Ordeals and Victories

You can’t tell a story about running a marathon in a short time. It takes a while, like the event itself. I’ll finish telling today about the time Argumento de Minimus, the Harvard-bred Lawyer, and I ran the event in Booneville, Arkansas in 1980.

When I left you, we had decided to spend the night in Russellville, Arkansas in the slight chance that the winter storm would pass us by. Well it did. We awoke to find only bone-shattering cold skies and a stiff wind facing us. Over the hills we went to Booneville, in our winter running duds featuring our newly acquired panty hose, mine the “Big Momma” variety.

The race was a “there and back” affair. We were to leave Booneville, run 13.1 miles east along scenic Arkansas Highway 10 to the small crossroads of Blue Mountain whereupon we would run back. No sweat. Along the way we would pass Mount Magazine, the state’s tallest point at 2,753 feet. It wasn’t a bad run, as far as scenery was concerned.

Did I mention that it was cold? It was. The temp was 15 degrees and the wind from the west was shredding the edges of the flags hoisted along the way to motivate us. We met our friend John Woodruff, the only one of us sporting a beard, and he and I took off together, allowing Argumento to run with the big boys.

All proved fine. The western wind pushed us along. We visited. I told jokes. John, a true Southern gentleman, pretended they were funny. About halfway to Blue Mountain, we met the leaders coming back. Beards were iced over and they didn’t look happy. Me? I felt fine. I had read somewhere that if you didn’t feel fine at the ten-mile mark, you were in trouble. No problem here.

We met Argumento. The run in his hosiery was worse. He didn’t seem to care.

A few jokes later, we reached Blue Mountain and the half-way mark. This was going to be some “piece of cake.” We left the kind, following, wind and descended the hill to the turning point. As we started up the hill to the west, I noticed that I didn’t feel so sprightly. No problem, I only had a few more steps and I would find level ground all the way back to Booneville.

Then it happened. I thought at first that I had been hit in the chest by a football. Nope. The friendly following wind had turned into a traitorous mallet pounding us like huge hammering hands.

“Oh, crap.”

I looked at John. “Feel that?” He said nothing and I notice that his beard had begun to ice. Each step was a battle against nature and I cursed the day I had listened to a “Havaahd Man.” Homicidal thoughts pounded my brain with each gust of wind. I told no more jokes, fearing John might be harboring the same thoughts, only with a different target in mind.

I won’t prolong the tale of terror. I’ll just say that I managed to run until about the 18-mile marker. There, John left me and I, for a spell, began walking to one utility pole and jogging to the next. I had the company of other walkers, some two-pole stalwarts and some half-pole losers.

Somehow, somewhere in the distance, I heard the sounds of frivolity. It flowed from Downtown Booneville, the starting point. From nowhere, a surge flowed through me and I began running again. I heard names being called. Would they call mine? Or would I collapse only a few feet from the blessed marker?

The sheet I’ve kept said I did it. I ran the 26.2188 miles in four hours and six minutes. Did I mention that half of the distance comprised running into a pounding headwind? I didn’t see John. The runners left as soon as they crossed the line. I found Argumento. He was about to go into a frozen state. We warmed the car and went back to Little Rock.

I suppose one might think that was the start of a long marathon career for me, having prevailed with a short training time against formidable odds.

No. Once proved quite sufficient.

My "Big Mommas"
got me through.