Forget the red convertible -- I bought running shoes

My mid-life crisis came upon me in the late summer of 1997.

No, I did not buy a red Mustang convertible and pretend that I still had hair to blow in the wind.

Nope, didn’t start chasing young women. As my friends might have asked, “What would I do if I caught one?”

And no, I did not sell all my worldly goods and slink off to Key West to become a bartender and sometimes drunk. Too much effort.

But on a cooler-than-normal Wednesday in late August when I was completing my usual mid-day run on the Freedom Park track, I was seized with a wild notion, why not run 7 miles rather than 6?

I had started running nine years earlier, wanting to keep my waistline under control and to combat the stress inherent in being editor of a small-town daily newspaper.

Over the following nine years I had run any number of 5K races before graduating to 10Ks. But I had never entertained any notion of running longer distances until that day in late August.

Mile 7 was no more difficult than was Mile 6. My heart did not explode. My legs did not fall off. I felt good, proud that I had plowed new ground, and suddenly I was asking myself, “Why not do more?”

Checking road race calendars from around the region, I quickly found a target upon which I could train my sights: The Governor’s Cup Half-Marathon scheduled for Saturday, Oct. 18, in Columbia, S.C.

A little math lesson for those not familiar with racing distances:

5K — 3.1 miles

10K — 6.2 miles

Half-Marathon — 13.1 miles

Marathon — 26.2 miles

So … now late August, race in mid-October. Basically seven weeks in order to add 6 more miles to the comfortable 7 I could now run.

Piece of cake.

And indeed, it largely was. Even though I had no notion of disciplined training. Even though I had no formula to follow. Even though I did not know when or how much or what type of liquid to consume along the way.

The only damper on the race on Oct. 18 in the midlands of the Palmetto State was the weather. For mid-October, it was chilly. Race-time temp in the low 40s. Cool I could have handled.

Trouble was, it was also raining. Check that. It wasn’t raining. It was pouring. Big old fat cold drops of chilling rain. Streets became canals. Potholes became small lakes. Running clothes and the people who wore them became totally soaked.

Two hours and 36 seconds after the sound of the starting gun echoed off the tall buildings in downtown Columbia, I crossed the finish line. The hot shower that followed still ranks as one of the memorable and mystical experiences of my life.

I came home to Burke County convinced that I would be ready for running the Carolina Marathon, also scheduled for Columbia, S.C., on Saturday, Feb. 7, 1998.

And I was, but only thanks to an intervention by veteran Burke County runner Paul Wardzinski.

ENTER WARDZINSKI

Paul had read my account of the Governor’s Cup in The News Herald in which I publicly stated my intent to run a marathon in just over three and a half months.

He knew, and was absolutely correct in his knowledge, that I needed some direction if that were, in fact, going to happen.

Paul offered his wisdom and I gladly accepted.

Paul taught me how to increase my mileage gradually and safely, with three or four runs of 5 or 6 miles during the week and then a long run every other weekend.

The long run increased incrementally by 2 miles each run. 8 miles. 10 miles. 12 miles. 14 miles. 16 miles. 18 miles. 20 miles and so on.

He insisted that I run the full marathon distance two or three weeks before race day, so that I would have the mental confidence to go the distance.

He taught me about the run/walk method of staying strong for 26 miles — run for 9 minutes and then walk briskly for 1 minute. The walking “breaks” give the body a bit of recovery time while still moving forward.

He taught me how to drink a small amount at each water station to avoid dehydration and to carry a few hard candies for the last couple of miles when my body was ready to crash.

Paul even taught me how to dress. A lightweight, vented running suit over thermal tights, tops, and bottoms. Lightweight gloves for the hands and lightweight boggan for the head.

Oh, and don’t forget to cover those nipples with Band-Aids. Don’t do it and you’ll be bloody and raw for at least a week. And Vaseline. Use Vaseline liberally on any areas prone to chafing.

His instructions perfectly suited a 42-year-old fella who wanted to prove that he could do this thing and whose only opponent was himself.

My first 20-mile run was an absolute triumph. I felt strong and pure and focused the entire time, and I yelled and danced like Rocky when that 20th mile was complete.

Two weeks later, shooting for 22, I hit the wall at about the 18-mile mark. I could not run another step. My legs would go no further. I was done. And I cried with rage at myself for being so weak.

But I was back at it a few days later.

Marathon Day was cloudy and cold in the Midlands, but fortunately, no rain. I kept telling myself to keep it slow and steady. As the cliché says, “It ain’t no sprint … it’s a marathon.”

The route took us through downtown Columbia. Through the suburban burg of Cayce. And then onto the campus of Fort Jackson. Mile after mile through pine woods only occasionally punctuated by a building.

Every soldier I passed saluted me that morning.

And then, it was over. I was passing the finish line and someone was hanging a medallion around my neck.

I had done it.

I ran six more marathons over the next seven years, including the Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, D.C., and the Grandfather Mountain Marathon, which began on the campus of Appalachian State University and ended on the track at the Highland Games.

I know, with 71 just around the corner, that I will never run another marathon. Heck, I’d love to finish the Rotary Club Zombie Run coming up in October in less than 45 minutes.

Looking back nearly 30 years later, I realize that the marathon itself was never really the point. The point was discovering, at age 42, that the limits I had accepted were mostly the ones I had invented.

A 7-mile run became 13.1. Thirteen-point-one became 26.2. And somewhere between those miles I learned that ordinary people are capable of extraordinary things if they’re willing to be patient, trust good advice, and keep putting one foot in front of the other.

No, I won’t be lining up for another marathon. At almost 71, I’m perfectly content to chase shorter finish lines.

But every October, when I see runners gathering for another race, a part of me is back on those rain-soaked streets of Columbia, wearing Band-Aids in places polite people don’t discuss, wondering if I could really do something that once seemed impossible.

Turns out, I could.