It’s just before sunrise, and in Grant Park the scent of Ben-Gay hovers.
Bodies litter the grass, stretching and pulling, bouncing and yanking, inhaling Power Bars and sucking down Gatorade in nervous gulps. A cluster of high school girls stands in a circle, snapping their fingers and rapping to an invisible beat as they cheer on their buddy for the task ahead: pounding the asphalt through 26.2 miles of Chicago’s urban terrain for the 20th Annual LaSalle Banks Chicago Marathon on Sunday.
Traffic is blocked off through major streets and intersections, turning the city into an obstacle course for drivers who have forgotten about the marathon. But on a now-sunny morning, for more than an estimated 350,000 friends, families and well-wishers who clog the streets, holding “Go Mom” signs and the like, shouting into bullhorns and handing out bananas and run-by hugs, the race is at the forefront of their day.
“It’s not something I could do,” says Eileen Lopez, a self-described “rookie runner,” as she watches the procession go by. “I think anybody who turns out and has the motivation to do this, that’s great.”
As the clock edges closer to 7:45–starting time–warmup suits and gear are shucked as 16,372 runners from 37 countries and all 50 states strip to the goose-bump essentials.
They kiss their loved ones. They do the National Anthem thing. The horn sounds and Columbus Drive becomes a mass of bobbing bodies.
The crowd cheers.
You know about the elite runners. Running is what they do, day in and day out. They do it for the glory, they do it because they’re addicted to running. Some do it for a juicy sponsorship or two. But mostly, they do it because they can.
It is the regular Janes and Joes, though, who do it to see if they can.
Or, as Bill Tolhurst, a 50-year-old running his second marathon put it, they do it “because it’s here.”
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Most train for months, sacrificing playtime and parties, working with personal trainers and competing in half-marathons to ready their muscles for the ordeal.
Others, like Maris Alchimovics, a 34-year-old Wicker Park carpenter, take a more leisurely approach. The night before, he carbo-loads–kicking back a few beers.
So he sleeps in.
Just before the race, inspiration strikes, so Alchimovics makes a sidetrip to Walgreens, where he buys a disposable camera so he can take pictures as he runs.
He stands in line, chatting up another customer. By the way, he says, I’m running in the marathon.
Really? The race started already, the customer tells him.
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Gulp.
Alchimovics bolts out the store, hails a cab, and runs to the starting line–20 minutes after the fact.
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Many runners consider the Chicago Marathon one of the most scenic runs in the world, with its winding course traveling through the city’s most beautiful and historic neighborhoods and finishing with a spectacular view of the downtown skyline.
In the beginning, dashing through Old Town, Lincoln Park and Lakeview, runners are cruising, high on adrenaline and cheering crowds. As they snake south through Greektown, when the smell of gyros and souvlaki entices, their legs are starting to protest just a bit.
By the time the marathoners whiz under the ornate red and green tile arch of the Chinatown Gate, past the Chinese dragon dancing along Cermak Road to the cacophony of gongs and cymbals, thighs are burning.
Staggering past Comiskey Park, their muscles scream, “Stop!”
“After 21 miles, the fun stops,” says Nelson McLemore, 36, a Chicago physician running his first marathon. “There’s no way around it; a marathon hurts. Whether you’re in tip-top condition or in fair shape, you’re going to feel it.”
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Peter Lubliner is a man with a goal: running fast enough to qualify for the Boston Marathon.
“If I’m on my game, I’ll run a 3:13,” the 37-year-old Chicago screenwriter says. “And if I’m not, it’s 3:26. And I don’t get to go to the party.”
He knows that he’s facing tough odds. To keep himself on schedule, he’s written his “splits”–his scheduled arrivals at mile checkpoints–on his arm.
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Last year, drinking too much water almost did in Barbara Kummerer of River Forest. Six times she was forced to duck into portable toilets before dashing back out.
“It was nerves, really,” says Kummerer, a youthful 64-year-old. “But I lost a lot of time.”
And so, this year, to control the output, she’s measuring her input with the precision of a chemist. She’s allowed herself one banana, 1 1/2 bagels and 16 ounces of water.
“I’m obsessing about the food and the liquids,” she says. “I want everything to be perfect this time.”
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Two families stage a lonely rally at the corner of North State Street and East Grand Avenue. Wives and kids wait for Daral Vining of St. Charles, Ill., and Dean Kirschner of Waukesha, Wis., to come by.
This is Vining’s first marathon.
“Dad’s going to die,” says his 8-year-old son, Steven, cackling gleefully.
Kimberlie King, a 24-year-old runner, watches the procession of tired faces along Broadway with something like awe.
“I tried to do the St. Louis Marathon and had to stop at the 15th mile, so I know what they’re going through,” King says as she urges on the participants. “I felt if I came out and I made someone go one more mile, it was worth it.”
And so she stands there, clapping and cheering, until the very last runner trickles by.
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Not everyone makes it. Some find their body giving out despite their best intentions. Cramps hobble some legs, slowing their pace to a walk.
At the finish line, “We Are the Champions” is on automatic replay. A crush of runners swaddled in silver Mylar wraps limp by, looking both relieved and dazed. A man collapses, sprawling out onto the concrete as a team of medics swoops him away on a stretcher. A husband and wife kiss each other while another runner, his body wet with sweat, crosses himself in gratitude.
Some, like Lubliner, hit the wall, performing much worse than they’d expected, struggling, as one runner put it, to “make a personal victory out of personal failure.” Others, like Kummerer, surprise themselves with success.
“The last two miles, I just closed my eyes and ran,” Kummerer says, her eyes welling with tears. “I thought about my Mom and Dad, who are dead. I wish they could’ve been there to see me.”
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