State Number 33
– State Fair Marathon, Grand Island, NE
26 August 2017
“In this world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world”
(John 16:33 ESV).
It’s an understatement to say that we’re going to have
misfortunes, difficulties, hardships and adversities sometime in life. Even in my relatively spoiled North American
lifestyle, it never ceases to amaze me at how trouble-filled life can be. There are the obvious things: chronic
diseases, storms, earthquakes, wildfires, and mass acts of violence. And if that wasn’t enough, try adding in the
complexities of human interactions like betrayal and dishonesty. Then add in unpleasantries like bankruptcy,
foreclosure, and market plunges that gobble up what we’ve been able to scrimp
and save for our golden years. In a
pretty nonchalant way, yes, in this world, we have trouble.
Eventually, whether you expect it or not, trouble is
going to find you one way or another, and will leave you begging the question,
“Why me?”
“Why me?” may be a loaded question that comes with
many emotions. So, how do these kinds of
misfortunes, concerns or troubles relate to the Nebraska State Fair Marathon? I’m quite certain God isn’t singling me out
or punishing me. Sure, I may be
embroiled in my own epic battles, but ever since my last marathon in Fargo, ND on
20 May 2017 (State No. 32), I’m just punishing myself – displeased with my training
leading up to Nebraska. I can’t blame it
on the post-marathon blues or anything else.
I felt like a million bucks coming out of North Dakota
and with some additional training, the much hyped “fastest flattest course in
the nation” would permit me to finish with a great time. Somehow, the week or so of post-marathon rest
seemed to carry over to the next week and to the next week, and so on.
My enthusiasm for marathoning isn’t enough to immunize
me against injury or my drive for improvement.
I don’t have to remind anyone that injuries are commonplace in the
running community.
Over the years, I’ve been really lucky. But within the last year or so, it’s been
constant inner thigh discomfort, and now, ever present heel pain. Plantar fasciitis immediately comes to mind,
but, from what I’ve researched, the symptoms I experience don’t seem to be
consistent with plantar fasciitis, but whatever it is, it’s very annoying after
a long run.
There’s a catchphrase in our culture most everyone is
familiar with and goes along with us most of our lives until one day we really
think about how it applies. “Wait until
you’re older.”
I complain about my leg and heel pains after a good
run when someone older and more seasoned may say to me, “Wait until you get
older,” implying things are bound to get worse.
Not a particularly pleasant thought.
It’s a given, we all get older and there’s nothing we can do about that,
but that shouldn’t deter me from my running activities. I don’t, for the most part, necessarily agree
with that old adage, but rather think of it as “It just gets better from here!”
After three days’ rest before the Fargo Marathon, I
managed to squeak out 26.2 miles with little discomfort (maybe it was my
self-administered acetaminophen). However,
the pain usually holds off until after I sit idle for a period of time. So, holding back on my training runs, I
believe, is more of a psychological end product than anything else. I want to run, I even use active orthotic
inserts for plantar fasciitis, but dealing with the post-run heel pain is
something that can ruin my day. Yes,
it’s sad, I end up with multiple “rest days” during the week only to relinquish
any kind of weekend long run exceeding ten miles.
In addition to my epic daily struggles, contending
with the annual occurrence of the summer season has its disadvantages. With temperatures frequently surpassing 100
degrees, running in the heat hinders my marathon training. When it comes to running in high
temperatures, my tolerance level drops to a minimum. After 26 years living in a hot and arid
climate, Lord knows if I will ever acclimate.
While the “cooler” pre-dawn temperatures significantly improves my freedom
of movement, the mercury still hovers between 70 and 75 degrees. Besides, hitting the streets at 0400 hours
isn’t too appealing. I have to
constantly reiterate to myself, “No excuses!
Get out there and run! Just git
‘er done!”
