I'm not heartened by the make-up of the 2-year-old Roadrunners either—nearly 200 members ages 6 to 86, several with physical disabilities. They've been running 28 weeks in preparation for the marathon. I haven't. They knew what they were getting into (the group formed to train aspiring marathoners). I didn't. Thank the running gods that Sunday's jaunt along trails systems, alongside gorges, beneath underpasses and through washes in Green Valley is a final tune-up and not the normal 13- and 20-mile runs.
I figure "goo," an ingestible gel-like substance that, when rinsed with water, provides instant energy, can give me that extra oomph, you know, do for me what spinach does for Popeye. By 5:30, Roadrunners begin arriving and talking about the goo—specifically about not using it today. A wispy woman with the muscled legs of a Clydesdale tells her clique to wait until the marathon. Ditto this tall, body-by-Bowflex guy with his boys. So I end my search. Don't want to look like a wuss. Not that I plan to run all the way, anyway. I'll run a little, jog a bit, walk some and stop periodically to jot notes. The 6 a.m. start time nears. After some stretching, during which I touch my calves because I can't reach my toes, and some running, during which I am convinced I was born without the slow-twitch fibers common among distance runners, I figure this might be the calm before my hospitalization. Kelly makes matters worse. Introducing me to the burgeoning crowd of spandexed hoofers, he says, "Mr. Hodge is going to run at a 5-minute-a-mile pace."
To which a rather serious-looking Roadrunner—tall and lithe, as if he'd run right out of the womb and into Boston Marathon—quips, "Why so slow?"
Sensing his challenging tone, I back down: "He meant a 50-minute-per-mile pace."
Race time. I initially hang with Carlos Ramirez and his 6-year-old godson, Terence Letempt. Worse comes to worse, I know I could beat the little boy. (You may disagree over whether winning is everything, but everyone agrees that losing sucks.) Letempt is doing the 13-mile half marathon. He's excited. "It's my first one," he says.
Bonding seems more important for them than competing, so I jog ahead.
"I heard you coming. How are you?" Tracy Kerestes says.
An open invitation to talk. Yes. We run some, but mostly walk and talk. I learn that she's 37, has two kids and, thanks to the Roadrunners, has lost 24 pounds, gained self-confidence and expanded her social circle.
"I'm not really trusting of people," she says. "But the Roadrunners have been great. I've always been the person to get on diets and not stick to them and to not always go to the gym. This is the first time I've stuck with something like this. The friendships are so wonderful."
We're being lapped. Neatest thing, though: No one makes you feel bad; it's all positive reinforcement. Keep going, you can do it. Kerestes is one of the biggest cheerleaders. "I almost always finish last," she says. At the halfway mark, having walked more than two of the three miles, I challenge myself to run all the way back. Before taking off, I chat up Ron Contreras. He's part of a 50-member group that's raising money to build homes in Cambodia and the Philippines. His doctor advised him not to run. "I'm in pain, but it's for a good cause," he says.
He's gone, so I'm off, running, but not fast. I walk a few times, mostly on hills, but only to catch my breath. My feet hurt, my legs are heavy and my knees quake. There's recurrent pain in my right breast. I think heart attack before I realize the pain is on the wrong side. I'm running so slow I might as well walk.
With a half-mile to go, I latch on to Mary Hickey, 39. She says I can coast in with her. She's doing a half-marathon this year; last year she ran the full marathon. Almost quit, too. So she's not tolerating any quit from me. Last year, she told a fellow marathoner that the only vehicle she was allowed to leave in was an ambulance. "I told her she was a pansy if she quit the race," Hickey laughs. "She didn't quit."
I'm not quitting. I'm not a pansy.
"And we have some of our final Roadrunners. Oh, that's one Roadrunner and our reporter," Kelly says to a smattering of applause as we round the bend and are 100 yards away from the finish line. Hickey quickens her stride—"gotta finish strong." I'm 15 steps behind, content with finishing.
Most of the serious runners have long since gone; some finished in under an hour. My time: slightly more than two and a half hours. It's warm, I'm sweating profusely and, with folks congratulating me, feeling like a star. I thank Hickey for keeping my mind off the pain and Kelly for letting me run. I didn't need the goo after all.