"Right now they don’t hear anything, they don’t see anything. They’re fully in trance". With some amazement I look at the spectator whom I just overheard saying this. For a moment I consider turning around and warning him that I heard everything and saw him clearly, but now is no time for fooling around. I am running the marathon, and the worst kilometers are yet to come.
Until today, the longest distance that I have run is 26 kilometers and 785 meters. Philipp and I ran that distance some weeks a ago; that is, Philipp ran 30 k. and I quit after the above. Today I think myself capable of completing 42 kilometers and 195 meters. I am betting on increased efficiency due to a lower overall speed and the fact that quitting would look rather foolish to the thousands of spectators and fellow-runners.
Philipp is my colleague and companion for the day. We often run 10 k.’s together during lunch break, and it was my idea to run a marathon once. Hamburg was his choice, and because I ain’t no sissy I am running here today.
I know all about the ideal preparation for the marathon. I consulted schedules, books and the internet and can tell you all about `the wall,’ the moment when fuel runs out and the runner stops, whether he wants to or not. Last week I drank three liters of water every day and ate nothing but carbohydrate-rich foods. I am a little concerned about the wall, but not much. In general I am a better runner than average, and I am not as susceptible to problems as others. My less-than-ideal preparation for this marathon can easily be explained by statistics: because nobody has a more-than-ideal preparation, the average runner will always have trained sub-optimally. So, I am not alone.
The weather is great. There’s no wind, the sun is shining and I run in shorts and sunglasses. On this beautiful Sunday, the city has come out to see the runners. From the start on, we are surrounded by thousands of spectators that produce an incredible roar. Most use the horns distributed by the sponsor, some have a stereo outside and one person is performing with his hard-rock band. At 10 k., a woman was shaking a tin with coins inside. It was one of those expensive candy-tins, probably filled with her current savings, and for some reason I felt sorry for her.
People had warned me about starting too fast, but the first half hour it was impossible to run at any other pace than five-and-a-half minutes per kilometer. Overtaking or falling behind is out of the question in the long line of runners, so I get the opportunity to look around a little. Many contestants appear to run strangely, with a stiff knee or bouncing belly. The sight is reassuring.
After half an hour Philipp and I are on a roll. The diet of the last few days has left me full of energy, and soon we run the first kilometer under the agreed five minutes. After a couple of four-forties I note that we are going too fast, but neither of us makes any attempt to slow down. And why should we? Everything seems to go by itself, the body signals that there’s no problems, all signs are green. It is like being toured around the city, and I get the urge to wave at the spectators. Around me, I see that some runners can’t resist the urge. Running a marathon turns out to be great for all involved, and I wonder why we didn’t think of this before.
`These kilometers often pass quite uneventful!’ I smile and quote one of my handbooks about the first 30 k. It seemed like a joke at the time, but turns out to be the truth. After the first half marathon I observe that things are going great. Volunteers are handing out bananas and I drink another cup of water. By the way, that is the only problem right now: my bladder signals that it is time to take a leak, and it has done that since the start. The feeling is getting more urgent now, and I undo the knot of my shorts.
"I don’t mind if we don’t go any faster." Philipp gives me an anguished look, and I realize my mistake. Because of my nagging bladder I have started to run faster so that we will get to the finish sooner. We’re at kilometer 26 and my reflex is nonsensical. A message from the internet goes through my head: "In a marathon you run 20 miles, and then the hardest 10 k. you ever did." I feel very uncomfortable with my full bladder and start to look around. Rows of people along the streets. The problem is getting urgent.
After two more painful kilometers my bladder is ready to burst. My calves have joined in the nagging and for the first time today I decide to get angry. When Philipp asks how I am doing I tell him that things are going like shit and the we are running too bloody fast. Then I notice the patch of grass where two other runners are taking care of their waste. I immediately get of the course and join them. A remarkable feeling goes through my legs now that they stand still, for the first time in two hours. After a long halt I start running again, and the feeling stops abruptly. It is replaced by a kind of tiredness that I will get to know better later that day.