Without the proper level of training I deem
comfortable, I’ve come to the realization that the State Fair Marathon was
going to be nothing more than a training run. Whatever the finishing time, I’m going to be
satisfied. I’m still going to give it the
old college try. It’s only a run after
all, and far short of any kind of misfortune I could be faced with and asking
the question, “Why me?” I’m thankful
that I will not have to fathom how I’m going to move forward after the marathon,
or that I will not have to figure out how I am going to face tomorrow or if
I’ll ever feel normal again – whatever “normal” feels like.
My addiction to marathoning began in the year 2000. The running of the Nebraska State Fair
Marathon is my fiftieth marathon. While maybe
not as special as reaching the ground-breaking milestones of one hundred or one
thousand marathons, I should have reason to celebrate Number 50. After all, it’s only taken me seventeen
years.
My running experience has taught me one thing – nothing
is guaranteed while running a marathon.
The marathon distance is so long that it gives ample opportunity for
anything to happen. If you start out too
fast in a 5K, you may suffer substantial pain causing you to sacrifice a little
time over the last half mile or so. With
a half marathon, you might know you overdid it after nine or ten miles. But over 26.2 miles, you could be riding high
for 15 to 20 miles before you even get a hint that the splendor of those miles
may come crashing down with a vengeance.
I presume I will just have to take the “wait and see” approach on my
performance, and the Doubting Thomas within me frankly fears there won’t be much
splendor beyond thirteen miles.
We caught an early afternoon non-stop flight on Spirit
Airlines from LAX to Kansas City (MCI) on 24 August. This being the third time flying into Kansas
City, we found that MCI serves as an easy, convenient and economical transit hub
for our marathon travels through the corridors of the Midwest.
The accessibility of low fares Spirit Airlines asserts
coincidentally comes with a price.
Besides the baggage and carry-on fees and non-complimentary drinks,
passengers do not even have access to a complimentary airline magazine as with
other carriers. Whether in the future or
not, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if Spirit required passengers to
cough up a buck or two as a condition to use the loo.
We arrived at MCI just before 1900 hours (CDT). The sun peaked through the partly cloudy
skies that just three days earlier, were within the throws of the Great Solar Eclipse. As I stepped out of the airport terminal on
my way to the rental car center shuttle stop, the temperature and humidity
levels had me concerned. Immediately, many
questions about Saturday’s marathon ran through my mind; viz., two of the three
dreaded Hs; heat and humidity. My saving
grace, the marathon course lacked hills.
Perhaps partly to mostly cloudy skies prevail, thus eliminating the
constant struggle I usually face with sun.
We drove off the grounds of MCI’s rental car facility
in an economical car finely crafted by Ford. Following a quick and easy exit out of MCI, we
headed north on I-29 across the glaciated plains along dissected loess bluffs lining
both sides of the Missouri River’s floodplain dropping frequently to cross the
myriad of tributaries that flow into the river.
We were a little dreary-eyed after our unadorned flight
and decided to spend the night in St. Joseph, MO before continuing on to our
ultimate destination, nearly four hours away.
St. Joseph, a city of approximately 80,000, “where the
Pony Express started and Jesse James ended” is a city steep in history, and a
perfect end point to a truly exhausting day.
St. Joe’s ever-present subliminal stimuli of Jesse
James or the Pony Express somehow makes it known to its visitors that this is
the place where the Wild West began.
We began our Wild West journey with the touristy sites
– Patee House, a former nineteenth century luxury hotel and later to be the
headquarters for the infamous Pony Express, and the house where Jesse James sustained
a fatal gunshot wound to the head.
 |
| Certainly not PC |
I’ve been to Sacramento, CA numerous times and considered
to be the terminus point of the Pony Express route. Now, I had the opportunity to visit the
launching point of the route, the Pony Express Headquarters housed in the Patee
House.
The Patee House Museum is home to the Pony Express Headquarters
and the point of beginning of the historic trail across the western frontier¼but
it was sooo much more than that.
