Note: I’m finally finishing up these blogs, weeks after returning from South America. Part of it was that our trip was so jam-packed that it was exhausting to write coherent blog posts as we traveled. Another part of it is that I’m in denial that the trip is over. So, these blogs become a way to document and remember one of the most fulfilling experiences of my life so far.
First, some theme music.
Chariots of Fire is my all-time favorite movie and on the night before both races, I always play the Chariots of Fire theme song. Please enjoy as preparation for reading this post.
5:00 a.m.
I couldn’t sleep. Too nervous. The puttanesca from last night was at war with my stomach. That made me more nervous.
Alarm goes off. I get up. Shower, put on running clothes and triple-check with grab bag. Tie and re-tie my shoes. Is my CHIP on correctly? Yes, it is. Stop worrying about it.
5:45 a.m. Phone rings. An annoyed man on the other line says something about a taxi and says my name. At this point, I’m not going to bother trying to figure out what he’s saying. I say OK. He repeats himself, speaking much quicker. OK. He hangs up.
Dad comes out of his room. Everything okay?
Yes, it is. I’ll see you in a bit.
I go outside to wait. I’m officially on the clock.
***
The Buenos Aires marathon began in the spring of 1984, although the city counts a marathon held in 1903 as the first modern race in Argentina. Buenos Aires hosted numerous competitions and games in the 20th century and has cultivated a strong passion for long distance running from the 1970s onward.
Aside from 2002 (the year of the economic crisis), a marathon has occurred in the city every year. In 2003, the marathon reconstituted with new sponsors and a new route with 900 runners. Since then, it rapidly grew to become South America’s largest marathon, with 8,000 runners in this year’s edition. (It was reported that close to 9,000 ran, which wouldn’t surprise me.)
Much of the appeal of the maratón is the route. The city is flat, with a decent coastal breeze coming for the majority of the route. Spring brings cooler temperatures but more so, low humidity. With the exception of dust and pollen, this is the perfect time to run in BA.
Map of the Buenos Aires marathon
The route is mostly a loop through the entire city. The start and finish line are on the tip of the Belgrano neighborhood. From the start, runners pass through Palmero and Recoleta, then hit the main highway to turn onto the city center. From there, runners traversed through alleys and side streets to get to Avenida 9 de Julio (the widest avenue in the world), Plaza de Mayo and the San Telmo and Las Bocas neighborhood on the south end of the city.
One of the highlights: The famed Boca stadium in the La Bocas neighborhood.
Runners make a turn toward the ports, go through Puerto Madero and the ecological reservoir then head up Avenida Figueroa Alcorta, taking a last run around the lake to the finish.
***
6:00 a.m.
I head out to wait outside the apartment complex. Party goers are heading back to wherever they came from. Taxis filled with one-day lovers finishing their make out sessions breeze through the streets.
No taxi for me.
The day before, Dad and I rode to the starting line to watch the preparation and get a sense of time and distance. From our calculations, it was about 5k from where we were in Palmero to the starting line.
I gave myself until 6:15 to decide to wait or start walking/running. A taxi would come by, then speed off. Another one. Then another one.
At 6:10, the street went silent. The sun was starting to come up.
Alright, Plunkett, time to walk?
Shit. This is going to suck.
***
There has been one pressing thought that has haunted me for most of my training. It wasn’t how well I was going to do. It wasn’t how I was going to smuggle in my Hammer energy gels into Argentina or which compression socks to wear.
It was: How was I going to get there?
I don’t mean getting to Argentina or Buenos Aires, but the corner of Avenida Figueroa Alcorta y Monroe. This corner was the start/finish line for the marathon. And this corner has been on my mind for months.
The metaphorical thoughts aside, I really stressed about how the hell I was going to physically get there. Here’s why: The race was Sunday morning at 7:30 a.m, which meant the Subté (the metro line) wasn’t open. Buses were running but street closures began the night before and the route diversions could leave me farther away from where I needed to be. That leaves walking or running or get a taxi.
Everything I had read about taxis in Buenos Aires boiled down to two things, most of which was the taxi force was a mafia and they are known for screwing over foreigners. If you don’t know Spanish, well, pay attention, look at the pesos and watch the driver’s eyes at all times.
Good. God.
As you can see, this was weighing on my mind. This last 5k of getting to the damn race became the claw in my brain.
