Recalling My Last Marathon, My Last Race

I had decided well in advance of the 2016 Seoul International Marathon that it was time to retire from this form of athletic competition. Although I had always leaned toward the what’s-the-least-I-can-do-and-still-be-ready-on-race-day approach, I trained adequately: 8-, 10-, 12-, 14-, 16-, 18- and 20-mile runs, tapering off in the last two weeks and feeling fresh when the gun was sounded. This system worked well for me from December 4, 1988 (2:48:02 in the Dallas White Rock Marathon) to February 28, 2004 (3:07:05 in the Fort Worth Cowtown Marathon).

Actually, I thought the latter event was my swan song, that I would never again go 26.2 miles. I moved to Korea in 2007 and kept running. But not very far—an estimated two miles a day sufficed. However, when I learned that Daegu, the city of my new domicile, would host a marathon on April 13, 2008, I signed up. I realized, of course, that it would be hard and slow. Was there any chance that I would not finish? None whatsoever. I would run as much as possible and walk when I had to. The 4:26:30 I recorded was woeful, and yet I felt an odd sort of pride in it, having proven at least to myself that a marathon could be done on two miles a day. I also relied on a level of baseline fitness since I had enjoyed some kind of exercise daily for decades.

For the next nine marathons, my pride took a beating because I was categorized as one of the slowpokes. This meant starting closer to the back than to the front, in contrast to what I had experienced for those 33 in the USA. I smiled and went with the flow.

After transferring to Seoul—173 miles northwest on the Gyeongbu Expressway—in early 2009, I ran one marathon per year except for 2014 when I did one in the spring and one in the fall. Using the same minimalist training, I had a PR (personal record) of sorts on March 21, 2010 in the Seoul International Marathon: 4:07:37. But I must confess that these races were grueling. I was getting older and the risk of injury grew every year. Discretion being the better part of valor, I decided and told my friends that the 2016 Seoul International Marathon would be my last. I emphasized, however, that I would continue to take part (running the whole way) in shorter races like 5Ks and 10Ks. Or so I thought.

For that race, I wore a gray, sleeves-cut-off, University of Texas T-shirt with “43rd and final marathon / March 20, 2016 / Seoul, Korea” printed on the back. (Permit me to pause here and say that 2016 was a busy year for me as I campaigned to bring Jikji back from France and to get Abner Haynes into the College Football Hall of Fame; both efforts, valiant though they were, failed.) My 10th marathon in Korea and my 43rd overall ended with me doing three-fourths of a lap on the track at historic Seoul Olympic Stadium and a worst-ever 4:31:56. I crossed the line and a finisher medal was placed around my neck. (I will pause again and mention that the recent Los Angeles Marathon adopted a policy of giving “finisher” medals to all people who made it 18 miles. Race officials said that runners “who are having a tough day” could pull out at 18 and still get those treasured medals. I realize that the weather that day in LA was hot, but still! The mocking comments on social media were well deserved. One was “In related news, California colleges and universities will now be awarding diplomas to students completing their junior year.”)

As it happened, this was not just my last marathon but my last race of any distance. A couple of months later, on my early morning runs, I started to notice discomfort in my lower back which soon turned into screaming pain. I would have to look on my 2016 calendar—these things serve as a diary of sorts for me—to know when it happened, but I admitted the obvious one morning, stopped and returned to my home, room 301 of the Yesung Life Officetel. I set up an appointment with a young orthopedist whom I told about the spinal fusion I had endured in the summer of 1970. He X-rayed me, put me into an MRI machine and then informed me that I had “age-related degeneration”; increasing lower-back pain would be my lot as time went by. As if that were not alarming enough, he said I would start getting shorter.

This guy (who literally laughed when I explained to him that in 1970, such spinal fusions were considered state-of-the-art surgery) may have had an MD, but he was a fool. All I had to do was stop running. I am enormously pleased to inform you that I have no back pain at all—no limitations, no problems. Furthermore, I am still 5′ 10″, not 5′ 9″, not 5′ 8″ or even shorter. I have not shrunk.

Having taken part in more than 700 races, I certainly miss it. This was a big part of my life, and my identity as an athlete is now more of a memory than an everyday fact. While I am consistent about biking, walking, stretching and light lifting, it’s hardly the same. Getting a vigorous workout in, one where my heart is made to pump blood north to the crown of my head and south to the tips of my toes each day, was policy and something I savored. I did not want to stop running, I had to. The decision was forced on me. Nevertheless, I treasure those memories—the marathons most of all.

The 10-year anniversary of my last race is barely a week away. The gray T-shirt I wore in the 2016 Seoul International Marathon is tattered and fading, and the neckline is discolored, but I will wear it on March 20 and reminisce. I am 73 now, and sometimes I see young people running on the streets of my neighborhood in Gangnam. When I do, I feel nostalgic and a bit envious. That’s OK because I had my time.