AARC Runners Stride at Steamtown

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The Steamtown Marathon takes its name from a recreated rail yard of the steam engine era. It doesn’t have much to do with the marathon except that it is near the finish line in Scranton … I take it back. The steam engine era was a time of Smalltown America when a strong work ethic was a given and patriotism ran high. That has everything to do with the Steamtown Marathon.

At six o’clock I boarded one of many school buses at Courthouse Square in Scranton for the 45 minute ride to the start in Forest City. My first clue about what a big deal this was to the locals was the group, dressed in Santa Claus outfits setting up an aide station. They paused when our bus full of runners passed by and cheered. I heard somebody say that this group gets dressed up in some outlandish theme outfit every year. This year, it was Christmas in October.

We arrived at Forest City High School to the reception of the Forest City High School cheerleading squad. I was amazed that these teenagers would get out of bed at 5:00 AM to cheer a bunch of foolish people who were about to punish themselves. We were lead to the gym by volunteers (more high school students) to wait for the start. This was an example of the attention to detail that this race had from beginning to end. The bag check was like clock work. There were plenty of port-a-pots. The water stops were dependable. There were many race marshals along the whole course on bikes. The finish provided food, massage and medical support. These people knew what they were doing.

The professionalism of the race was eclipsed by the enthusiasm of the people. It was clear that these people gave a damn. The race was an eerie experience of a lonely run on quiet country roads or beautiful trails punctuated by wild enthusiasm as you passed through the next town. It would be excited Santa’s elves or a cheerleading squad supported by a marching band or a line of children holding out their hand to be slapped by passing runners. (One time I had to bend pretty low to touch a five year old girl’s hand). My personal favorite was a brass band of senior citizens seated under a tent. They were playing “Rock Around The Clock”.

We started out in Forest City which can hardly be called a city with a population of less than 2,000. (I didn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings so I kept my mouth shut.) We then passed through Carbondale (this is coal country), Mayfield with a population of 1,800 (It could have been Andy Grifith’s Maybury), Archbald, Olyphant Borough (I’m not making this up), Dickson City ( population 6,000,bigger, but still not a city), the Borough of Throop (seriously, Throop) and, finally, Scranton which actually is a city (almost 80,000).

At the start, there was a welcome from the mayor of Forest City, a few words from the race director, several patriotic songs including some poetry recited as a voiceover to the tune of America The Beautiful. The start was signaled by the blast of a civil war canon which left no doubt, the race was begun.

The Steamtown Marathon is billed as a fast course with a vertical drop of 955 feet from start to finish. More than half of the vertical drop happens in the first 6 miles which means the rest of the marathon is basically flat. It is not without hills, however, as I was to discover towards the end of the run. Within the first mile is a really steep section of about a quarter mile. I took that section gingerly, not wanting to slip on the damp pavement. After a few miles, the good runners were already out of sight and the rest of us had settled down into a rhythm. This is the time when you look around you at the other runners with the idea that these are the people that were likely to finish with you. There was a guy about my age with his name on his shirt. Throughout the race I didn’t have to look for him because I could hear the fans yell “Go Bob” when he would pass by. There was a man in his thirties who looked very strong. In fact he looked too strong. He had so much upper body weight to carry for 26.2 miles, I wondered how he would do. There was a woman in her twenties in a purple shirt, running comfortably. She was clearly marking time. I was unlikely to see her for much longer.

Around mile 6 I heard something I have not heard in a race before. Coming up behind me was runner who was whistling. He was whistling with each inhale and exhale so we heard a continuous rendition of the “Yellow Rose of Texas”. I thought to myself that if he wanted to park his brain by serenading yellow roses then more power to him. This was one of the few times I was glad someone passed me because it was really, really annoying.

At mile 12 I realized that I had parked my brain as well. My pace had fallen off and it was clear that more people were passing me than I was passing. Mr. Muscles was nowhere to be seen and I could just see Bob in the distance. In this, my fifth attempt to make the Boston Marathon, I had resolved to maintain my focus and hold my pace. It might be more comfortable to zone out and meditate while you run but it’s not the way to meet your goal. I consulted my wristband with my projected mile splits. I’m losing time. Wake up. Stick to business.

Part of business is to carefully attend to hydration and nutrition. After a few bad experiences, I am very mindful of this requirement. The race has an official relief station every couple of miles for water and sports drink. Occasionally they provide power bars, bananas and, one time, Vaseline (I was already well lubed). I was careful to refuel at each stop. What messed me up was the many unofficial support stations along the way. People would set up a card table on their front lawn and pass out water, candy, oranges and whatever they could think of to help. One thoughtful woman was passing out paper towels. What a welcome comfort to wipe your face and blow your nose after 16 miles. The result of all of this extra support was that I ran the entire race with a full stomach, too full. Finally, I had to swear off the extra kindness.

Mile 17 was where I passed Mr. Muscles. His supreme fitness had caught up with him and he was struggling. I pressed on. At 19 I heard from behind me “Go Bob”. That felt pretty good. At mile 20, desperate for a distraction, I spotted a woman about 100 yards ahead with a great pair of legs. For the next four miles including a brutal grind up a hill at mile 23, those legs were my focus. I guess I should have felt guilty but I didn’t care. What can I say? Some guys like to think of yellow roses. Me? Well, I make no apologies. At mile 24, I reluctantly passed her, mentally thanked her and pushed on. I was on a mission.

When I hit the beginning of mile 26, I had a little more than 10 minutes to run the remaining 1.2 miles. Normally this would be no problem except for the fact I had just finished 25 miles and I was out of gas. Then there was the hill. Wait a minute, this hill isn’t supposed to be here. Well yeah, they did say there was a hill at the finish. Okay, hang in there and do it. Ugh. Here comes the final turn. Two tenths to go and it’s downhill. The crowds are a blur. The road is a blur. I am a blur. I’m finished.