The recommendation was to call a taxi company the night before and make a reservation. I’m going to skip over the conversation but it involved being hung up twice, having the taxi dispatcher yell at me in the fastest variation of Spanish I’ve ever heard and me saying my address five times because I didn’t know what else to say.
Nevertheless, the reservation was made and I attempted to go to bed. By attempted, I was as nervous as I’ve ever been. Hell, that doesn’t even begin to explain it.
I had made it this far and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be derailed by some taxi mafia. Even if it meant I ran another 5k for the hell for it, this was going to happen. I’d come too far to be stopped by this, right?
Right?
***
6:14 a.m.
I turn to walk but look at the street one last time. Coming from the west were two people.They are dressed in running garb.
This is a possibility.
I check for the white tote bags from the marathon. They have them!
I call out, señor, señorita!
They look around, not sure who’s talking to them. I call out again. I hold out my bag and anxiously ask.
Maratón?
Ah, sí!
Taxi or walk?
Oh, we’re taking a taxi.
They speak English.
I exhale and beg to go with them.
Of course, of course.
***
At the 19th kilometer, I nearly slipped on a banana peel.
The fact that the marathon offered fruit in addition to Gatorade and water was a welcome addition. Everything about this race was well-organized and well-done. The bag drop, long a source of tension and frustration for runners, was easy to find and easier to get the checked gear once the race was done.
The half-way mark, sponsored by Adidas.
All the kilometer markers were easily identifiable and the staff was very nice and professional. The military helped out with security, which was quite odd at first to see but they seemed to blend in.
There was even entertainment. A couple dances the tango, a great Elvis impersonator and an even better Michael Jackson impersonator as we crossed the Plaza de Mayo. It helped with the running.
Hard to see (and pardon my thumb) but there’s Elvis (this is leisure suit Elvis.)
I was about 2.5 hours behind the winning group, so when I got my fruit and water, the road was littered, and I mean littered, with banana and orange peels.
I did slide. Twice. Luckily, I didn’t fall. In fact, I didn’t struggle much during the race. No joint problems and no blisters to speak about. I had minor aches and pains (and a sore left ankle that was a minor annoyance the rest of the trip) but that was it.
Although, slipping on a banana peel would have made for a great story…
***
6:17 a.m.
The couple was Marcelle and his wife Medira from Saö Paulo, Brazil. This was their second marathon in Buenos Aires and they assured me this was a wonderful course.
We headed to Plaza Sarimento to get a taxi. After we were refused twice and another driver told the hot Argentine instead of us (to which Marcelle and Medira mocked with impunity. I can attest that the tensions between Brazilians and Argentines is very real), we finally got a driver and headed over.
A few street diversions later, we made it near the starting line. They paid (and insisted I didn’t pay, which was beyond generous) and we parted, they to their running group and me toward the starting line.
The best of luck to you in your race, Mike.
For what I struggled with and lamented as my biggest obstacle, God had gone before me and put in its place comfort and joy.
***
Speaking of entertainment, I met some of the best people along the way.
Luigi and Giancarlo were older gentlemen from Italy. I knew they were from Italy because they told everyone they were from Italy. Plus, it was also on their running t-shirts.
They stopped at every tourist spot and took a picture. It was a testament to how fast they were running (and how slow I was going) they we stuck together for nearly half the race.
Coming along to three-quarters of the race, I kept hearing some yell at the staff. What’s that all about? I finally spotted the runner, a gregarious fellow wearing a Venezuela shirt.
I gotta go talk to him.
His name was Fidel and what he was doing was asking the beautiful female staffers to cheer louder for him as he passed by. One successful, he pledged his love and fidelity (yup, that’s very punny of me!) to each of them. For Venezuelans, there’s plenty of love to go along.
In my broken Spanish, I tell him I’m half-Venezuelan, visited Caracas with my biological father in 1999 and wanted to go back. He was thrilled and in his broken English told me how the city has changed post-Chavez and the hope for the future.
He, like me, ran to finish.
There were Chileans (Chi-Chi-Ch-le-le-le!) and Brazilians. Lots of choruses of sí, sé puede! I thought I saw a few Australian flags on t-shirts. All in all, it was a sea of yellow and us who choose not to wear the official shirt.
But I kept wondering: Where’s Dad?
***
7:00 a.m.