This place is chockfull of stuff and for a majority of
it, I found there seems to be no rhyme or reason for most of the displays. It’s not like they were categorized or
displayed in some manner – there’s just a lot of it, and it’s everywhere! Even a 1500-pound ball of twine for heaven’s
sake.
The museum literature and pamphlets officially bills
the museum as a “transportation and communications” museum. While that may be true, I can reasonably say
it’s an “everything and the kitchen sink” museum.
 |
| Damn, this guy's tall |
There are the planes, trains, automobiles (movie
props, dilapidated and restored), junk, license plates, store fronts with
something in the display that doesn’t belong, a beautiful carousel with hand
carved and painted animals, circus props, elegant ballrooms, paintings and
various donated flotsam and jetsam knick-knacks.
Although I was just there for a history lesson on the Pony
Express, I did find some of the other uncommon and strange displays rather
interesting. For example, a life-sized representation
of the world’s tallest man, Robert Wadlow.
He grew to an astounding 8 ft 11 in with a shoe size of 37AA. Apparently, he was once in St. Joe for a libel lawsuit
about him being labeled as a “pre-acromegalic giant” by a local doctor. As a kid, I was always captivated with this
man and his height. I wanted to be just
as tall.
The house where Jesse James succumbed to his injuries
after being shot stood next door to the Patee House. The small four room house contained a myriad
of artifacts and photos dating back to his brutal outlaw days.
 |
| Going back in the day |
As I stepped in the small square-shaped home, I felt as
if I stepped back in time, a time when Marshall Dillon and his scruffy
hillbilly deputy Festus patrolled the dirty dusty streets of Dodge City
settling down at the Long Branch with their friends for a drink at the end of a
chaotic and frenzied day.
The second room is the parlor, the very room and spot where
Jesse was killed. The motion activated
speaker system took me back through the years igniting my imagination about
that fateful day. I envisioned myself as
a fly on the wall watching Bob Ford quietly drawing his revolver while Jesse
adjusted a lopsided frame hanging on the wall, shot him in the head, killing
him instantly. A monetary bounty and the
prospect of a gubernatorial pardon from a previous murder was too much of a
temptation for Mr. Ford to resist. Under
the crooked needlepoint artwork, a large hole symbolizes the location where the
fatal bullet supposedly pierced the plaster wall.
In the room behind the parlor, visitors cannot miss a
display of a casting of Jesse’s skull and teeth. A red plug in the lower right of the skull
indicates the entry point of the fatal bullet.
It was a pleasant day in St. Joe which I found to be
quite educational. Besides driving
straight through to our destination city, stopping to smell the roses along the
way was just what I needed to take my mind off the thought of running a
marathon unprepared.
Driving some of the back roads and scenic byways on
our way to a marathon host city is something we normally avoid and certainly
out of our wheelhouse. After a good
night’s rest, instead of driving a direct route to Grand Island, we dared
ourselves by driving some of those back roads exploring some of the unseen treasures
not visible from the interstate.
Leaving St. Joseph, we crossed the Pony Express Bridge
guiding us into Kansas hooking up with some of the scenic two-lane byways
through the eastern Kansas farm lands. Seeing
and enjoying the landscape through a different lens is indescribable as the
green hilly farmlands blanketed with corn stalks, soy beans and trees defined
the diverse topographical contours of the region.
As we approached the tiny enclave of White Cloud,
something unusual grabbed my attention. Being
the seat of government of the Iowa Reservation of Kansas and Nebraska, White
Cloud is a sleepy little hillside village with quaint nineteenth century brick
buildings and architecture. Twentieth
century grain silos and an elevator hugging KS 7 welcome motorists as they enter
the community. Based on empirical evidence,
this area was once home to a loading dock used to supply river navigating
vessels and barges with loads of grain for transport up and down the Missouri. A memorial pavilion stands on a grassy space on
the east side of the highway, representing the location where Lewis and Clark
crossed the Missouri on their epic journey to the Pacific.
