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.

Best Laid Plans

Perhaps I’ve mentioned running a marathon before. It’s true. Back in the winter of 1980, my neighbor, running buddy, and prominent socialite Argumento deMinimus, the Harvard-Bred Lawyer and I had trained for months to run the Arkansas Marathon in Booneville, Arkansas. We were primed and ready, along with neighbor and friend John Woodruff, to tackle the 26.2188 of magnificent Arkansas scenery in March of that year.

As I sit this morning listening to un-forecasted torrential downpours ruining my daily plans, I remember what happened to Argumento and me the day before the marathon was to occur.

A winter storm, threatened, the worst in years, that’s all it was. Snow, sleet, ice, heavy winds, and a temperature of 15 degrees was all we had in store. Well, phooey.

“Not so fast,” Argumento argued amicably but assertively. One of the three weather reports posited the picayune possibility of the precipitation’s passing the proximity. We could, both military veterans, withstand the cold and misery if only the roads were clear to the venue.

I developed a dream of deliverance. “Let’s,” I said, “drive to Russellville, Arkansas. There’s a nice Ramada Inn on I-40 where we can stay. If the snows come, the freeway should get us back. If the snows don’t, it’s a fairly short hop from Russellville, across the river, over the mountains, to Booneville.

Astonishingly, Argumento agreed assiduously.

Leaving Little Rock late in the day, we wisely went to the westernmost “big-box” to buy additional protective wear.

Pantyhose was what we wanted … warm pantyhose.

I immediately settled on a style termed “Big Momma Hosiery." Argumento settled for a more traditional pair. Satisfied, we skedaddled.

That night, as we waited for the weather’s wearisome wanderings, we worried about the fit of our legwear.

“Let’s try them on,” I suggested.

“Let’s.”

Now we would never smoke dope or anything like that, but those who do tell me that marijuana madness makes men monumentally paranoid at times. Such a feeling occurred to me at that moment. What if the door to the motel room crashed open, flak-jacket agents rushed in with guns drawn, and said security sentinels saw such a scene?

What if, they saw two men from a city over an hour away from Russellville in a motel room trying on pantyhose? One was a typical sociopathic Vietnam vet, so no surprise there. The other was a well-respected attorney from a prominent Arkansas family with a “magna cum laude degree from an Ivy-League school.

“Pantyhosed couple caught careening casually in a Russellville Roost.” There was a newspaper editor, a real nutcase (yes, I repeat myself) named John Robert Starr in Little Rock who delighted in persecuting the innocent and aggrandizing the mendacious. (It was he who helped elevate Tommy Robinson to rock-star status in our state). I could only imagine what fun he would have to the shame and horror of Argumento’s family and business associates. My Sainted Mother wouldn't have enjoyed it much either. Daddy would have thought, but not said, "Figures." Our spouses would have simply said, "Oh, no ... what this time? Where's the paper?"

“Training for a footrace, they claim.” I could have written John Robert’s piece for him next day.

But back briefly to the motel. “Mine fit,” I said, hastily pulling them off. “How’s yours?”

“Oh,” he said, “I think I have a run in one leg, but maybe no one will notice. Do you think they make me look skinny?”

Looking lovingly leeward to long, long ago, I leave you laughing, dear laudatory listener.

Do what?

It was cold and clear that morning February 17, 1980 as our small band of adventurers gathered on South Broadway for our last long run before the Arkansas Marathon, coming up on March First. My neighbor and a friend were going to run ahead since they were slim, lightweight fellers with a flair for speed. My running buddy, John Woodruff, and I would follow. We were fairly lightweight ourselves, after months of preparation. Still, “slow and steady” was our style.

