Prague Marathon, May 21, 2000

Buck Hales

 

Part one: Arriving in Prague

I was sleeping fitfully, rocking back and forth in the sleeping berth on the overnight train from Frankfurt to Prague.  I was awakened by a loud knock at door at 3 AM when the German Border Police banged the door open seeking our passports. With true German efficiency the police systematically, with machine-like precision, checked everyone’s documentation.  A minute later we were back in the dark in our berth, ready to finish our sleep when the second knock came, this time a very polite knock—the Czech border police. The anticipation of these visits made it hard to sleep before they came. Next thing we knew it was light out and we were nearing Prague.  We arrived at the station in a confused delirium, walking down the platform with all our luggage being assailed by offers of cheap hotel rooms and currency converters, but soon spotted the chauffer holding a sign with our name on it.  As promised the Hotel Julian had dispatched Michael to pick us up.  Our cross-town journey afforded us our first amazed look at the city.  

 

It was still very early on Saturday morning and our room wasn’t ready.  So we stowed our gear in the secure lockers, freshened up in the luxurious facility they provided for just such occasions.  I was really starting to like this establishment and we hadn’t even checked in yet.  The helpful desk clerk sold us two tram tickets, gave us a map and told us how to find the marathon expo in Wenceslas Square.  The tram stop was just one block from the hotel and the tram system in Prague is highly efficient with trains coming every few minutes. We boarded the #9 as instructed and began to watch for our stop.  As each stop was announced it became clear that we had absolutely no idea where to get off, not understanding Czechoslovakian, or able to even see a vowel in any word.  Soon it became apparent that we had gone too far so we got off, stood looking at the map--the pocket compass was of no use.

Wenceslas Square

 

A kind gentleman who spoke just enough English told us get back on the #9 and go two stops.  Wenceslas Square, which is more like a broad avenue, was absolutely teeming with activity, lined with hotels and restaurants and currency exchanges.  In fact, there was a currency exchange about every third building.  A Czech kroun is worth about 2.5 cents making money changing a very big business on the Square.  We found the expo housed in big tent right in the middle of the square and picked up our numbers, timing chips and goody bag.  I bought a disposable camera for 350 Kr and wasn’t sure if that was a good deal or not.  Even though it was early the small expo was swarmed with pushy runners picking up their numbers.  I got my first dose of their atmospheric exudations.

Tam Tam the German Drum Band

We easily found our way back to the Hotel after catching the #9 and checked in.  As promised the room did have hot pink sheets.  It was wonderful large room, such a relief after the minuscule French hotels we stayed in all the previous week.

We plotted our course to the pre-marathon pasta dinner and set out.  On the map it looked like a short walk.  We soon found that it was on the top of Petrín hill that overlooks Prague. As we walked through the forested park up the steep switchbacks that crisscrossed Petrín hill we pondered if taking the funicular railway wouldn’t have been better idea.  But soon we crested the hill and found ourselves adjacent the Baroque gardens.  We followed the signs to the pasta dinner.  This was very peculiar affair in the dinning hall adjacent the dorm rooms for the sports university.The pasta was served with breakfast cereal, yogurt and canapés.  Nescafe was delivered by roving vendors with coffee backpacks.  Our next stop was to the other dinning hall where they served beer and Matoni sparkling waters, the beverages oddly enough separately from the food service.  A drum group from Germany called Tam Tam assembled on the stage and the PIM serenade began.  As the six women with giant kettle drums, and six men with congo drums all wearing matching white jeans and t-shirts began to perform a woman with a feather head piece, and that was about all, danced on the stage and gyrated to the pounding rhythm.  

 

Part two: the marathon:

                Marathon day dawned bright and cloudless and we walked from the hotel to the historic Old Town Square (Starometské námestí).  We picked a sunny spot and Karen kept me company while I stretched.  We devised a post event meeting strategy and I made my way to the start area.  Soon I found myself surrounded by a crush of men in 1970’s vintage running attire and was assailed by profound body odor and bad breath.  I was a head taller than everyone around me.  As start time neared more and more runners crowded around me.  Their concept of personal space than those of Americans is very different indeed.   Tam Tam the German drum group was poised on the steps of the town hall waiting for the gun to off.  We were off!  I crossed the start line in 10 seconds and found myself running on cobblestones.  The lead pack disappeared and the crowd of runners around me began to spread out.  I was holding back, trying not to go out too fast, but I couldn’t judge my pace.  We rounded a corner, passed a Klezmer band playing a rousing version of Bohemian Rhapsody.  Then I saw the first mileage marker—1 kilometer.  It suddenly occurred to me that all the splits were going to be in km’s, not miles.  My first split was 4:55.  I still had no idea how fast I was running.  I had carefully plotted my mile pace in my mind and wanted to run about nine minute pace.  As we wound our way around the Old Town Square, it took me 3 more kilometers to calculate that I would finish in about 3:20 at this pace—way too fast.  I reasoned that I should try and go 5:40 to finish under 4 hours. 

Charles Bridge

Soon the twisted path took us to the Charles Bridge, the oldest bridge in Europe, first constructed in the 14th century and the most famous landmark of Prague.  I snapped off a few pictures as we crossed the mighty Vltava River and entered Malá Strana, the old city, dating from 13th century when the ancient Roman settlements on the banks of the river coalesced behind the protective walls.