A stone’s throw from White Cloud sits the Four States
Lookout, one of the eight wonders of Kansas’ geography. From a raised wood deck platform positioned
high on a bluff, spectacular views may be had atop the rolling loess hills of
the glacial hills region with the Missouri River and its expansive, and very
visible, floodplain meandering and snaking its way across the foreground. From the observation deck, onlookers claim to
see four different states, Kansas, Missouri, Nebraska and Iowa. As I looked out over the horizon, I believe
viewing Iowa some sixty miles away is a stretch. Who knows, maybe on a crisp clear day, it’s
possible to see a tall object with a set of binoculars. Neglecting the effects of atmospheric
refraction, I calculate one can see maybe only 15 to 20 miles to the horizon.
Due to the fact my profession gyrates around the
disciplines of engineering and land surveying, I am fully cognizant of the
Public Land Surveying System as a way of platting real property in most areas
of the United States. Digressing, the
Homestead Act and the PLSS go hand-in-hand as part of the westward expansion by
portioning out quarter-acre sections of land platted by the PLSS.
Less than three miles from White Cloud, hidden from
view among the trees on a high loess bluff overlooking the Missouri, is a
monument positioned on the Kansas/Nebraska state line that has been very much disregarded
in terms of importance. It marks the
beginning point for the surveys of the 6th Principal Meridian under
the PLSS (located 108 miles, or 18 townships, to the west), but its designation
has simply been the “Cast Iron Monument”.
 |
| The famous monument |
 |
| This says it all |
At the conclusion of my pre-marathon hill-climbing
exercise (at least it wasn’t as strenuous as Alaska’s Bodenburg Butte, see State
No. 25), it was time to resume our drive to Grand Island.
Oops! The
highway leading into the community of Rulo, NE abruptly and quite rudely ended
with a road closure at the bridge spanning the Big Nemaha River, just short of
Rulo. A nearly ten mile unmarked detour,
by the way, through soy bean and corn fields around the construction was a little
more than we had planned. A friendly
Nebraskan even stopped to ask us if we needed assistance. Once in Rulo, we crossed the bridge back over
the Missouri dropping into the Missouri River’s wide fertile floodplain
composed of stratified primordial fluvial deposits.
 |
| My town! |
The enormity of flat lands are home to a mosaic of
field crops, grain silos, scattered communities and vital wetland habitats. Visual evidence of ancient river meanders and
oxbow lakes gave indications of the river’s fluctuating flow patterns and the ever-changing
boundary separating Kansas and Nebraska from Missouri.
The country roads through the farm lands reconnected
with I-29 just south of Mound City. From
there, our northward journey began. The
extracurricular and interesting geological formations of our backroad excursion,
in my professional opinion, was time well spent – although, not all may agree.
Situated eight miles north of Mound City and one mile
off I-29 lies Craig, MO, a small incorporated city encompassing about 300 residents. It goes without saying that I must pull off
the beaten path and not miss an opportunity to pay a visit to “my” city.
Apparently, Craig may be small in size, but was
certainly large enough to survive the Great Flood of 1993. From a floodplain management perspective, why
someone would stake out a town or openly live on a floodplain of a major river
is undoubtedly eye brow raising.
We crossed the Missouri/Iowa state line and diverged
off I-29 at Highway 2 through Nebraska City and the miles of endless rolling
hills of corn and soy fields to the state’s capital, Lincoln.
From Lincoln, it was west along a straight-as-an-arrow
stretch of the transcontinental interstate route I-80 to Grand Island.
Grand Island, an oasis on the Platte River and a
former hustling and bustling railroad town of nearly 49,000 is the official site
of the annual Nebraska State Fair and fittingly sited along the not-so-known,
but historically significant, Lincoln Highway (now U.S. 30).
We arrived in Grand Island in time for packet pick-up
and the expo. Held at a sponsoring
bank’s basement, the simple, yet convenient expo efficiently distributed the
event’s goody bags and fair entry tickets to all participants. Helpful and friendly volunteers were on hand
to answer any question a runner may pose.