Our path would take us from South Broadway, over the Arkansas River to North Little Rock. From there, we would follow the path of an old urban renewal project to the base of Fort Roots Hill. This was a former military base, the land having been traded to the Federal Government in 1892 in exchange for the property now known as MacArthur Park. The base was named for Congressman Logan H. Roots in recognition for his work in the negotiations

 After jogging up the hill, some 500 feet or so in elevation, we would turn around and head back south through Little Rock. We would head for the new interstate bypass that would soon circle the city to the south and east. Most of the roadway was complete to the south. It was suitable for jogging all the way to the Arkansas River, where they were just beginning to build the new bridge. We would pass north of the community of College Station, south of Little Rock’s airport, turn around at the river and come home, a little over 20 miles we figured.

Did I mention we were young and foolish?

You were actually supposed to be a little ahead of that distance with a couple of weeks to go. We started late in our preparations, and, as I have hinted, we were not good about reaching cognitive and reasoned conclusions. So, with our wives not thinking of us at all, and with gentlemen all over Arkansas then-a-bed and, no doubt thinking themselves accurs’d they were not there, most certainly soon to hold their manhoods cheap while any would speak of our “Demolition Day” run, we started, our brave band of brothers.

Demolition Day run? Oh, did I forget to mention that they were going to blow down a couple of old hotels in Little Rock that day? Stay Tuned.

Across the River and up to the
top of the hill we went, back in the day.

Running buddies and old friends ...

I’ve told about the decision my neighbor and I made once to run a marathon. We made the decision in the fall of 1979 and were training in serious by the end of the year. We had picked up some compadres since then. One was the late John Woodruff, who lived six or seven blocks from us. Another was the late Robert Johnston who lived, for a while, across Broadway. The others are still living as far as I know, and probably wouldn’t want their association with me made public.

John Woodruff figured largely into this marathon thing. He wasn’t a fast runner, so when we ran in a pack (yeah, kind of like a wolf pack), the others would sometimes take off at a faster pace and leave the two of us. I guess the others felt that as long as I was with John, that qualified as adult supervision.

John was a journalist. He worked for the Arkansas Gazette, the “oldest newspaper west of the Mississippi.” He covered North Little Rock, the politics and all. This was a plum assignment back then for the city was known for its “rip-roaring” approach to life, as exemplified by its legendary mayor Casey Layman. He was, in fact, too colorful to write about in a family-oriented blog. Let’s just leave it at that.

Anyway, John and I put in some miles together and shared an unforgettable experience I’ll cover later. For now, John was a glorious companion. He talked slowly, choosing his words with care, as you might expect from one who had spent years writing sentences that would be dissected and attacked from the nastiest of editors to the ACLU. He had this habit of turning his head slowly and looking at you when he wanted to say something important. And John didn't waste much time on unimportant things.

One of the most touching stories he told, as we were on a long run together, involved journalism as they practiced it in the old days. He told me how he would return from a City Council meeting, and pound out a piece in time for the next day's paper. Having finished his work day, he would sit in the press room with other reporters and relax. Then he told how, after some time had passed, the old Gazette Building would start to rumble and shake.

It was the presses starting up and announcing that the First Amendment was secure for another day.

John died of cancer a few years ago. Maybe it's good that he didn’t live to see a day when that precious piece of our Constitution is in such danger. I miss the comfort that people like John Woodruff bring to this world.

You don't meet many like
John in this short life.

Tax law and training bras ...

My wife called him “your little running buddy” and we did go out jogging almost every morning the weather allowed. Now that he had talked me into training for a marathon, we became serious about it. It was in the fall of 1979 that we began our quest, so we would meet mornings way before sunrise and head off north from South Broadway. Sometimes we would drift over and make a circle into North Little Rock and sometimes we would turn west and head out Markham Street and back.

In addition to tacking on distance, I found that he had quietly increased the pace. He was just a tad shorter than I, and probably weighted less than 160 pounds. It was pure torture and I would complain if he got too aggressive. Saturdays and Sundays, we began to extend our routes, mostly pushing our distances to the ten-mile range. "Be a man," he would say when I whined, as if manhood were a choice.

