Notes from one in the Millions

Two activities sprawled throughout the city last Sunday. The first was the Chicago Marathon, an annual event calling together about 35,000 people from across the globe to race throughout the city. The second activity hosted about 1.5 million marathon fans that spent the morning cheering on friends and loved ones from the sidewalks and rooftops.

I decided to attend the marathon in support of my longtime friend Zak. As he was overcoming a minor injury to his foot and I, a native of Chicago, had yet attended the marathon, it seemed fitting to witness the spectacle.

Arriving in Grant Park as the sun was rising, Downtown Chicago felt more like Times Square at New Years Eve. The bitter winds whistled off the lake to greet the throng as thousands in attendance carried on with their preparations.

The running world is intense and deliberate and perhaps a bit crazy. The Hilton Hotel was jammed with tourists stretching on the floor of their lobby. The smell of the thousands of people, up early to prepare for the race - unwashed, sweating and dirty - was palpable from blocks away.

As the speakers at the starting line blared Bruce Springsteen's "Born To Run", Zak left us small group of supporters and took his place at the starting line. It was 7:45 a.m.; the race started at 8 a.m. Because of the amount of entrants at the Chicago Marathon, Zak didn't see the starting line until almost 8:20.

There were four of us in our support group for Zak. We walked down to State Street. and chose t wait near the 2-mile mark in anticipation of our buddy. Despite it being cold and drizzling and early in the morning, the eclecticism of the thousands littering the sidewalks of State Street provided the heartbeat of the morning. One girl explained the purpose of the plastic noisemaking "thunder sticks" she was carrying while a New Hampshire couple discussed their daughter's marathon resume to us.

There was a palpable feeling of excitement. It was generally quiet considering the thrust of people awaiting the first glimpse of runners. Cowbells were in-hand but not ringing. Whistles hung around the necks of dozens, but none were being used. There was no clapping, little shouting. Not yet.

By 8:10 a.m., the quieted scene on the streets shifted drastically when a group of speeding wheelchair-riding racers blazed down State Street. A bomb of cheering detonated in the streets as the pockets of runners poured in, first in a sparse group of world-class elite followed eventually a steady push of the common populace. After 30 minutes, State Street was littered with the discarded shirts and gloves of overheated runners.

At 8:29 a.m. we saw Zak chugging along. Unbelievably he spotted us, smiled and pointed. Then, as quickly as he arrived, he was gone. With no reason to remain on State Street, we climbed onto the Red Line and headed to our next destination at the 10-mile marker.

We arrived in Old Town pleased with the sudden shock of sun bestowed upon the marathon. It was about 35 degrees outside and we weren't expecting Zak for another hour so we stopped by a nearby friend's house to warm up. Sedgwick Street was trashed with discarded cups, a small casualty caused by the nearly 47,000 gallons of Gatorade used throughout the race.

At 9:49 a.m. Zak jogged past and seemed happy to see us, which was the reason we stood in the cold in the first place. Hours later after the race concluded, Zak told us that his biggest regret of the race was not yelling a request for a sausage biscuit the next time we saw him. We would have totally gotten him a sausage biscuit.

Our group doubled from four friends to eight when it occurred to us that we were going to have to cross Sedgwick Street to get to the train station. This process took us nearly ten minutes to complete. Like a nightmare edition of "Frogger", crossing the normally sleepy neighborhood street filled with marathoners might have been the most exciting moment of the entire race. We made it and headed through Chinatown on our way to the final stretch of the race.

Riding on the train toward the South Side of the city, it occurred to me that the winner, who I later found out to be Robert Cheruiyot, had already finished the race.

Standing on the frigid South Side, at 35th Street and Michigan Avenue, with a bundle of Big Macs squatting in my belly, large speakers were in place with everything from Sam & Dave to The Black Eyed Peas propelling the runners down the final stretch. In an odd turn of events, a volunteer helping with the marathon was given a microphone to encourage the runners. For the most part he did a fine job, but every ten minutes or so he interjected a little taunt into his rotation of well-wishing. In a 45-minute-period he was heard saying, "Betcha didn't think it was gonna be this hard!" or, "It's okay to stop if your knees are hurting." The light-hearted taunting continued when a man holding up a professionally printed banner that said, "Nancy, Will You Marry Me?" was challenged by a hastily drawn sign 30 feet away mockingly suggesting, "Nancy, Don't Do It!" The entire city was alive and jovial, everyone a part of the festivities.

A little more than 23 miles after his start, we saw Zak for the final time of the race at 12:10 p.m. He smiled at the sight of his friends jumping like wild baboons. He was red-faced, perhaps blushing at the attention, perhaps just winded. After 45 minutes of searching face after face for the one that matched my friend, seeing Zak running up 35th Street felt - if only for a moment - as if I had spotted the Pope. He was wet with what I hoped was sweat, but standing there in my winter coat, I couldn't imagine anyone sweating.

I recalled something he told me before the race, "Sometimes you hear about the faster runners - not wanting to slow down - just letting the pee fly. But man, the difference between finishing in 4 hours and 30 minutes or 4 hours and 29 minutes while covered in pee… it's just not worth it."

Zak ended with a time of 4:35:47; roughly two-and-a-half hours after Robert Cheruiyot finished the race and nearly four minutes better than his own marathon time last year. When we saw him back in Grant Park, he sidled up to us bowlegged like a range-riding cowboy begging us for a burrito.

We went for burritos. I couldn't think of a better way to conclude one of the more raucous mornings Chicago provided this year.

Zak was part of a multitude of runners raising funds for the American Cancer Society. This year, he raised roughly $1,800 for his involvement with the Chicago Marathon.