I guess I need to update this page. The text that follows was written about a week before this year's Kingston Half Marathon on the 27th of April.

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So, now that I'm a week away from a Half Marathon and three weeks away from my second full Marathon, I'm finally getting around to putting up info on my first Marathon, run in Ottawa on 12 May 2002 (Mother's Day). The Alcatel National Capitol Marathon, in fact.

I'm running it again this year, on 11 May, as well as the Kingston Half Marathon on 27 Apr. I have time goals for both, but I'm keeping my mouth shut in case I've misjudged my training. I'll admit to things after the fact if I'm successful. If not, I'll just say I came close, even if I didn't.

Rather than write a whole new Marathon Experience bit for this page, I'm going to pull my journal entry from last year, written in a still rather exhausted state of mind the day after.  Click here for a few finish line pictures.

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Less than one year ago, I was a full time smoker.

Less than six months ago, I was a working smoker, three or four cigarettes per day at the office.

Today, I ran a marathon.

Of course, by ran, what I mean is crossed the finish line. But that's what counts.

I actually made the decision to complete a marathon before I had my final cigarette in late December of last year. Went for my first "long" run on Christmas Day. 7.5 km when I was used to running 5 km three or four days each week. 9 km the next week, 10.5 the week after, building up a little at a time.

Over the course of the four and a half months between Christmas and Mother's Day, my daily run increased to between 8 and 10 km. The weekend long run happened about half the time, owing to two separate colds brought home by my children and several short bursts of laziness lasting just long enough to get through the weekend without running very far. When the time to taper arrived, my longest training run had been just a little more than 18k (my original called for 30k several weeks before the race). Soon I would have to run a little more than 42.

Obviously I was delusional. But I'd paid my entrance fee and told far too many people so there was no way I'd back out now.

Picked up the racing kit and paraphernalia on Friday and wandered around the surprisingly small, but filled with cool running stuff, Expo in the basement of the stadium at Landsdowne Park. Bought special running socks and an expensive hotdog for my son, and won several PowerGels by spinning the magic Power Wheel.

Giant pasta dinner served by my mother on Saturday night. Ate rather more than I needed to, but it's called carbo-loading, right? Went to bed as early as my children would allow.

On race day, I slipped out of bed at 0535 and turned the alarm off before it sounded so it wouldn't wake Lesli - she was to get up at a reasonable hour with the kids and meet me at the finish line. A long hot shower and light breakfast followed. I laced up the running shoes, pinned on my race number (2116) and slipped into the front passenger seat of my father's car. Long a very early riser, he'd agreed to drive me in and return for Lesli and whoever else wanted to see me cross the finish line.

It was a quiet drive into the city. Dad and I aren't always very good at making conversation. A flaw, maybe, but I don't think there's anything wrong with a little silence now and then. He got me to within four blocks of the starting line before having to stop the car for me to get out. He stood with me as I divested myself of anything that might weigh me down and applied sunscreen to my face and neck. With everything in the car that wasn't coming with me, I turned to face Dad for a last wishing of good luck. What I got instead was an odd smile. "I just want you to know I'm proud of you for even trying this." And then a big hug. A warm moment with my father and not even at all awkward. It was going to be a good day.

Dad got back into the car and drove off as I walked the last few blocks to the starting area. He told me later that he parked and walked up a nearby bridge to watch the start of the race. Couldn't see me among the almost 2500 other runners flowing by, though.

Hmmm. Still 45 minutes before race time. What to do. Having left myself in just running shorts, a t-shirt, and a baseball cap, I really wasn't dressed for the ambient temperature of 7 degrees Celsius. My adrenaline was running high enough that I wasn't really noticing the temperature and wouldn't for a long time, but some warming up seemed to be in order anyway. After all, I was about to run more than twice as far as I had ever before in my life.

So, a little stretching, a few hundred metres of jogging, a little more stretching.

Ah, perhaps I should stand in line for the port-a-potty before the race. I'd been drinking quite a bit of water all day the day before and up until leaving the house that morning. An empty bladder before start time had to be a good thing. A few leg stretches while waiting in line for ten minutes. Long line, but it moved fairly quickly. A lot of other people with the same idea, but a lot of port-a-potties available.

A little more stretching, a little wandering around, watching most of last of the inline skate marathoners pass by the line - they'd been limited to an hour and five minutes on the first lap or they wouldn't be allowed to do the second. They had to be by us five minutes before we were scheduled to start.

Finally, the announcement comes. Time to line up. Okay, which pace rabbit do I want to be near? I settled on the 4:15 for the time being, though I knew I'd only stay with that pack for the first five or six kilometres. I was well aware that I wouldn't be able to manage my regular pace for the full race. And, being aware of my current situation, knew I should run a little slower than my regular pace so as not to strain whatever endurance I'd managed to build up. It's 42 kilometres plus a bit, after all.

