Running

Fat Girls Finish: Training for the Missoula Marathon, Part 3

By Jule Banville, 6-15-11

	At the end of our first-ever half: tired, hungry and still friends.

When last I left you, we were lined up at the start of the 2010 Missoula Half Marthon, vibrating to “Eye of the Tiger” or, possibly, our nervous bladders.

It’s hard to tell which has more influence when, after 18 weeks of training for a goal, I, a lover of butter, find myself in running clothes and waiting for a cannon.

And we’re off, my running partner, Claire, and I. And as we near Maclay Flats, near the first mile marker, we are stopped, off the course, taking a detour, because my nervous bladder is suddenly joined by my nervous bowels. Being a local in this crowded race has its advantages when nature does more than calmly call.

No one else hits the park’s bathrooms and, as we near the first aid station about three miles in, it’s clear some of them should have. There’s a line at the Port-A-Johns about three miles long.

We sail past it. We are on our way. We are former nonrunners running 13.1 miles. You could too, is what I’m saying. Or maybe it’s the runner’s high kicking in…

During the first half of the half, I’m struck by two things: 1) how much I need to pee always and 2) what a gorgeous course this is. Surrounded by blue morning light on mountains, meandering along the Bitterroot River, you barely notice your flesh being torn from your body and consumed by 4,000 mosquitoes. By the time you hit that one lane bridge, you are thankful that some of your person is gone, anyway. Losing flesh makes you lighter on your feet and you’ll need that later on.

Why are the Missoula Half and Full Marathons No. 1? Free Big Sky beer at the end. You’d be surprised how refreshing it is at 9 in the morning.

While pretty Made-in-Montana scenery dominates the first part of the race, sprinklers and sporadic cheerleaders (aimed right at you!) take over when you hit town. Just when you think you are flagging, when you contemplate sitting on the loo and maybe not getting up again, when you think you might just stand in the middle of a stranger’s sprinkler forever, someone’s there to yell into your face, “You can do it!” and “Nice job!” and “You have toilet paper stuck to your shorts!”

Claire and I attempt to run the course, but we are not in it to win it, unless winning it means a cold beer when this over. (It does! Big Sky Brewery is there with a free one!) We walk sometimes. We stop when we see our families on the side of the road holding signs and looking terribly cute. We enjoy ourselves because we know that we will, eventually, finish, because our excellent training program works, or so we’re told.

The leader of the marathon, you know, the race that’s twice as long as the one we are on, breezes by us when we have, oh, four or five miles yet to go. Ahead and behind him, guys on bikes clear his path like a white Bronco on a slow police chase. It is very exciting to see a real athlete so close! But where is the next aid station! I am hungry and I have to pee!

The last two or three miles, the ones beyond bonking “the wall” are notably tough. Walking feels nice. But not as nice as stopping would. But what’s that ahead, that beacon of concrete? It’s the Missoulian! God bless you and your bricks and mortar in the digital age! The newspaper building, just before the turn across the Higgins Avenue Bridge and the big Finish, seems like it was put there just for us because, at this point, we are delusional.

We hit the bridge and start hauling considerable ass. At least my ass is considerable, even after all this running business.

No matter. In this moment, we are moviestar runners with perfect form and dramatic music and adoring fans. Never mind that puke creeping up my esophagus.

Keep sprinting! There is my terribly cute family again! There are balloons and a very large clock and The End of all of this just ahead!

Finishing and getting a cheap, cherished medal around my neck was probably one of the greatest moments of my life. It stuck with me; I think it sticks with anyone who makes it to the end of a goal race, especially that first time.

During the rest of the summer (in which I stupidly stopped running), and the brief fall, and an overly long start of an overly long Montana winter, that sense of accomplishment I had on the Higgins Bridge faded, but didn’t disappear.

I’d occasionally dial up the memory and savor it. It was during one of these sessions, probably over another beer, that I started thinking about maybe a full marathon next. Because it sounded nutty. And do you know what goes good with beer? Nuts.

Next: Joining a cult. Ooooh! Spooky!

Did you miss the first installment? Well get on back there to the photo of the cow! And what about the second when I talk about beating up on a Brooklyn girl? 

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