I will never understand why folks run marathons

Jim Fall

Probably because I never could run very fast, or very far, I have never understood why anyone runs marathons.

Shoot, I have never understood why people want to run at all.

Sure, I ran when I was a kid. And

I still ran when I played sports in high school.

Admittedly, I chased a few women in college, but that would be a different subject all together.

What I’m talking about here is just plain ol’ runnin’.

I was a pretty small kid in high school, so throwing things was not my strong suit.

And I vividly remember realizing very early on that speed was not my forte.

So, I tried the distances.

It quickly became evident that was not my calling, either. And since we all know white men can’t jump, my track and field career was pretty much over before it started.

I got in a goodly share of running during my basic training days with the 2nd Armored Division — it prepared me for a cushy desk job at

Fort Bragg, North Carolina. And

yep, me and Elvis have that “Hell

on Wheels” thing in common, although we were in the same place at different times.

I will admit there were a couple

of periods in my early adult life when, for reasons I still do not fully understand, I would arise at an ungodly hour three or four mornings a week to plod around the neighborhood, confident that my dedication would eventually become addiction and I would even more readily identify with the legendary Jim Fixx.

Well, that silliness went away

long before Mr. Fixx provided me with more justification for ceasing such foolishness.

My next run-in with running came when we went to New York City to watch a daughter-in-law compete in the NYC marathon. That was the year after a son-in-law had proven

to himself he could do it — and to me he was perhaps not as bright as I had given him credit for when he married our daughter.

But it was there, on the streets of Manhattan, that I picked up an idea I have turned into salient supportive efforts, the first couple of times in Montana, and now in Maryville.

It’s the pounding of a bass drum to encourage runners along their way

And it works.

Or at least it certainly seems to.

Granted, that New York drum was somewhat oversized — it sat on a flatbed truck stationed streetside just as the runners turned into the home stretch through Central Park.

The one I use to spur on Maryville Marathon participants is a considerably smaller version borrowed from the Spoofhound Marching Band.

We beat the local drum at the Maryville Rotary Club’s water station, the last on the course for the 10K and the half and full marathons — strategically located a mile from the finish line.

I am uncertain about the neighbors, but the runners certainly respond positively to the rhythmic cadence we produce. It’s nothing resembling an accomplished drum line, but they get the idea.

As they grab a cup of water or Gatorade, or sometimes both, we

tell them, “You’ve got a mile to go.”

We don’t mention that last mile is basically all up hill.

Last year, I had doughnuts and Diet Cokes to offer runners — and one 26-miler actually took me up on them, both times through.

The bunch this year was more disciplined.

A new course record was set in the women’s long division this year, against a field of female competitors that seemed noticeably larger, and obviously more talented, than in the past several outings.

Our doughnut runner was not

back for an encore, but one sturdy gent did run the full 26.2 miles barefooted.

(No typographical error. You read that correctly. Barefooted. Without shoes. Au natural.)

Dozens of Maryville folks pitch in to help the Greater Maryville Chamber of Commerce ensure the marathon is a great event for everyone involved, and although this year’s field was slightly down in size, the overall enthusiasm for the event was not diminished in the least.

Runners came from far (Hawaii) and near (the 5K-winner, Max Martin of Liberty, is Kathy O’Riley’s grandson, and the10K champ, Matt Herring of West Des Moines, is the son of Mike and Debbie Herring) and kansas, and they were unanimously vocal in their compliments for our course and for our hospitality.

I specifically remember one compliment I received this year.

“You treat us so nice,” this one hulk of a fellow said, politely declining any refreshments.

“Even better than Boston,” he added, completely sincere in his admiration.

“Well I guess so. We didn’t throw any bombs at you,” I thought to

myself, but I accepted his plaudits

as they were hopefully intended.

That same kind of gratitude was ever so clearly exemplified by another runner who, upon being advised the end was near, laboriously exclaimed, “Thank God!” in a slightly exaggerated stage whisper.

She seemingly didn’t have strength left to lift her arms, or even her eyes, for that matter.

But she kept her legs moving.

And she was happy.

I got the feeling that, right then, she was not so happy with Maryville’s hospitality, the scenery of our course or the near-perfect running conditions the chamber had ordered up for the day.

She was happy just to have survived.