Trial run

Congrats! If you’ve made it to the back page, you’re most likely spending none of your time getting in shape for the Chicago Marathon on Sunday 22. And why bother? Shouldn’t you have the right to run where, for how long, and with as much (or little) prep as you please? To prove it, I set out to discover how close one untrained man can get to the mythic 26-mile mark. The answer may not shock you.

Mile 0 It’s a beautiful Monday morning—hell of a day for a marathon, if you ask me. I spring out of bed and into my lucky running clothes, and I’m out the door—but not before noshing on sweet-potato gnocchi leftovers. The route I’ve mapped (a loop starting down the lakefront path to Roosevelt Road, north along State Street, then up Lincoln and Western Avenues until Howard Street, over to Sheridan Road and back down the path) starts with a brisk walk to the lake—where the running fun begins.

Mile 1 [Chanting while punching the air] “It’s the eye of the tiger?/?It’s the thrill of the fight…”

Mile 2 My long, prancing stride morphs into an economical trot. Only 24 more to go, I think, noticing a woman sitting near the lake. Her name tag reads cory, and from her McDonald’s bag waft palpable aromas of salt/butter compounds and childhood birthday parties. It’s a test of my resolve, I tell myself, as Cory slowly becomes a distant figure. Very, very slowly.

Mile 3 I focus on my breathing with the intensity that my friend Jon practiced one day in high school, when his dad, upon discovering an empty condom wrapper in the family VW, approached him and said, “I think this is yours.” My sprightly trots are reduced to more of a forced limp. The sun beats down, unobstructed, against my flailing frame.

Mile 4 I picture tomorrow’s paper: LOCAL WUSS CAN’T TAKE THE PAIN, FINISHES LAST IN RACE AGAINST SELF. ALSO, HE IS A WUSS.

Mile 4.3 I have to walk, and giving up never felt so good. A tourist takes a picture of the skyline. Most likely, my lurching gait has been immortalized in his family photos. Great.

Mile 5 Deep in the South Loop, I attempt to get back into a running rhythm. Unfortunately, I’m at the whim of traffic lights and pedestrian congestion. It’s all stop-and-go—a few feet jogged, a few seconds stranded in a sea of suits and trendy messenger bags. Alfresco diners, on 15-minute power lunches, glance up at me from their Bennigan’s Turkey O’Tooles—I’m wearing a stretched Waikiki Beach tee and bleach-stained royal-blue sweat shorts—and wonder who in his right mind would employ that kid.

Mile 6 The pangs in my leg and the pangs of failure in my heart give way to new kinds of pangs: hunger. How do real marathon men deal? Probably by doing things I, of course, neglected: planning ahead, eating a balanced breakfast and packing a light snack. Lost, I think of someone else revered for eating wisely—Jared from Subway—and ask myself, WWJD? Time to eat fresh. One voraciously devoured foot-long later, I leave the sandwich shop and almost clobber a few junior-high kids running by. My first thought is, Shouldn’t they be in school? Wait, shouldn’t I be at work? Touché, self.

Mile 7 Uh-oh. Time for a bathroom break. Now, with the hunger thing, I can guess how runners might cope…but this? Do they veer off to a public restroom? Tap into some sort of underground Porta Potti network? Bounce up and down to keep their heart rate high while relieving themselves in the bushes? Ask and ye shall receive, I tell myself. WWJD? Subway again. There’s one on every corner.

Mile 8 Suddenly, the sun slips behind some serious storm clouds, which waste no time showering the streets below. A little rain never hurt anyone, I think, as the heavy showers give way to dime-size balls of hail. I duck under the awning of a Subway and watch as late-lunchers flee the Viagra Triangle in search of drier ground. I pace back and forth (keeping the mileage count up), waiting for things to let up. Turns out hail barrages are followed by…even more rain. It’s a sign, I tell myself, that I should cut my losses and head home. It doesn’t take much convincing—I make a beeline for the Red Line faster than a drunken suburban kid can yell “Fuck” at the Wieners Circle.

Miles 9–26 Can I run on the installment plan?