Whether it was the right answer or not, it was an answer and best left
to the discretion of the runner.
 |
| We made it! |
 |
| Welcome - note the corn |
Being an aficionado and a history enthusiast of the
U.S. highway and interstate system, I was thrilled to view the last remaining undisturbed
section of the historic Seedling Mile in the country. Situated near that highway section sits a
1930s vintage filling station, Kensinger’s Gas and Supply. I can only guess what kind of stories that
station could tell.
The day was turning to dusk, and I seriously began to
think about how my training will affect my marathon performance. As I made my way back to the hotel, a Hy-Vee supermarket
caught my eye. Since we lacked some of
the bare essentials for a pre-marathon meal, I grabbed a bottled water, two candy
bars and a couple of bananas to supplement a granola bar I had earlier packed. I debated whether to arm myself with a bagel,
but something told me to forgo that.
Getting descent sleep in a new environment is always
difficult for me. My marathon rest was
certainly not up to par. I woke up tired
and uninspired to run, let alone 26 miles.
I just had to do it and get it done.
I envisioned myself to finish the run in a horrible
time. The front desk personnel only
allowed us a 1200 check-out time and with the race starting at 0630, a 1200
check-out time was certainly out of the question. We would just have to drive back to Lincoln
without a shower.
 |
| My ticket to run |
I fed my inner power plant by munching on my granola
bar like a cow chewing cud, supplementing it with bananas while washing it down
with gulps of water. I followed my
pre-race meal with acetaminophen supplemented with caffeine to take the edge
off any pain I may experience over the first thirteen miles.
The sun had not yet risen as we left the hotel under
mostly cloudy skies and into the breezy cool humid air. The close and easy parking allowed runners
ample time to display their fair entry tickets at the gate, drop off any items
needed after the run, take some pictures and have a good time listening to the tunes
emanating from large speakers stacked near at the start line.
As start time drew near, runners gathered under a metal-framed
gantry structure draped with a banner either welcoming those who enter the fair
or thanking patrons who leave the fair.
A delightful and special runner’s prayer and the singing of our National
Anthem kicked off the fair’s annual marathon.
Despite the warm and humid weather, I forbade my
nerves from invading my morning. I went
in with my head held high. It was another
marathon, just like the forty-nine others I had run before, only in a new
state. Unlike many runners around me, with
some lamenting the possibility that the warm weather might affect their times to
qualify them for Boston, I had no time expectations. Here I stood, in the middle of Cornhusker
Country, ready to gut out 26.2 miles in whatever time I could and a BQ was just
a figment of my imagination. All too
often, a BQ doesn’t cross my mind anymore.
Mostly, it seems to be only a pipedream.
I’ve even heralded the possibility of coughing up enough money to pay
for charity runner status just to experience the thrill of the marathon. I even think the capital outlay would be
worth it, while I’m still “young”.
Don’t get the wrong impression, I am very much on
board with improving my running times. But
whatever is targeting my VO2 max inhibiting my endurance levels, I refuse to
succumb to it. I still have hope that
someday, somewhere, perhaps in my 60s (assuming I haven’t fallen apart), my VO2
max levels will be high enough to propel me to run a legitimate BQ.
The minimum Boston qualifying time for my age is under
3:30, meaning I have to run the first half in 1:45. Since 3:30 won’t guarantee me a spot, a time near
3:25 would likely do the trick.
The morning, I would say, was not perfect. It was tepid with a higher than I would like
dew point, but nice, nonetheless. Around
600 or so runners crowded into their respective places are the starting line
ready to take on the challenge of a full or half marathon. The weak sound of a cap gun signaled the
start, and we were off and running. Thanks
to the gray skies and cooling southwesterly breeze blowing over the vast corn
fields, I thought the day was going to turn out better than I had imagined. I tore out of the start area looping around
the Island Oasis Water Park feeling great maintaining a “blistering” 8:46 first
mile.