The marathon ran over the rough cobblestones through the narrow twisted streets and we wound our way past the foot of the castle atop the hill.  In the square, we were serenaded by a Czech children’s choir and threaded through the massing tourists.  Finally in the park at Kempa near the John Lennon wall we left the cobblestones behind.  I had settled in and was feeling pretty comfortable with my 5:40 pace as we left the city and ran on the pavement south of the city, adjacent the Vltava.  It was only about 15 degrees C, but it was humid and the sun was very bright and hot.  I started to feel the first twinge of fatigue as we passed the next musical attraction, “Vodnik Post it”, a heavy metal rage rock punk band blaring out an ear shattering din of angry sounding lyrics, unintelligible in any language, the lead singer screaming into the microphone, jock strap-clad with his leather pants around his ankles. “Well, that was different” I remarked to no one in particular.  The runner next to me struck up a conversation in halting English.  He told me that he now lived in Budapest, but had returned to run his hometown marathon.  We chatted for a few kilometers then he pushed on ahead.  

I caught up with a pair of Americans and we chatted about the splendor of the marathon.  One was from Texas, the other Colorado Springs.  I ran ahead and heard them start up a conversation with another American.  He told them he was from Chicago.  All three were in the military and stationed in Italy.  It turned out three of the four of us had all gone to University of Colorado.  Small world.  As I pushed ahead I fell into pace with a Czech runner.  We ran stride for stride for 2 or 3 km, our only conversation spoken in the common language of running.  We passed a great sounding blues band with a Duane Allmanesque lead guitar wailing away singing the Statesborough Blues in Czechoslovakian.  The water stops were frequent and well stocked, including big bowls of salt, sugar cubes and sliced fruit.  The plentiful volunteers offered “sports drink and sponges.”  As we neared 10 km I started to struggle, and had a hard time sticking with my Czech buddy.  The lead runners caught us coming back at 12 and when I stopped to snap their photo my buddy ran on.  I stopped again a few minutes later and caught the women leaders.  I fell into pace with a young lady from Pennsylvania.  We had a nice chat and I told her that this was my third marathon in 7 weeks by way of explaining my slowing pace.  She told me she also ran 3 marathons in two months last fall, one of them being Chicago and had a great run there and at NYC, but by the time she ran Philadelphia, she had a terrible time.  Prophetic words. 

Part three: hitting the wall

Soon I found myself in a bad way.  I was just past 13 km, and was hitting the wall already.  I knew I was going to have to reach deep into the toolbox to make it through this marathon to finish.  I pondered the last months of preparation and knew that running a 50 K ultra on April 1, a marathon on April 30 was making this effort just 3 weeks later a difficult prospect.  My pace fell way off and I was running alone in the hot sun.  I came upon the next water station and this time ate a sugar cubed that I dipped in salt, drank several cups of water, dowsed myself from sponges and walked for minute or two.  I came to the next km marker and pressed on, and was feeling a little better as I came to what I thought was the turnaround.  But the courses was laid out like the letter “Y” with a 1 km up and back, and then a 4 km up and back on in the other direction.  At the vertex of the “Y” was a Czech folk band consisting of a flute, a drum and a chorus of 8 singing a very uplifting and harmonious ballad.  I heard this same group twice more up and back and they sang with great stamina offering a tremendous lift.  The long arm of “Y” seemed never to end.  As we neared 20 km we passed a Czech village beside the road with the locals gathered and cheering us on.  The group of three cute teenagers was very excited to see the American flag on my singlet and chanted “USA USA USA” I waved at them and they giggled with delight.  On my way back by I took their picture which they enthusiastically agreed to pose for.  Passing the runners who lagged behind gave me a boost and I regained my composure.  I concentrated on keeping my head up, swinging my arms and pushing off.  I pressed my chest forward and bore down. 

Soon I began to pass people. I stopped at each water station, had sugar and salt and orange slices and several cups of water, walked for a minute, and then pushed on.  I passed a big guy from Dallas who was barely moving.  He complained about the heat and humidity, much like they had at home he pined.  I fell into stride with a gentleman from Copenhagen.  We ran stride for stride for 5 km, catching each other again after the next water stop.  He was an accomplished marathoner and had a huge group of supporters along the course all waving Danish flags.  Some 100 or more Danes had made the trip to run the Prague marathon and their legion of fans was well distributed along the course.  I heard only the occasional “go USA” and was amongst the 50 or so Americans who did the race.  The largest number of non-Czechs were the Italians who were there in droves wearing either blue or red uniforms emblazoned with “Italia”.  The blues and reds though didn’t have much to say to each other, but when two groups of reds crossed paths there was a huge commotion.  The km’s rolled by and I was anxiously looking for 32, the equivalent of 20 miles—the great psychological landmark in the marathon.  Only 10 km to go!

 

The blues band was still playing but the heavy metal rage rock punk band had long since run out of vitriol to spew.  The course entered the city limits at 35 as we passed through the park at Kempa, then it was back on cobblestones.

  Now the crowds of tourists were thick and marathoners were few and far between.  I caught two runners in purple TNT singlets that said “Illinois” and the three of us ran through the twisted torturous streets of Malá Strana together.  The children’s choir was doing one last encore and the hoard of tourists nearly blocked the path of us weary marathoners.  We crossed back over the Charles Bridge, back into the streets around Old Town Square and I imagined we were almost done.  I saw that I was at 38 KM 3:55 and calculated that I would finish at 4:20.  I noticed that one block over marathoners were running parallel and in the same direction—more spiraling through the cobblestones lay ahead.  The closer and closer that we came to the town square the worse the crowds became.  But the intrepid volunteers kept parting the throng and an errant sightseer never once impeded my progress.  I passed a few runners more runners who were resigned to walking, but lost the Illinois runners. 

Buck Finishes

My pace dropped to a crawl.  My calves were screaming, I was so tired I felt like I was in a trance, and the end was nowhere in sight.  Every time I rounded a corner all I would see would be more cobblestones, more tourists, but no finish line.  I passed a group of rowdy Americans who saw my flag singlet and cheered boisterously.  At the 40 km marker the crowd thickened behind the barricades and more and more of them were cheering for runners.