Why I was doing this, I had no idea. I guess the most obvious plea would be insanity.

In inclement weather, we would meet at the reliable old Downtown YMCA. There, we carried out our daily mission on an indoor track that measured at 16 laps per mile. Mornings usually weren’t crowded, so it allowed for collegial conversation as we circled for what seemed like days. We talked of history, literature, politics, art, and sometimes tax law. Oh yes, tax law. That’s what he taught at the law school and he enjoyed pontificating about it. It eased the boredom of the incessant circulation, so I listened. I always felt they should have given me credit for taking his class had I entered law school. On practical matters involving litigation, he remained reticent, fearing, I think, that he might unknowingly give legal advice.

I’ll leave us there, spinning around that little track like specks on a phonograph record. These days we walk, my wife and I, around a similar track at a local gym. We manage a mile or two a day, which at our age might be considered respectable.

We don’t talk about history or literature now as we circle the track. I can’t keep up with her, so we each walk alone with our separate thoughts. I recently read somewhere that enjoying quiet time alone with those thoughts each day improves your memory. I hope so for our sakes, though I feel for the youth of today, whose greatest fear seems to be having a quiet, lonely moment, sans cell phone, forced upon them.

Oh well, it’s time to don my gym attire and head for a walk. Today I think I’ll try and see if I can remember anything about tax law while I stroll.

Nah. Who am I kidding? I'll probably see if I can remember anything about Betty Anne Bohanon, the only girl in Junior High who, they said, never bothered with a training bra. For the life of me, I can't recall why I ever found that to be interesting.

Now that I concentrate,
it's coming back to me.

Life's Challenges

 I think I mentioned once that right near the end of 1979, my next-door neighbor, and jogging partner, said one morning, quite casually, “Let’s run a marathon.” He sounded quite a bit like Mickey Rooney’s character in the old films, when he would say, “Hey kids, let’s put on a show!”

It made about as much sense.

Yes, I had been jogging for nearly five years. Yes, I had shed over 50 pounds. Yes, my blood pressure was a steady and reliable 120/80. Yes, I had actually run 10 kilometers once without stopping. Yes, that was 6.2 miles, and over rough terrain. Yes, we were jogging, on average, five miles per day. Yes, I was a strapping 36-year-old, if you can believe that.

But a marathon is 26.2 miles. In a nod to Greek history, the first marathon commemorated the run of the soldier Pheidippides from a battlefield near the town of Marathon, Greece, to Athens in 490 B.C. According to legend, Pheidippides ran the approximately 25 miles to announce the defeat of the Persians to some anxious Athenians. Not quite in mid-season shape, he delivered the message "Niki!" (Victory!) then keeled over and died. (https://www.livescience.com/11011-marathons-26-2-miles-long.html0.

Get that? He died. People die trying to run marathons, maybe not as often as the ones trying to climb Mt. Everest, but they do die. They expire. They fall down and achieve ambient temperature ere the ambulance arrives. They are referred to as “the late imbecile” by their spouses and friends. It makes no sense. Your body completely runs “out of gas” before it is over. They call that “hitting the wall.” I had no desire to experience the phenomenon. The very idea was ludicrous. Five years earlier I had been a wobbling slob. Further, I had failed at every sport to which an American child was subjected back then. Who was he kidding? I would choose to live a while longer.

“What marathon?” I asked.

“The Arkansas Marathon,” he said. “It will be in Booneville on March First.”

“March First? We can’t ready by then.”

“We could if we tried.”

“Well, I’m not going to try.”

“Come on. It’ll be fun.”

“No way.”

“We’ll move up to seven miles a day and be at ten a day by the end of the year. Then all we’ll have to do is work in some long runs after the first of next year.”

“You must be kidding.”

“No, I’ve started making some notes for a training schedule.”