I was tearing up the flat and fast course and I was caught
up in the zone, the “out too fast, hope you last” zone. I eased up a tad knowing that the glory of
these miles could come crashing down at any moment. I evaluated my form, my breathing, my
turnover, my cadence, feeling emboldened by how easy it felt to carry this pace
– even with the lack of training since Fargo.
We veered off Locust Street just shy of Marathon Mile
3 onto a bike/pedestrian trail along a trapezoidal shaped grass-lined flood
control channel. The weather was still overcast
and cool, but I had already begun to sweat profusely due to the humidity
levels. The pleasantry of the cool
breeze in my face was very much welcomed.
Over the next four miles, we began tearing up the
roads through Nebraska’s corn fields.
The lackluster, uninspiring and monotonous scenery was enough to propel
me to pick up my pace just to escape seeing the same thing. I couldn’t wait until we once again viewed
park lands and cityscapes.
As I approached Marathon Mile 8, a horse somehow
escaped the pastureland in which he belonged.
His buddies were trying to coax him into jumping over the hog wire fence,
but he refused. Instead, as runners
approached, he would scamper onto the road telling anyone who listened, that he
wanted back in his pasture with his buddies.
I politely told him I had a time-sensitive job to do and couldn’t help
at the moment.
Around Marathon Mile 9, we entered the shaded grounds
of Hall County Park. Finally, the first
hint of spectators cheering on runners. Up
until this point, I had been running comfortably, knocking out 9:30 miles as if
on autopilot. But then, something
happened, my body decided to completely forget that I’ve been running marathons
for seventeen years. All my experience
on the roads, with the repetitive plod of running, was harshly erased. My body crossed into the Twilight Zone, where
my memories of running were intact, but my body didn’t make the transition.
Two miles later I entered the grounds of the Stuhr Museum. I got the first indication that this wasn’t going to be my day back at
Marathon Mile 10, but I refused to accept it.
As I ran around the grounds’ circular lot, I glanced at my Garmin at the
Marathon Mile 12 marker in a time of two hours flat, one minute slower than my
target pace.
This early in
the race, I knew there was no way I could keep up a decent pace for the
remainder of the marathon. Had this
slowdown happened after 23 miles, maybe I could dig deep into my grab-bag of
things and save the day; but I wasn’t even past the psychological halfway mark. Now, I recognized I had to accept my ultimate
fate.
I suddenly faced
a dilemma: do I keep going as fast as I can, whatever the pace, or force myself
to slow down gradually, at my own pace, and still somehow enjoy the marathon
experience? It wasn’t a hard decision –
slow down and enjoy the day since I had no expectations going into this race. Besides, finishing a marathon is one of the
best feelings in the world.
I crossed the
half point with a time of 2:11 which began a regimen of walking a quarter mile
and running a half or three quarter mile with the hopes the routine could get
me to the finish in under five hours.
Just after
Marathon Mile 14, we entered the grounds of the Grand Island Cemetery for a
one-mile loop around grave stones. Who’s
ever heard of a marathon course through a cemetery?
The skies were
still mostly overcast and a tad windy, but the temperatures were climbing
higher with each passing hour. Between
Marathon Miles 16 and 17, an angel must have swooped down out of the heavens
landing next to the bike trail. A man
was there handing out frozen ice pops to anyone who wanted one. I couldn’t resist! The sweetness and cold ice hit the spot with
the sugar giving me a little, but short-lived, boost.
 |
| Wonderful symbol of history |
My walk-run
routine worked well for me until a couple of miles on the dreaded section of
U.S. 30 (the Lincoln Highway). The cloud
cover began to wane and the sun became more and more intense. Combined with the elevated dew point levels,
I felt as if I was beginning to bake.
The shadeless Lincoln Highway was nearly unbearable and I could feel the
back of my neck beginning to burn.
