Marathon No. 15

Marathons are like snowflakes in that each one is different. Training level, weather, hills, crowd support and competition are among the myriad variables in every race.
For the Mississippi Coast Marathon on Saturday, the added factor was Hurricane Katrina and what she did to that region.
In my quest to run a marathon in every state, with six states now crossed off the list, I'd targeted this little Mississippi marathon a year ago and began training in May. I'd hoped to perhaps qualify again for the Boston Marathon, which I ran in 1999.
But then came Katrina, raising questions about whether the race would go on. Nevertheless, I continued training. But then came Rita, and it derailed my runs for three weeks. I decided Mississippi would have to wait.
But then, in the third week of October, race director Leonard Vergunst returned an ancient e-mail inquiry. Vergunst assured me that the race was on, so I got to thinking about maybe going for it, despite a hairy mileage ramp-up that in the past would result in some kind of injury.
So on Oct. 22, I ran a 13-mile long run. That's half a marathon. The next Saturday, I bumped it up to 16. Then, on Nov. 12, I ran a 20-miler, a critical run in marathon training. The 20-miler was tough to finish, thanks to the heat, humidity and a late-morning start, but I did it.
However, I began waffling last week, only days from the race. I do not run well in the heat, and it looked like it was going to be a warm marathon, with a low in the mid-60s and a high in the mid-70s. Marathoners like it cold, preferably in the 40s.
What ultimately convinced me to go was the forecast for overcast skies and some rain as well as the fact that I finished the 20-miler in worse conditions.
So on Friday, after spending Thanksgiving with my folks in Houston, I dropped the wife and kids off in Beaumont and headed east on Interstate 10, having no idea where I would stay the night. Hurricane Katrina destroyed not only the host hotel but all other accommodations for miles around.
So I brought a tent, sleeping bag, Coleman stove and a cooler full of food. I figured I could find a cozy little debris pile or something to sleep on. Some 308 miles later, I found myself at the registration table inside the wellness center of the Stennis Space Center near Bay St. Louis, Miss. Race director Vergunst, who was working the table, said out-of-towners were welcome to camp out on the grounds or just sleep in the gym on an aerobics mat. I went with the tent, as did a couple from Jackson, Miss.
I went for a gas run and quickly discovered the stark differences between Hurricane Katrina, a Category 4 storm, and Rita, a Category 3. The damage along Interstate 10 seemed about the same, with a few more snapped trees and a few more blue tarps here and there.
Running low on gas, I took the first exit off Interstate 10, took a right and got about a quarter mile down the road when I hit the gas stations, or what was left of them. They looked like they had been hydroblasted with dirty bayou water. The structures were in tatters, and mud an inch deep covered the parking lot.
Nervously eyeing the gas gauge, I went a few more miles east on Interstate 10 and found a collection of open stations. However, as I filled the tank, the station's gas ran out, forcing customers to scurry over to a nearby competitor. I felt like I was right back in Beaumont in the days of struggle following Rita.
Back at the wellness center, a jolly scene ensued. Pasta boiled on Coleman stoves. Runners broke out a beer or two.
Put a bunch of runners together, and they are going to talk mostly about running.
But not this bunch.
We talked about hurricanes, damage, insurance companies, FEMA, Red Cross, building contractors and all the other players in the post-storm recovery. They all had worse stories than I had.
Everyone went to bed early. As the pool's filtration system hummed outside, I struggled to go to sleep as visions of race failure filled my imagination.
The next morning, we made our way out to the starting point a mile or so away, where only 50 runners had signed up for the marathon, compared with around 150 on a typical year. There was also a half marathon and 5K, the latter being the more popular race.
My plan was to run slow and steady, with no stops or even slowing down. The persistent turtle, grinding his way over the 26.2-mile course.
Luckily, the temperature was in the high 50s at the start, with clouds overhead. Perfect. I prayed for the clouds to stay put.
Just before the start, I bumped into Gary Van Kuiken, 47, a resident of The Woodlands near Houston. His time goal of around 4 hours was the same as mine, so it was only natural that we found ourselves running side-by-side throughout the race. Sometimes he'd surge ahead, and sometimes I'd lead the way.
Around Mile 17, the clouds grew dark and the rain poured down. We trudged on. Volunteers abandoned the water stations, leaving behind cups filled with water and sports drink. We trudged on. The roadsides were empty of crowd support, with snapped trees being our only audience. We trudged on.
Around Mile 20, Van Kuiken's pace began to slow. A fellow 50-state marathoner, he said he needed to back off because he was running yet another marathon this coming weekend. To me, that's incredible, because it usually takes me a week to even be able to walk normally after a marathon, much less run another one of these dadblammed things.
All alone, I kept up my pace and managed to finish in 4:00:28, less than a half minute off my goal. My best marathon time of 3:13 probably wouldn't get me a Top 10 finish in the 60-64 age group at the Boston Marathon, but on this day, a 4:00:28, my fourth worst marathon time ever, landed me third place in my 40-44 age group.
It'll probably be the only marathon plaque I ever get.
Despite it not being my best race finish, and being overweight and undertrained, I'm glad I made the trip, as did the other marathoners whom I talked to. They didn't care about hotel accommodations, fancy post-race food (there was almost none), their race time or having thousands of screaming fans lining the course, as they do in the big-city marathons.
Many of them, like me, came for one thing: to show that in the face of profound adversity, the enduring spirit of runners can still prevail.