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13.1: One Pig's Perspective

By Brian Baker, CNATI.com Posted May 3, 2010 12:02 PM ET

If you've ever run a marathon, you know it's pretty much the most miserable awesome experience you've ever had. And if you're like me, once you've done it, you know that running half is clearly where it's at. I mean, who needs 17- and 20-mile training runs when you can just top out around ten or eleven? And really, once you get to that point, why even "train" at all?

Welcome to the Brian Baker System of Half Marathon Training.

This system has many advantages. First of all, it involves a complete lack of effort. Couple that with a laissez-faire attitude toward the entire event (emphasis on lazy), and you've got yourself a formula for success.

It's quite simple, really. If you're tired, don't go run. If something hurts, don't go run. If your toenails are a few millimeters too long and you don't feel like cutting them, don't go run.

But if that perfect combination of beautiful weather, motivation, and health should happen to strike, well hell, go for it. What do you have to lose? ... As it turns out: your bowels. More on that later.

* 3:30 am: With the windows open and a thunderstorm rolling through, it should be no mystery why I've awoken "randomly." Groggy and thinking how much I'd love not to be getting up in an hour, I flail desperately for a reason not to. Left hand landing on my Motorola Droid, I believe I've found my excuse. Oh sweet Droid and your Weather Channel app, show me a giant blob of race-canceling red on your Doppler radar.

Droid, you bring me hope. There is indeed a massive system heading our way. A little prayer to the gods of the monsoon, and it's back to sleep.

* 4:50 am: Green Day? What? ... Oh, right, I changed my alarm clock ringtone. Decision time. Get up and run or stay in bed and enjoy the sweet, sweet sleep of the underachiever.

Give me a minute, I'm thinking.

The image on the Droid hasn't changed much. Still a lot of red and yellow on that radar. Alright, let's get up and see what the Power of 5 can tell me. Maybe I'll still go back to bed.

* 5:15 am: Sheree Paolello and Jack Atherton have successfully guilted me into committing to this race, what with all their talk of dedication, perseverance, blah, blah, blah. And seriously, even as she's getting doused with rain at the finish line, does Randi Rico ever lose her bubbly enthusiasm? It's almost sickening.

* 6:00 am: I'm pulling into my usual Flying Pig parking lot at Central Ave and Pete Rose Way, when I realize I don't have my wallet. Hmm. I seem to recall this lot is not free to park at. Ah, screw it, this must be a sign. Maybe I'll just go home.

Well ... maybe I do have a little change in the car. I manage to scrounge up $3.20 in quarters in nickels when I see the sign, "$3 to park, events as posted." Perfect! With no event pricing in sight, I'm in like Flynn.

Feeling rather high and mighty given my level of success thus far despite my complete lack of personal responsibility, I roll up to the cashier, three-dollar stack of coins (and lint and dust and bug corpses) in hand. "Five dollars," she says. Balls.

When my sob story doesn't work, I move on to sweet talking. I'd have better luck trying to seduce a rabid pit bull. She politely informs me that, not only will I not be permitted to park in the lot, I can't even pull in and turn around due to the automated counter on the access gate. That's right, all you suckers behind me in line, I'm backing up!

Alright, one quick scan of downtown parking, and I'm going back to bed.

* 6:18 am: Dammit, I found a spot. On Elm Street. Just north of Ninth. Hell, why not add a mile walk on to the beginning and end of my 13.1-mile run? I'm in it now.

I may have neglected to mention it up to this point, but at this time we are currently experiencing what can only be described as an aquatic onslaught from the heavens. I'm pretty sure at some point, I literally witnessed a Rottweiler and slightly overweight tabby plummeting to the earth.

It is at this point that I'm reminded of just how awesome I am in my garbage bag poncho. I may be soaked from head to toe, but dammit, this thin layer of odor-locking white plastic is keeping my t-shirt (kind of) dry, and that, my friends, is what separates the men from the boys.

* 6:32 am: I saunter into place in the corrals, fashionably late for the scheduled 6:30am start time. I am a veteran of this race. I know it never starts before 6:35am. I am too cool to arrive before 6:30am. I turn to the cute twenty-something next to me in her tight Lycra racing get-up, give her the "what's up" nod, and ask her if my garbage bag makes me look trashy. She moves further back in the cue.

* 6:36 am: The race begins with the usual enthusiasm. The corral erupts with cheers and discarded sweatshirts. The pack moves eagerly forward in a trot, only to come to an abrupt stop when they run into the logjam in front of them. Amateurs. I saunter forward as the crowd disperses before me, allowing me room to break into a proper run just as I cross the official starting line.

* Mile 1: Maybe the rain has caused a poor turnout, or maybe there's a slight course redesign that I didn't notice, but this is the best start I've experienced in a Flying Pig. Normally, the beginning miles are so congested you can't break into a proper run without stepping on the ankles in front of you. Not so today. It's smooth sailing.

OK, it's almost smooth sailing. Just as we round the bend onto Third Street, the runners in front of me stop, jump sideways, and generally react as if someone had been hit by a Mack truck. I proceed cautiously and discover why. The River Kwai is flowing violently right across the road. A felled sequoia rumbles downstream as salmon attempt to make their way against the current to their breeding grounds in the Hammond Street parking garage.

Now, I'm all for avoiding puddles and maintaining dry feet while running, but I mean, come on. None of us has a remaining square inch of dryness on our bodies, and that includes our feet. Man up and run through it.