Mile after mile
of concrete road pounding the feet and legs proved to be more than I could handle. Walking became the norm and getting through
the next six miles of the only out-and-back portion of the course was a sizable
and substantial undertaking. The
highlight of this brutal section was when I high-fived my wife at Marathon Mile
18 as she had just crossed Marathon Mile 23 approaching from the opposite
direction.
Shortly after,
I began to hear some toe-tapping polka and waltz music filling the air with a
melodic bouquet. The great music shined
a pool of light on my performance and momentarily took my mind off the
discomfort I was feeling.
As I got close
enough, it was The Pavelka’s out of nearby Hastings, NE playing that great
polka music. I turned to them and gave
them two thumbs up (way up) as they waved and smiled at me. I guess I’m one of the few souls around today
who enjoys that music genre – and I could not wait to hear them once again on
my return trip.
My energy
levels were rapidly depleting with each and every step. At Marathon Mile 21 (finally the turnaround
point), my walk-run routine suddenly became a walk one mile, run quarter mile.
 |
| Love the name |
As I rounded
the corner at Gunbarrel Road (love that name) and the Lincoln Highway, the
proverbial wheels finally came off. It
was walk time. I kept repeating to
myself, “You know, the more you walk, the longer you must tolerate this heat.” But my legs just wouldn’t maintain any pace
beyond a walk. My lack of training since
Fargo began to rear its ugly self. All I
know, injuries suck!
Since I
resorted to a walking routine, I had the time to take some photos along the
way. There on the north side of the
Lincoln Highway was Kensinger’s Gas and Supply I saw the day before. This time, the lighting was better and I had
an improved vantage point.
As time went
on, I wasn’t able to hear the sounds of the polka music. When I approached their location, workers
were disassembling their equipment and packing up for the day. The sight of that suddenly instilled a sense
of gloom. I realized, was I near the
back of the pack? It wasn’t much
further, when I saw the last runner accompanied by a cyclist summing up the
rear. Being near the back didn’t sit well
with me, but what could I do? I was
drained and so looked forward to receiving my medal.
The seemingly unending
minutes suddenly turned to a pleasurable memory, the sight of the finish line
off in the distance. I mustered up the
last bits of energy from my grab-bag, crossed Fonner Park Road, almost tripping
on the cross gutter because of my weakened legs, and entered the pearly gates
of the fairgrounds. Angels were there
cheering me on giving me the strength I needed to finish, which felt like
running.
Salvaging the marathon
and finishing with a semblance of a smile felt like a million bucks. To me, it’s nothing new to snarl through the
second half to finish with an unimpressive time. It’s not my first rodeo.
Rather than
making a decision some elite runners make, like dropping out of a race around
30k rather than finishing, was not an option I was willing to take. If you have a good training baseline and you
can tell early on that a good time is just not going to happen, why fight
against the strain and just finish with a smile – no matter the time.
My Garmin read
26.34 miles and I finished with an uninspiring time of 5:20:47, a paltry 12:11
pace.
Age graded
score: 43.91%
Age graded
time: 4:39:59
Average time:
4:30:53
Standard deviation: 0:59:11
 |
| Not-so-lovely performance stats |
I gave it my all for the last 0.2 mile,
more or less. I was so exhausted and hot
I quickly grabbed an ice water infused towel, placed it over my head and
squeezed out the cold refreshing water.
I made my way over to the food area for
a cold bottle of water, chocolate milk, orange slices, bananas, a few doughnut
holes and sat down on the curb for a much needed rest, knowing that getting up
would be a considerable challenge.
With a much sought after rest, my wife
and I walked around the fair perusing some of the exhibits. The heat index was so intense, walking around
the fair was quite uncomfortable for me and I preferred to stay in an air
conditioned building or in the shade of a breezeway. Moreover, my feet were killing me. What I did notice was just how many of the building
cornerstones were laid by Nebraska freemasons.
Me, being stinky and sweaty, we left
Grand Island mid-afternoon for a long drive to Lincoln. I needed a nice shower, but a quick face
wipe-down would have to do.