“Well, erase my name. The very idea is ludicrous.” I used words like “ludicrous” when talking to him. He was a graduate of Harvard Law School and I thought it made me sound less like a country bumpkin that could be led around like a trained pig.

“I’ve already mapped out a seven-mile route,” he said. “We can start it on Sunday.”

“Take your seven-mile route and put it … uh … don’t assume collaboration on my part.”

“We’ll have to leave 30 minutes earlier than we’ve been leaving. That will still get us to work on time.”

“I don’t see how we could make it by March.”

“I knew you’d come around.”

“Where’s this new seven-mile route you’ve worked out?”

Thus began one of the strangest episodes in an already strange life.

Do you remember that life insurance
policy you were talking about getting?

Cold

Can weather conditions induce memories? Oh yes. The chilly weather of the past week incited a flood of remembrances of things past to course through my mind. None, however, topped my recalling of the winter of 1980. Here’s what happened.

I had gotten into a fitness program at the Downtown YMCA in Little Rock, AR in 1975. Excessive body fat and high blood pressure limited me to one waddle followed by one walk nine times around a 30-laps per mile indoor track. I followed the program, and by 1979 I was up to jogging several miles a day. Then, a new neighbor moved next door. As fate would have it, we hit it off and began running together.

That’s when it happened.

One morning, from out of the blue, he said, “The Arkansas Marathon in Booneville is March First, why don’t we train and run it?”

“Okay,” I said, thinking more about negotiation the coming hill than forming any soundly logical reply. But train we did, getting up to nearly ten miles a day as the day approached. Then we did a couple of 20-mile Sundays. Things seemed good.

The day before the race, a winter storm moved in and two of the TV stations predicted a blanket of snow and freezing temps overnight. The third station allowed a slight possibility of simply freezing weather. We decided to take I-40 to Little Rock and spend the night in Russellville, AR. That way, if the snow stayed away, we could cross the river and make Booneville by race time. Otherwise, we trusted the interstate to get us home. Okay. We kissed our wives goodbye. No, we didn’t. I made that part up. We actually tried one last time to convince them we weren’t totally crazy, but long-held beliefs aren’t easily displaced, particularly with counter-evidence staring them in the face.

We just left them shaking their heads.

As a precaution, we stopped at a big-box and purchased headgear, gloves, and pantyhose. Yes, pantyhose, not uncommon for runners in those more innocent times. He bought the regular kind. I bought “Big Momma” heavyweights. Later, in the motel, we tried them on. In the middle of that exercise, I suddenly imagined a police raid and statewide headlines announcing that two prominent Little Rock professionals (he was at least) had been apprehended in a central Arkansas motel up to some big-time mischief.

Well, to put a point on it, we made the race. The temperature was 15 degrees above zero and the wind was strong enough to shred the edges of flags along the route. By midway, when the wind was at our backs, I felt good. By this time, my friend had left me behind and I was in the company of another running pal, the late John Woodruff, then a reporter for the Arkansas Gazette. We laughed, joked, and observed that we had met the marathon standard that one should feel pretty strong at the ten-mile mark. We met the man who had led me into the fun already coming back and he looked good as well, except for a couple of runs in his pantyhose.

Then we started back. I can only describe that portion of the race as having an automatic cannon firing ice into you at each step. Runners with beards passed us with them totally encased in ice, looking more like Yeti than humans. Totally exhausted, I finally settled on running to one light pole and waddling to the next. I cursed my friend, the YMCA, Bill Rogers, the day I was born, and fate in general.

After a century or so, I heard the sound of a loud speaker. It came from the finish line in downtown Booneville. Suddenly, I was beautiful again. Pulling my face into a smile required the very last of my strength, but I, in my Big Mommas, crossed the finish line to the applause of the crowd of maybe 20 that were still there. My time? Four hours and six minutes. I still have the proof if anyone should disbelieve me.

I never ran another. There are some bucket list things that don’t bear repeating.

I've seen lots of down towns, but
not one ever looked better than this.