Yesterday, I ran the San Francisco Marathon. Well, some of the San Francisco Marathon. Full disclosure: about a third of the San Francisco Marathon. Nonetheless, I crossed the finish line before the cops let the traffic and sanitation trucks onto the course, and made good on my pledge to the many people who contributed to the National Brain Tumor Foundation on my behalf. More than $2000 was raised through dozens of generous donatons, and I made it my mission to finish within the allotted six hours.

Unlike my previous marathon experiences, I developed a sound training and race-day strategy… start with race-walking until my legs started working properly, run until something feels stiff, switch to race-walking until I’m so tired of it that switching to a run feels like a break, and repeat until done. I had managed a half-dozen run/walks in the 12-15 mile range, and had timed myself for 13.1 miles (half a marathon) in 2 hours, 35 minutes, which would result in a near-5-hour marathon, and lots of margin for error if I failed to keep up such a blistering pace. Packed with my water bottle, four packs of energy gel and a phone, the ever-gracious Ellen whisked me to the starting line at the first glimmerings of daylight at 5:15 a.m. and I took my designated place in Wave Eight, some four blocks from the starting line where the elite flight of runners were lined up. Seven “waves” and forty minutes later, our group officially shuffled through the starting gate as the East Bay was silhouetted against the orange and pink morning sky.

A river of people flowed down the Embarcadero, many wearing yellow team jerseys for AIDS organizations or memorializing friends or relatives, and I strode purposefully, passed on both sides by people who were actually running already. At Mile One, I switched to a trot, which took me through the wonderfully green Crissy Field area and I could see the snake of people climbing the slope towards the Golden Gate Bridge. Soon, I was there myself and switched back to racewalking to attack the hill. At the mid-point of the bridge and facing the first downhill in a mile or so, I let gravity be my friend and ran for awhile. Rounding the vista point, I spotted a pacesetter…a runner with a sign indicating his estimated finishing time…and it was 5 hours 0 minutes. And I was keeping comfortable pace with the small group surrounding him.

Off the bridge, down through the Presidio, up through Sea Cliff and into the park, the crowd pressed on. And it was amazing some of the people who were doggedly shuffling ahead. People who looked like they were at least 70. People who looked way too overweight to be doing this. But everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time. Racers hummed the “Rocky” tune. I passed a couple of women running for the NBTF team. Volunteers handed out water and directed traffic, and every so often, someone had a professional sound system hooked up to a generator. (My favorite such moment was hearing U2 belt out “Sunday Bloody Sunday” just as I was wondering if I could keep this up for three more hours.)

Every mile brought a different decorative banner, and sprinkled over the course were signs each displaying a SF trivia question, and 50 yards, later, the answer. We rounded the buffalo corral in the park without seeing any, and headed for Stow Lake, a part of the course dear to my heart as a favorite running spot from 30 years ago. Around Mile 16 or 17, I was striding around the lake when I approached one of the race photographers and broke into a run, feeling that a walking photo would be lame. Unfortunately, when I directed my legs to start running, they didn’t get the memo. I staggered, Joe Cocker-like for a few yards before abandoning the charade, letting the photographer snap a shot that will never see the light of day.

On through the park, past a homeless man sleeping within a few feet of the race course and the only beer stop of the day (“carbos!” they cried with their paper cups) and onto Haight Street, sans buses and cars and most of its everyday inhabitants. As Haight sloped down towards Market, the bay and the ballpark could be seen in the distance, and those whose legs were still operating took advantage of the hill to coast towards the Mission. By this time, volunteers were beginning to let traffic cross the race route in small groups as the parade of marathoners was thinning out. I had long since lost sight of the 5-hour man and the 5-1/2 hour man, and was concerned that my deteriorating pace might not get me within the time limit. Thick 60-year-old ladies continued to pass me. At one point, the only band of the day was playing on the east slope of Potrero Hill, serenading us with Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love.” I tried to sing along, but had only enough wind to emit a pathetic squawk. Photographs from this part of the race would reveal a taut-faced, determined but very slow man trying to complete the course.

As the ballpark loomed ahead, I crossed the 23-mile mark and realized that I had one hour to go. If I could average better than 3 miles per hour, I would beat the 6-hour time limit. By inhaling deeply and pumping my arms purposefully, I adjusted my cruising speed to 3.25 miles per hour and held steady, swigging some water and popping the last of my gel paks. One mile from the finish, rounding AT&T Park, I attempted what seemed like a routine transition from the street to a sidewalk, but once again my legs had their own agenda, and I jerked about spastically, simultaneously trying to regain my balance and work out a half dozen different cramps. Soon, I had rounded the corner on Embarcadero and could smell the finish line. Looking up, I could see the Ferry Building clock reading 12:10…exactly six hours after I had begun. Although there were people behind me, there was the definite sense that the circus was folding up its tent. Soon, I spotted Ellen’s welcoming arms and we walked to our car, parked some half a mile farther up the street.

Once home, I took a nap…hoping that when I woke up, I would have a brand new body. Unfortunately, the three hours were not enough, and when I emerged, it was with only slightly more vigor than if I had been in a coma. But by evening, I was starting to function in the fully upright position, and had tracked down the race results online to find that I had finished in an official 5:59:04…smashing thru the time limit by nearly a full minute. Despite this performance, it has been gently suggested that perhaps the half marathon is a more appropriate distance for me. I am, however, already planning how to improve my performance in the next marathon…I feel blessed beyond words that it is even possible for me, and feel that I can still get better at this. Even so, next time I’m packing some Motrin.