Upon our arrival in Lincoln, a shower
was first on my agenda before heading to the indoor pool and spa area for some therapeutic
relaxation. After a delicious Mexican
dinner at a recommended establishment, it was back to the room to ready
ourselves for our trip back to MCI.
After a good night’s rest and surviving
a mean early morning Midwest thunderstorm, it was off to Kansas City to catch
our flight back to LAX; but first, a visit to the University of Nebraska campus
(home of the Huskers) and the five dollar tour of the state capitol.
 |
| Brook Berringer and Tom Osborne statue outside Memorial Stadium. I'm also directing. |
 |
| Capitol Building |
 |
| View of Lincoln from atop capitol building looking north |
Over the years, I’ve heard and seen lots
about the University of Nebraska, especially the popularity of the football team
and how big football is in the Midwest.
It seems like every Saturday during the autumn season, the Big Ten
Huskers is somewhere on television, fighting it out with another big school on
their famous gridiron.
An opportunity presented itself, a chance
to finally visit the campus and see the stadium I’ve seen on television up
close and personal. Whether or not
Sunday tours were available, we didn’t have the time for a stadium tour, so we
did the next best thing – a walk around the stadium peaking in through the
openings in fences and walls to see the field turf. I even had my chance at assisting UN’s well-known
coach Tom Osborne advising a quarterback (Brook Berringer) which option is best
given the circumstances.
At 1300 hours, we began a tour of the
state’s capitol building. The fifty-minute,
yet very informative, tour of the second floor covered a detailed explanation
of the symbolism, artwork, building construction, and the branches of Nebraska government. Besides walking the floors gazing at the
busts of historic figures, the highlight of our visit was an elevator ride up
the capitol’s tower to the fourteenth floor observation deck for a birds-eye
view of Lincoln.
All of that walking and touring worked
up an appetite. To cap off our Lincoln
visit, we chowed down on a delicious burger from Honest Abe’s Burgers &
Freedom. My ultra-messy Firestarter burger
laden with jalapeños, pepper jack cheese and a side of hot fries definitely lit
a fire inside me. Sure could have used a
knife and a fork with that meal.
Our tenancy in Nebraska sadly came to a
close. With an intermediate stop in
Nebraska City to admire the view of the Missouri River from atop a bluff, we arrived
at the place from whence we came without incident. Besides the hustle and bustle of the snarled
traffic at LAX, we safely arrived at our humble place of abode.
What about my top ten list for the State
Fair Marathon? Here goes it:
10. Finisher’s medal and event tech shirt. The medal is ok, not terrible, but not
amazing either.
9. Complimentary entry
to the Nebraska State Fair. Too bad I
was so exhausted and sore to enjoy. Let’s
not forget how hot it was to be outside.
8. Small field of runners for both the full and
half. The small field made running the
bike trails easier.
7. The ease of the expo
and packet pick-up. Kudos to the
volunteers.
6. The flat and fast
course. The marathon boasts it’s the flattest
and fastest in the nation.
5. Police assistance
with traffic control. Let’s face it,
they did a superb job.
4. The spirit and camaraderie of the spectators. Without their
support, I would have had a tougher time navigating the final miles.
3. Running the historic
Lincoln Highway and a portion of the Seedling Mile. I love engineering.
2. The incredible
volunteers who made this race a success!
1. Finishing! The best feeling in the world.
Truth be told, this marathon may have earned me 77,000
sq. miles or 49,280,000 acres of surface area on my state map. But as I blaze my path to the stardom of fifty
statehood, it is just as big and meaningful as Montana, Texas or Alaska. Even though I won’t be crossing off my
remaining seventeen states anytime soon, I am getting close enough that I can begin
to taste the finish. Slowly but
resolutely, the journey continues, one unpredictable story at a time.
Onwards. With
trepidation and even a little reluctance…it’s onwards, nevertheless. It only gets better from here.
 |
| So true |