From this point, time is starting to speed up. Runners everywhere, stretching, jogging, laughing with cohorts. Long, long lines to the bathroom, which was a clear indication of the elite runners and everyone else. Everyone else (me included) waits, takes a breath and hopes for the best.
The elite go wherever they can. And I’ll leave it at that.
I see four women with USA and American flags on their shirts.
I called out, Amerícanos!
They look at me.
I ask, where are you guys from?
Oh my god, you’re American! We thought we were the only ones here.
Just before we parted, the lead woman said when I called out for them, she was afraid I was going to throw shit at them.
New Yorkers.
Announcers were on the microphone and runners hustled to get into line. A few more stretches in and I was in place. From my vantage point, it didn’t seem like a large crowd. As you can tell from the photo, that’s not the case.
8,000 people on their way. (Photo courtesy of the marathon staff).
Crowds are cheering, lights from the ESPN station are glaring onto the first competitors ready to start. The countdown begins: diez, nueve, ocho…
It catches me by surprise. After all this, it starts now.
***
The back-end of the marathon was a long stretch through the ports. Miles and miles of open space. The sun was out, the running crowds thinning. It was the spot of the race where the drag kicks on.
Energy starts to wear, the iPod playlists start over. The finish line a ways away but it’s too far to start over. The only way out is through.
The long stretch of the Ports
I’m moving and I hear, “And there’s the runner.”
Here’s my Dad, riding and filming. I was glad to see him, my hug nearly pushed him off the bike. He had made it.
Dad still had his bike from the day before but I wasn’t sure if they would let him follow. But his presence was very much welcome.
I made the joke on Facebook that it felt like the transitions of “Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out.” Dad wasn’t my trainer but he became my pacer. His encouragement and stamina to stay with me made all the difference.
At this point, most runners hit the wall. Contrary to popular opinion, the wall is more of a nutritional issue than a mental one.
I had prepared myself for the wall. Energy gels, NUUN energy tablets and bananas kept me nice and full. The weather was glorious. As I mentioned before, I hit the wall during my training but was prepared for what happened in the race.
When I game to 32km (about 20 miles), I told Dad, “OK, if I hit the wall, it should come right about now. So, watch how I’m doing.”
I kept going. And going. No wall.
Dad said later, “Well, I watched what you did.”
Toward the homestretch, Dad left to get to the finish line. I was tired but still felt good. Seeing the runners who crossed the race, their finisher medals intact, the end was in sight.
I stopped briefly to adjust my ear buds.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! FINISH THE RACE!
I took off and sprinted to the end.
***
7:30 a.m.
The line was moving quickly. It only about 90 seconds from the official start to where I was in the crowds. AC/DC is blaring. People are cheering. And yet, I hear silence.
It was quiet as I moved forward. Everything was calm and though I could hear everything and everyone around me, I felt very still. Somehow, I was here. I made it and regardless of how I did or didn’t do, I had already won.
As I got to the finish line, the sound came back. I put my ear buds in, turned on the music and started to run.
Most of my dreams dealt with the finish line. How was I going to feel, what would the weather be like, where was my dad going to be. Those thoughts and feelings got me through long periods of training.
Surprisingly, the real emotion was at the starting line. The naiveté of not knowing what was going to happen and how I would feel. Once I started that race, the wave of emotion hit me.
It was on.
***
Jerry Plunkett!
I yelled toward my father, who was stuck in the crowds trying to get to the finish line. My dad is resourceful, so he meandered the bike through and found his perch. Okay, he’s set.
I wanted it to be over. I didn’t want it to end.
My eyes closed, I sprinted toward the finish. Wait, I want to see this. I want to see me finish with my own eyes.
I cross. And it’s over.
I did it. Start to finish.
Marathon de Buenos Aires is a success.
October 13: Maratón dé Buenos Aires. 42.195km. Time: 4:54:16, 2:27:22 21k split; avg 6:56/km.
***
A month later, it’s still difficult to fully explain the successful running of the marathon. I’ve found myself looking at 2014 marathon schedules, seeing where I can get my next fix. And yes, it is a fix.
The Buenos Aires marathon came about as a whim. Good timing and a bit of grandiosity and lots and lots of training. The marathon was a crazy thought, then a crazy dream, then a reality that required lots of work. Then, it was the real thing. Finally, it was done.
The marathon started as one thing but ended up being something different. It was an adventure but it was an adventure I shared with my dad. It was our adventure, our race. In my mind, we finished together.
The Road to Good Air 