Detweiler becomes ‘marathon man’
By Eric Detweiler
Senior Writer

ISSUE: 05/01/07 > Sports > Detweiler becomes ‘marathon man’

Photo by Catherine Detweiler Senior Eric Detweiler runs the full Music City Marathon. Here, Eric reaches the 8th mile, with 18 more miles to run.

Editor’s note: Vision senior writer Eric Detweiler, running in his first marathon, finished 195th among some 6,300 finishers in Saturday’s 26.2 mile Music City Marathon. In his division, men 18-24, he was 19th. Eric, being a really modest kind of guy, doesn’t give you those really impressive numbers in the following first-person account of his not-so-typical Saturday morning. Admittedly, I was not there at 7 a.m. to cheer him on. But, hey, way to go, Eric!

It’s strange: from the waist up, I feel like my normal self after a normal sort of morning. My legs, however, feel as though they spent three-and-a-half hours getting chewed on by a toothless moose.

It’s Saturday afternoon, almost 4:30. I woke up at 5:45 this morning, ate a banana and a bowl of oatmeal, and headed to Centennial Park. From 6:31-6:53, I stood in line waiting to use a desperately needed Port-a-John. At 7:10, I was running down the middle of West End Avenue. I reached Belmont about 7:30, and by 10:37 I’d run 26.2 miles.

The 20-minute long line for the Port-a-Johns probably should have been my first clue that marathon running is not without a certain element of absurdity. Over the course of the morning, there were probably at least 5,000 people who walked into a plastic shack in the middle of Centennial Park, dropped their drawers, and evacuated their bladder and/or bowels. What kind of person uses—much less waits in line to use—a makeshift restroom that doesn’t even have a sink and then participates in a sporting event that lasts at the very least an hour (and that’s only if it’s the half-marathon), during which there’s certainly no opportunity to wash one’s hands? I do not recall seeing Greg Oden waiting impatiently outside an outhouse 10 minutes before the start of the NCAA Championship.

Fortunately, I managed to take care of business in time for the starting gun. I’m guessing that most of the people around me probably shared my sense of anxiety about the coming race. Most, not all: I’m sure there’s a select group of individuals who eat up those miles as eagerly as Pacman eats up dots, fruit and blinking blue ghosts. Actually, considering that we were offered bananas, oranges and pretzels over the course of the next few hours, Pacman is an almost eerily apt analogy. Although I’m assuming Pacman doesn’t generally get offered globs of Vaseline slathered on the end of popsicle sticks. Don’t ask me, I didn’t take any. But back to the starting line. I was doing a fair bit of shaking in my running shoes, a combination of pre-race jitters and the fact that this was the “Country Music Marathon”: supposedly there would be bands set up every couple of miles for the entire length of the course. Not only was I faced with the prospect of running a distance greater than that which separates Belmont and Brentwood, I might have to do it while listening to country music. I guess it’s a better prospect than having country musicians invade campus, but I still wasn’t too jazzed about it.

The first music station was less than a mile from the start, set up in the parking lot of an Exxon station on West End. Not too bad: definitely country, but the twang level was bearable. Things pretty much got better from there, musically speaking. I heard bands playing Led Zeppelin, Elton John, a jazz song I couldn’t identify, Blondie, Sixpence None the Richer’s “Kiss Me” (?!), “Why Don’t We Do it in the Road?” and the main riff from “Eye of the Tiger.” There was even some sort of prog-rock jam session going on across from the Commons.

The fact that the course passed right by Belmont turned the marathon into a convenient allegory of my college experience and life in general. Please pardon my indulgence. The race started on West End, one of the most bustling parts of Nashville. I was a freshman again, seeing the big city like Gene Kelly in the “Broadway Melody” section of Singin’ in the Rain. From there we were directed down Music Row: look, there’s Sony! BMI! ASCAP! An old apartment building brimming with hopeful musicians! After that it was across Wedgewood to Belmont, and as I passed the Caf, the Curb, and Bongo Java, cruised down Belmont Boulevard, and looped back for a second pass, I felt comfortable and settled. It was early in the race, I could speed up or slow down at will. I knew the streets and buildings all too well. The people were friendly and cheerful, and the miles ahead were still a sort of pleasantly optimistic abstraction. As I left Belmont behind for the second time, I saw my parents waving and shouting encouragement, spurring me on for what was ahead. And then came the slow drag of miles 10-26. I heaved and my muscles roiled within me. I prayed and pushed, the task became arduous, the novelty wore thin. We ran past crumbling tenements, through industrial parks, on the banks of rivers and lakes, sometimes alone and sometimes in groups. Occasionally, familiar faces would appear, only to fade back into a crowd of strangers. People surged ahead and fell behind. The more literary types crafted allegories of their experiences. Spit flew from my lips as I mouthed petitions for energy and grace. But wait, I could hear the distant rumble of the crowd waiting at the end and I strained forward for that ultimate grueling mile. There were my parents again, and there was the finish line. I heard my name called as I crossed over. And then there was pain. My legs, which had become all but numb after the first few miles of pounding, began to wobble and ache the moment they realized their work was done. I stumbled through a crowd of weary, disoriented runners (justifying this part of the story requires me to momentarily accept the notion of Purgatory). I wander, I sit for a few moments, the pain in my legs grows deeper. I wander again. Finally I come to the family and friends reunion area and mom is waiting. She hugs me, 26.2 miles worth of sweat and all, we cross a bridge. Dad is waiting with the car and so in we climb. It isn’t even noon yet: there is still all the time in the world.

And now I must go, for my stomach is mumbling subtle threats. Time to hobble to the kitchen like old Methuselah, heat up a little something, and stretch out for the evening.