A hundred meters in front of me there is a commotion among the runners. Philipp has turned around and is running against the stream to see what’s keeping me. When we are side by side again I tell him never to do that again. He grins and seems to be in better shape than me. We are at kilometer 30 and our pace has dropped a little. Now that the refreshment stations are getting more frequent I use every opportunity to slow down and let the good feeling go through my calves again. I realize that my calves are not really that important, and that I should be happy that my quads are not complaining, since they are doing the real work.
I try to think of ways in which the hour that we still have to run does not seem so long. "Twelve k. is easy" I tell myself, "compared to what you’ve already done." But somewhere I’m getting worried. Although our pace is still dropping, Philipp runs just a little faster than I can handle. I try not to think about it, but at times I realize that I am not gonna do this another 10 k. I put on an anguished face and tell him that I feel like shit.
Then the pain hits my quads. Startled, I look around. Philipp is already 10 meters ahead I stand still. "Never stand still" races through my mind, and I start to walk. I gesture to Philipp that he should go on and for a second I feel great. My legs are warm and happy to be walking. To the left and right people flash by that I was passing only a minute ago. I force myself to run again and soon pass the 33 k. sign. Because I no longer feel that I have to keep up with someone, I am less tense. I promise myself that I can walk again at 34 k., and to my own amazement I am once again running with the pack.
When do you stop? After each step it’s not impossible to take another. Falling down dead does not seem probable. The reason that I stopped just there was, at most, an unpleasant feeling in my quads. That’s a slight disappointment. I always thought that runners that stopped at least went through unbearable pain before, but I had experienced none such pain. It was just that my muscles felt a little unpleasant. There’s the sign for 34 k., and I’m standing still again. Now how much stranger can it get? I start walking and wonder what’s wrong.
Then I know. The good feeling of the other stops is not returning to my legs. To be honest, walking feels pretty bad too. I wait one minute before running again. After 200 meters there is a refreshment station where I resume walking. Banana. Two cups of water. Although I resent the idea, I’m running again. It seems like they forgot to put up the sign for 35 k. Minutes later it appears, much to my regret.
I tell myself that all this would be over sooner if only I would keep going. My bib has gone loose and goes up and down in the wind. Every once in a while someone passes me at an incredible speed, but all in all I keep up with the pack. My quads are on fire, but I’m not listening. A while ago I realized that soon I will be at kilometer 38, and then I’ll really be almost there. To the right, I can see the sign coming up. 38.
When I’m almost there, the eight changes into a six. Immediately I stand still. Keep walking. The crowd roars. I walk and then I admit it: I am going through unbearable pain. I make the appropriate face, an unhappy sort of grin that I haven’t had to use before. The crowd still roars. I don’t notice any positive effect. I walk and grin while left and right people are passing me. I decide to give myself a minute but it becomes two. Sure I want to run, but the problem is that every time I try, my legs protest furiously. And the longer I walk, the less they want to do.
I’m running. In several ways I try to convey to the spectators that I’m not having such a good time any more, but nothing helps. Roar. Horn. Cheer. I persuade myself that once I am past 40 k., the rest is child’s play. When I pass 38 I try to remember how good I felt the last time I thought I saw that mark. Every kilometer I walk for a minute and then run again. Each time, after a while, I check my watch to see how long I have been running. Usually it’s about thirty seconds. I decide not to check anymore.
After a deplorably long time I reach 40 k. There’s drinks and food and I use them all, hoping for a miraculous recovery, afraid to miss a cure. The recovery doesn’t come. People around me shout that I’m almost there. I don’t believe them.
Forty-one k. is a deliverance, but I can also notice the tower at the finish. If ever the words "in the distance" were appropriate. Walk. Run. Walk. I should really just run the last stretch, now that the finish line is in sight. I start running, but move much slower than I thought. I’m walking again.
Someone tells me it’s another 800 meters. Disappointment. I am running again, and then there’s the finish line. Against all better judgement I slow done before the actual line so that I can stop immediately after. Everything is on fire.
After a few minutes, joy prevails. My stumbling in the last few k’s has not wrecked my time, and the pain has largely gone away. I can smile at people around me again and am filled with amazement over the last hour. When I sit down at clothes-collection, drops fall on the floor. So many surprises today. It’s been years since I cried.
26 april 1999. 
