My Best Marathon Ever – Ancient Marathoner

I ran as lonely as a cloud for most of it. I also ran mostly in a cloud, which was a shame – no view.

At mile eight I saw a human being, a road worker driving a backhoe. At mile eighteen I saw a second human being: a man on a mountain bike. I finished near a pack of rock climbers. They were too busy sorting gear to notice that as I stopped I pumped a fist.

This was 2020 so the Boston Marathon had been cancelled. In its stead I came up with something that met an ambition I had long been harboring: do a big run in the Shawangunk Mountains, outside New Paltz, New York. I’d be dropped off at the Trapps Bridge at dawn. I’d circle the Trapps, then run up to Lake Minnewaska and beyond to Lake Awosting, then run back. I thought of it as my Uberfall Marathon, named after the climber’s crossroads where the cliff is flush with the carriage path and you find the essentials — rescue equipment and a latrine. I would start and finish there.

I could have my virtual marathon app play my virtual marathon cheers the whole way, but this feature I double-checked was on mute. Since I was phoning it in, I did just that. I was slow. I was I-hear-the-sweep-bus-at-my-heels slow. I blamed it on the Camelback I carried. I blamed it on the 2,000 feet of mountain I climbed. Also during the run I tripped and bloodied my left knee. And then an old nerve compression problem started acting up—I had to run ready to catch myself if my left leg buckled because sensation in it suddenly went dark.

I had had an intense affair with the Gunks. Throughout my thirties technical rock climbing had been my escape. I wasn’t very good – I had neither the build nor the time. Running off and clinging to the white cliffs of the Trapps, however, felt like a reasonable, prudent way to do something completely different from everything else I did, such as be an uxorious husband and doting father.

All lean, slow-twitch muscle, I was a weak but persistent. I take pride in the competence I showed, pleasure in the places climbing took me, both inside myself and outside in the world, and appreciate how climbing offered me the satisfaction of learning a craft, if one I would never master.

Which means my own private marathon had its own private business: it was a statement I was as always happy to be here even if I now spurned the cliffs. I had no regrets about breaking up with climbing, but the cliffs did not miss me either. I had moved on. I hadn’t tied into a rope for over twenty years.

On my run I didn’t wear a watch. I used my Boston Marathon phone app to track my progress, and kept the phone buried in my pack–out of sight, out of mind. I had my route committed to memory and knew the millage to various landmarks. So there was no reason to check the time or the miles completed until I was confident I was near the end. I carried a map but did not look at it; everything was well marked. I did not bother to check my phone until I was fairly confident I had covered over 25 miles.

There was good news and bad news. The good news was I was about to complete my 26^th mile – only a quarter mile to go! The bad news was that it was later than I thought conceivable and I was about to add over two hours to my previous worst marathon time ever—more than a 50% decline in performance. I really didn’t care. And I

I ran as lonely as a cloud for most of it. I also ran mostly in a cloud, which was a shame – no view.

On my run I didn’t wear a watch. I used my Boston Marathon phone app to track my progress, and kept the phone buried in my pack–out of sight, out of mind. I had my route committed to memory and knew the milage to various landmarks. So there was no reason to check the time or the miles completed until I was confident I was near the end. I carried a map but did not look at it; everything was well marked. I did not bother to check my phone until I was fairly confident I had covered over 25 miles.