route were doing their utmost to cheer on the runners. At Portland, runners can choose a personalized word of up to 8 characters to be printed on their bib by the organizers. When I signed up, some nerve misfired in me and I casually entered “deadlock.” So all along the way I heard encouragement like:

deadlock, you’re the best!

come on, deadlock~

And the knowledgeable ones, seeing me walking:

Deadlock, it’s time to unlock!

Thus, alternating walking and stopping, I reached the 25-mile marker — meaning less than two kilometers to the finish.

(VIII) A Smooth Finish

Along the way my wife and I stayed in touch via WeChat, reporting our respective positions. She’d taken the little one to play in the riverside park early in the morning, and around 11:30 — four and a half hours after the gun — was already waiting at the 26-mile marker, the last spot before the finish without railings around it. They waited nearly an hour before I finally struggled to within reach of the 26-mile mark. Determined not to look like a quitter in front of my wife and kid, I ignored my calves’ protests and started running again. By now the runners near the finish were few and far between, and the crowd gave the warmest encouragement to every one they saw. Around me the cries of “deadlock” rose and fell.

At last I saw my wife and kid! My wife waved both hands at me, and the little one shouted “Daddy, Daddy” in a voice that pierced the air. I dashed into the crowd, gave my wife a quick kiss, then scooped up the little one and struck a pose for the camera. The little one had had too much fun with the water and was soaked through, with no change of clothes, wearing only little underpants ^_^

After the photos I didn’t dare linger and kept running toward the finish. By now the pain no longer mattered, because I could already see the flowers and the medal. At last, 5 hours and 17 minutes after setting out that morning, I crossed the finish line.

I felt light and free, not the least bit exhausted — after all, I’d strolled the entire second half. Murakami, in his marathon writing, has someone else articulate the insight: pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. I felt that deeply at last year’s Beijing Marathon, but this time at Portland, my greater realization was: often, you want to give it everything, but life simply doesn’t give you the chance.

The volunteers hurried to drape the medal around my neck, present me with a rose, and guide me to the fruit area to refuel. I have to praise the organizers’ thoughtfulness: the fruit area had grapes, oranges, apples, bananas and every kind of fruit, along with orange juice, milk, yogurt, and sports drinks. After a brief regroup here, afraid my wife and kid would be anxious waiting, I quickly grabbed the other giveaways and headed out the exit.

My wife asked if I was tired; I said not at all. We strolled for twenty-odd minutes back to the hotel. Afterward I was still full of energy; in the afternoon we wandered around downtown, and not until evening did we head home, exhausted.

My second marathon in life, my first of 2015 — check!