The runners crowded into the start lane. Someone near me said they'd heard there were nearly 3000 marathon runners this year. I couldn't guess at the real number from the crowd, but suspected it was less. 3000 runners would mean two thirds more than the previous year. More people are setting big goals like that for themselves, but that's an awful lot of growth for one year. As it turns out, the reality was close to a 1/3 growth. Still bigger than I thought.

We stood around, many of us trying to stretch out just a little bit more, not doing a very good job as we were a bit too close together to make it comfortable, waiting for the last few minutes to tick by.

They gave a three-minute warning and a one-minute warning. A lot of time seemed to pass between then and the thirty-second warning. When the air horn finally sounded the beginning of the race, the non-elite and not-so-fast runners among us began to shuffle toward the start line.

It seemed an interminable wait. The adrenaline was pumping and we were all ready to take off, only we couldn't. I'd eventually learn that there would be a full two minutes difference between the gun time (sounding of the air horn) and my chip time (start line to finish line). By the time I reached the start line, I was moving a little faster than a walk, but it was still another two or three hundred metres before I was moving at a comfortable pace that I knew I could maintain.

The first aid station came at the 1 km mark. While I would subscribe to the rule that you never refuse water when offered, I felt one kilometre in was a bit too soon. I'd appreciate it on the second lap, but passed it by the first time through.

About three kilometres in came the second aid station and, after a quick drink, I changed my race strategy a bit. I would ignore the pace bunny, find my own pace, and take a short walking break every three or four kilometres, or at aid stations while I sucked back some water or sports drink. Not quite how I trained, but I felt it would suit me fine. The pace I picked was about a 6:45 kilometre - this, along with walking breaks, would put me across the finish line at around the 5 hour mark. Not that I was shooting for a time goal, but it seemed attainable and it would work well for me for most of the race.

The Ottawa Marathon is actually a two loop course, so it has two sets of markers along the route, 1 to 21km and 22 to 42km. Because a marathon is actually about 42.2km, and because they don't want to confuse the spectators by having people run across the finish line twice, the two sets are actually offset by several hundred metres. The first marker we came to was for 22km. There were a lot of snickers and "boy, we're moving pretty quick" type comments at that point. And a few more at 23km, but after that. I remember running past the 37km mark on my way to 15 and feeling pretty good, but also knowing that I'd sooner or later wish that it was really 37 I'd just passed. Or maybe at 38 or 39.

At an official time of 2:29:34, I ran across the marker that defined the half way point. My strategy was working well, putting me just about exactly where I'd wanted to be. It would continue to serve me well for another 14 kilometres or so.

Not long after the 35km marker, for reasons known only to my subconscious, maybe, I stopped watching where I was about to put my feet. At about that time, I put my right foot half into a small pothole, just deep enough to alter how my foot landed. Now, most people would have twisted an ankle in such a situation. Not me. I wrenched my knee. I'm not certain exactly how, or of exactly what I did, but the last 7 km took me a very painful hour and a half instead of a tough fifty minutes or so. As a result, I crossed the finish line with an official (gun) time of 5:34:53. My chip time (start line to finish line) of 5:32:55. I finished in the bottom 10% overall and for my gender, and dead last in my age group classification.

But I finished. 53 people didn't, including 6 in my age classification. So maybe I wasn't quite dead last after all.

The point is that I finished. My legs are going to be sore for days and my knee is likely to take weeks to recover, but I ran a marathon. Stairs are hard, but soaking and the leg massages I keep hitting Lesli up for are helping, I think. Extra sleep is good, too.

I finished a marathon.

But, to paraphrase, it's not so much that I finished as that I was insane enough to start in the first place. Of course, finishing is cool and gives me a certain amount of bragging rights and the authority to call myself a marathon runner. It also gives me the moral right to wear the logo covered race shirt that came with the payment of my entrance fee.

Of course, the really crazy bit is that I intend to do it again. There are two in Toronto in the fall - one in mid-September and one in late October. Don't think I can manage both, but one might be feasible. I'm also seriously considering a sprint distance triathlon or duathlon some time in between.

I think I might be nuts, but it's the kind of nuts I can live with. I just have to heal first.

In fact, I started in my new training regimen not in all that much better shape than the last time. Four months of relative inactivity can do a lot of damage to your fitness level. But I didn't have to clean quite so many poisons out of my body, particularly my lungs, this time, so I was a bit ahead. Hence the time goals. I'm still debating a fall Marathon for this year.

Wish me luck and endurance!