Runner’s goal is as simple as outrunning ‘Mr. Grizzly’

Bruce Falk

Monday, Feb. 8, 1999 | 11:30 a.m.

Editor's note: Bruce Falk is a Sun copy editor and veteran marathon runner. Sunday's Las Vegas Marathon marked the 33rd time he completed the 26.2-mile sojourn.

We could just as well be the victims of an elaborate hazing scheme devised by a sinister fraternity -- load 'em up on buses, drive 'em 26 miles into the country and make 'em run into town.

Instead, we are the runners entered in the Las Vegas International Marathon, and our view of the situation is very unlike that of trembling, uninitiated college freshmen. We are happy to be here.

We're smiling in the dark at 5:30 a.m. Sunday as we climb onto the dozens of Clark County School District buses lined up at the MGM Grand. In fact, each of us paid a $45 entry fee (more for late entrants) for the privilege. We are eager to get out to the Gold Strike hotel-casino in Jean and test our physical and psychological limits during the long journey back on foot.

We are, perhaps, insane -- or at least possessed.

So it is that my bus is filled with excited chatter as it pulls out onto Interstate 15. Runners -- mostly total strangers to one another -- compare race strategies, relate past triumphs and confess to past failures. In the 33 marathons I've run, several have bused runners to the starting line to aid in race organization, and I have learned to love to listen to the banter.

But I just listen. I don't banter -- ever. Others bask in the banter, but me -- no, thanks. It's like being at a urinal in a public men's room. Some guys feel the need to visit with the fellow beside them, to make small talk, to crack a joke. Others just stare ahead. I'm a starer.

In this department, luck is with me today. My seatmate says good morning as he takes the place beside me. "Hi," I say. "Lot of people," he says. I nod. "Nobody left to gamble here this morning," he jokes. I smile politely. He gets the hint -- no banter from me. The next time I glance over at him, he's snoozing. I'm happy.

I'm happy all the way to Jean. We get there a little after 6 a.m., and although many runners get out right away, we're allowed the option of remaining on the bus to stay warm until race time. I stretch out and relax, listening to a gregarious runner several seats behind me tell of his many escapades at the Big Sur Marathon in California and the Boston Marathon and the Chicago Marathon and ... well, you get the picture. Bantering gone bad.

A little before 7, inspired in part by Mr. Banter's stories, I leave the bus. It is time to get in a Porta-John line, then head to the starting line. Thankfully, there are plenty of toilets and the lines are short -- a sure sign of a well-organized race.

It is light now, and the day has dawned cloudy but quite mild, perfect for a marathon. I reach the starting line early and take my place at the front of the pack.

In the last seconds before the race starts, I pause to review my own strategy for outrunning the eternal foe, a fellow I call Mr. Grizzly -- the bear-sized, fatigue-spawned load that jumps on nearly every runner's back sometime during a marathon. The idea is to start slow and gradually pick up the pace. If all goes well, who knows? Maybe breaking my personal best time, at 2:57:48, is within my grasp today.

The gun sounds. Scores of runners dash around me, as always, in a mad scramble for early positioning. I let them go; I know I'll pass most of them later.

And I'm right. I follow my pre-race plan to the letter, and at Mile 8 my time is 56:13 -- just over 7-minute pace. At Mile 9, the course begins its long, gradual descent into the Las Vegas Valley, and I begin to click off some sub-7-minute miles, all within the plan. I'm running smoothly and life is good.

But perhaps life is too good. The 13th mile goes by in 6:27 (not in the plan) and the 14th in 6:23 (definitely not in the plan). "But you feel so good," the demon on my left shoulder whispers. The angel on my right shoulder counters, "You'll be sorry. Slow down right now."

The demon, a close personal friend of Mr. Grizzly, wins out. The angel, of course, was right.

The verdict came in shortly after the Mile 16 marker. I slowed down for a cup of refreshment at the aid station there, and Mr. Grizzly hopped on my back for the duration. By Mile 18, I'm barely under 7-minute pace again and losing steam fast.

By Mile 19, I devise a stark, grim new plan: Keep running -- 8-minute pace, 9-minute, whatever -- just don't stop running.

This, finally, is a plan that works. Inspired by the knowledge that my wife, members of her family visiting from back home in South Dakota and other friends and supporters will be at the finish line, I slog ahead.

It turns out that by giving myself permission to run slowly, I'm able to run far faster than the death march I anticipated.

It's not a strong finish, certainly, and it is filled with pain, but all the miles are 7:45 or faster. And my time of 3:06:37, though not my best, is much closer to my best than my worst.

All in all, I'd say I won my race on Sunday. I had tested my limits, found them, persevered anyway. Of the thousands of finishers Sunday, many were able to say the same thing.

That's the magic of the marathon.