* Mile 2: Traveling west on Fourth Street through Covington, I find myself running behind an overweight guy in a bright yellow t-shirt with baby feet tattooed on each of his calves. As I struggle to pass BabyFeet and reclaim my role as Athletic Superior, I question why I run at all.

It is at this moment that a pair of girls in tight outfits, pink tutus, and pig ears makes their way in front me. I am reminded why I run.

* Mile 3: As we continue over the Clay Wade Bridge back into Cincinnati, I am reminded of my dream to one day pee off each of the city's major bridges. The great thing about marathons is that, despite the abundance of available Porta-Potties, public urination anywhere along the course is considered acceptable behavior. Bridges included. Sadly, my bladder is not yet prepared. Perhaps next year.

* Mile 4: As the course veers around Linn Street and up a slight incline on Eighth, a strong headwind picks up. Doing my best Dale, Jr. impression, I find two tall guys running together and draft behind them. I would categorize this move as moderately successful.

As the wind abates and I slip past TallGuys, I find myself running behind a dark-haired beauty in black running pants and a turquoise fitted tank top. I consider informing her that she is the front runner in my Best Ankles contest, but decide that I've probably already fulfilled my creepy quota for the week.

* Mile 5: My first Gatorade grab. It's been a while since my last organized run and I knock a cup out of the first volunteer's hand before a successful grab on my second attempt. Apparently in my time off, I've also forgotten the trick of folding the cup to funnel the fluid into my mouth, and I proceed to pour Gatorade all over my face and chest. While this does make me feel vaguely awesome in a Nick Saban-kind of way, my victory is tempered by the fact that the rain is actually pretty effective in washing it off.

* Mile 6: The Gatorade has triggered a chain reaction in my body. I did not have time for my customary prerace micturition and it is now definitely time to relieve some fluids. Luckily, there's a row of Porta-Potties immediately to my left. I slide over and open the first unlocked door.

My nasal cavity dies a swift, yet painful death. My gag reflex is stimulated, but I'm able to hold it to simply a wet burp. Someone has left quite the surprise in this particular portable toilet. Actually, it's disingenuous to suggest that any one person could take credit for the foulness percolating in that humid box of decomposition. It was clearly a well-crafted concoction, the product of some evil biochemical genius, designed for the sole purpose of torturing marathoners. I handle my business and exit as swiftly as possible. I take a few deep breaths to try and clear the remains from my lungs.

Refocusing, I begin the first real challenge of the race -- the long, uphill climb toward Eden Park. As I begin my ascent up Gilbert Avenue, I see one of the first runners coming back down the hill. This places him roughly five miles in front of me, or nearly twice my speed. I consider killing him out of spite.

* Mile 7: As I approach what is historically my least favorite part of the course, I begin to feel a bit of anticipatory hatred toward the course designers. Every year, the curve around the Eden Park overlook is notoriously congested, due in large part to management's decision to include a drink station, first aid, restrooms, and A FULL CHOIR at what is already a natural bottleneck.

Much to my surprise, despite the same setup as every year prior, the area is completely free for running. Kudos, rain. I continue my run toward McMillan Ave and thus the top of the hill, when my colon emits an ominous gurgle.

* Mile 8: As I round the corner onto Woodburn, it becomes quite clear what my intestines have in mind, and I must act swiftly or submit to their wrath. Finding myself in a crowded suburban environment with little vegetation and a wealth of onlookers, I am reminded of the double standard that exists between the accepted nature of peeing publicly during a race, versus the criminal charges that are often filed for openly relieving one's bowels. I begin to consider the consequences of a second Public Defecation charge on my record. (Ok, it'd only be the first. But if the criminal justice system were perfect, it'd be the second.)

* Mile 9: My internal debate ends as I turn on to Martin Luther King and spot the most glorious green row of Porta-Potties I've ever witnessed. As before, I open the first unlocked door only to discover a complete absence of toilet paper. Oh shit. Next door, a wealth of toilet paper ... in a wad to the side of the toilet. Next door, same thing.

Well, beggars can't be choosers. I take care of business, and only then discover the hand sanitizer to be empty. I'll take my hepatitis on the side, please. Oh well, the rain will wash my clean, right?

Merging back into the race, I find myself again just yards behind AnklesGirl from mile 4. I consider starting a conversation recounting my Porta-Potty experience, but again remind myself of my already-fulfilled creepy quota.

* Mile 10: Just before the great descent down Gilbert begins, I catch a glimpse of Great American Tower, the first signal of downtown and the finish line. A rather beautiful sight. Well done, city planners.

As I continue my run, spectators offer free high-fives. They'd think twice if they knew about the hand sanitizer situation.

As the downhill running begins, the jarring of hard footfalls gets something stirring again in my general abdominal region. Seriously? I need another Porta-Potty.

* Mile 11: Oh thank you, Tom Cruise. Just at the corner of Eden Park Drive, I'm able to veer a bit off course and again avoid criminal charges. There's even toilet paper. On a roll. And hand sanitizer. I'm in heaven.

* Mile 12: It's smooth sailing from here on out. There's no way I could possibly need to stop again. And it's all flat or downhill.

Gurgle. Gurgle. Cramp.

* Mile 13: I press on, and manage to make most of the pain go away by sheer awesomeness of will power. As I cruise into the home stretch, I see a doctor friend of mine cheering on the sidelines. I consider stopping to ask him for Immodium, but the finish line is so close, not even I can lose motivation now.

I cross the finish line after one hour, 51 minutes, and three bathroom stops. My life is a success.

And then I see it. BabyFeet finished just before me. I quit.

At least until next year.

Categories: Featured Stories

Tags: Brian Baker, Flying Pig Marathon