Tennessee, My 40th Marathon
by William Santoro, MD

I decided to run a marathon in Tennessee. I had been training better than had been in three years. My short runs were fast and light. My long runs were consistent and fun. I was training intelligently. I even added weight and conditioning twice a week. Then four weeks before the marathon, just one week before my taper was to begin, I felt pain in my right hip. There are some pains I just know are more serious than others, this was one of them. It stopped me 1 mi. into a 5 mi. training run. I turned back and jogged home. I decided I would finish my training and taper on a stationary bike. I rehabbed with ice, rest, and iontophoresis. I did stretching and hydrotherapy. Things were going well until two weeks before marathon day when I slammed my left knee into a metal post. The pain made me nauseous. Now a knee needing ice and a hip needing heat, what else could go wrong? That was supposed to be a rhetorical question, until I ended up with the flu. Just when I seriously considered throwing in the towel, I actually started to heal. Jill didn't want me to run and reminded me that in the past I had run a few marathons that I had no business attempting. I had promised her and myself I would never again put myself in danger of a serious injury by running when I was not prepared, so I had to make some concessions. I trained around my injuries and agreed to use the Galloway method of run/walk. I also promised I would walk to the finish or drop out if necessary, but I had to attempt. You see my dad was diagnosed with early Alzheimer's and I had invited him and my brothers to accompany me to the marathon. Sure, we could have had a great time in Nashville without me running the marathon, but running is what I love and I wanted to share it with my dad.

So Friday morning my older brother Al, Dad, and I packed up the car and headed to the airport. Halfway there I realized I had forgotten our plane tickets, hotel reservation and race number confirmation. Ironically, I'm not the one diagnosed with a memory problem, but I do have a reputation of making these trips more interesting than they need be. The items left behind caused surprisingly little glitches. We not only got to Nashville on time, into the hotel and got my bib number, but we also met up with my younger brother Jim.

The weekend reminded me of when I was a child. Just my dad, my two brothers and me. We were once again the boys playing monkey in the middle, handball or stickball with our dad. We laughed and joked like children, but now we did things mature adults do. We made comments about the cute girls on the street. We discussed whether the girls down south were prettier than in the north and decided that a cowboy hat made every girl look beautiful. Okay, maybe that wasn’t too mature of us, but we also argued politics, religion and environmental issues.

If running was my passion this weekend, eating was my dad and sibling’s. What a great combination, running a marathon and being around people who love to throw themselves into the local cuisine. I stuck to the basics, but dreamt of the culinary delights with which I was going to reload. It was the night before the marathon and we were out on the town eating and bar hoping. Not that any one of us drank more than two beers that evening, but we did try to get a flavor of the local cuisine. At least they did, I ordered spaghetti, sauce, meatballs and Gatorade.

I knew we were out too late and tried to reel them in. We finally got back to the hotel and I got to bed an hour later than I wanted, but being there with three others who were not runners, I needed to roll with the situation. I often do these adventures alone so I am not used to having anyone else's input as to what to eat, where to go and when to sleep.

I tried to do my usual night before marathon ritual, setting out my clothing and going over the route in my head, but tonight was different. My childhood and growing up with these men who were now sharing a hotel room with me were my primary thoughts. These two men shared my childhood. This man I called Dad, I idolized growing up. We had changed so much over the years and yet it happened so slowly that I never noticed.

I woke up at 4:30 am, 15 minutes before my wake up call. I lay in bed in the dark hotel room with my brothers and father sleeping near by. Jimmy woke up before my wake up call as well. Not knowing, he asked if I was awake. I told him I was and that I would be getting up shortly. He went back to sleep. I rolled out of bed, showered (part of my pre marathon ritual) and dressed. I quietly left the room and made my way to the start of my marathon.

I was alone at the start with thoughts of the trek in front of me and the trek behind me. I tried to concentrate on the run but to no avail. My mind was on my family, the one I grew up with and the one that was now growing up with me. As the race started I went on autopilot, put one foot in front of the other and began my strategy to complete this marathon safely. I now had several hours to reconcile my thoughts about my childhood, my adulthood, my future and ultimately my demise.

I thought a lot about Dad. He was there when I was a child and I wanted to be assured he would be there tomorrow. But at this moment all I could be assured of was that he would be there at mile 12 and the finish line. I saw him and my brothers in the distance. I was feeling strong and confident. I slowed and hesitated for a moment, thinking maybe I should not stop, but then thought better of it and briefly stopped. They asked me how I felt and I told them very well. They urged me on with words of encouragement and the pride they felt radiated in their smiles. I again put one foot in front of the other and began the second half of my marathon.

By 20 miles my body was beginning to rebel. My injuries were not surfacing but the change in my training due to the injuries was catching up to me. I compensated by slowing my pace. There is never a question in my mind whether I will finish a marathon. The only question is how I will finish. This time it will be in pain; pain in my soul and pain in my legs.

As I came to the 26th mile marker I again saw Dad and my brothers alongside the road. They were smiling and cheering. My face was smiling, my body was hurting and my soul was crying. I gave Dad a high five and then he gave me a hug. I was drenched in sweat and Gatorade but I could tell neither of us wanted to let go. But I still had a marathon to finish. He had to let me go, as he did when I was a child; and I had to let him go no matter how much I wanted to hold him forever. Our embrace released and I hobbled my way to the finish line more because of the pain in my soul then the pain in my legs.

Overall my body was not injured today and I had run one of my slowest marathons. But if I become stronger because of running, and I have been running for many years, why does it still have to hurt so much?