Done In By The Dutchman-Marathon No. 17

The self-questioning began around Mile 9.

I started conservatively Sunday at the Lost Dutchman Marathon in Apache Junction, Ariz., not letting the energy and excitement make me run too fast during the first six miles of rolling, twisting, unpaved dirt road.

Here's a link: http://www.lostdutchmanmarathon.org/

Spectacular scenery surrounded the early part of the course. Massive sororo cacti stood at attention along the road and cast eery shadows in the early morning light.

To get to the start, runners parked at the finish line and hopped buses to take them up into the mountains, where small fires and pre-race refreshments greeted them.

At 7 a.m., the gun for the 400 or so runners sounded, and I, despite being about 20 pounds over prime racing weight, was confident of a strong finish, thanks to a textbook, trouble-free training program that had me on track for a 3:30 marathon. Fatter and older people than me have run much faster marathons.

The dirt road rolled in and out of arroyos, a desert term for gullies carved out over time by fast-moving water and erosion.

The endless series of dips took their toll on my legs, but after emerging onto a highway frontage road and heading into a slight downhill around Mile 6, I believed the stiffness would subside and I could crank into a new gear.

I couldn't. I'd gone as fast as I was going to go during this quest to cross Arizona off my list in my quest to run a marathon in all 50 states. Arizona was No. 9, and a runner can't even join the 50 States Marathon Club until he gets 10 under his shorts. I picked Arizona so I could visit and stay with some friends, the Kashgarians, whom I hadn't seen in more than a half decade.

Despite the modest time goal, by Mile 9 I realized that not only was I not going to hit a 3:30, I doubted I'd break 4 hours and likely would have my worst marathon time ever.

The next 17.2 miles would prove to be a nightmare of self-doubt, pain and a previously unknown desire to just quit.

But having paid a fortune for air fare and a rental car - as well as the months of training investment - I figured the worse thing that could happen would be to walk or even crawl to the finish line if I had to.

So I trudged on, with me and most of the runners around me walking the water stops miles before the halfway point.

I could not understand what was happening, and whatever was going on affected other runners as well. Three weeks earlier, I had run at a 20-miler at a pace that I couldn't even muster by Mile 11 in Arizona. The next week, I hit the track and ran eight 800s, all around a pace of 3 minutes and 20 seconds.

Called "Yasso 800s," the times are supposed to be an indicator of marathon finishing, meaning that running the Yassos at around 3 minutes and 20 seconds translates into a marathon time of 3 hours and 20 minutes - good enough to qualify me for the Boston Marathon.

That prospect evaporated long before the halfway point, and everything after that was an exercise in just somehow gutting it out to the finish line.

Mile after agonizing mile went by, and my legs just got stiffer and stiffer.

The ultimate cruelty came after the route went back to rolling dirt road. At Mile 23, a group of Red Hat Ladies happily handed out water. Behind them rose a horrifying hill - called The Dutchman's Revenge - that ascended about 50 feet in less than a 10th of a mile.

I'd read about the hill, and I was determined to run rather than walk up it, and I did it. At the top, there was a man-made arch, and a photographer on the other side took pictures as runners passed through.

Here's a photo of it, courtesy of the race web site, of someone who is definitely not me:

The tribute to the hill spoke volumes about the level of accomplishment to just get to this point.

Finally, at 4 hours and 28 minutes, about 15 minutes beyond my previous worst marathon, I crossed the finish line.

I looked down to see huge salt deposits formed on my running shirt. My hair was encrusted with salt. I could barely walk.

In retrospect, I believe the perfect storm of failure awaited me in Arizona.

First off, I seriously underestimated the elevation effect. Apache Junction sits at around 2,000 feet, but the race started much higher than that, robbing my body of the ability to process the oxygen needed to keep my muscles from stiffening so quickly.

Also, the early rolling hills and then later long hills took their toll as well, followed by deceptively high temperatures. Every degree over about 55 degrees slows a runner, and the temperatures toward the last half of the race were pushing 70 degrees, masked in part by the near lack of any humidity. I also believe the dry desert air itself somehow hastened the dehydration process.

Excuses. Excuses.

Nevertheless, I crossed my 17th marathon finish line and crossed a ninth state off the list.

One thing marathoners should do in their lives is run a race for someone else. In this case, it was for my dad, who passed away last month. Despite witnessing his long, heartbreaking fight to survive - and a strong desire to just blow off this marathon - I got my ass out of bed in the mornings and ran, sometimes in the cold rain, thinking this is what he would have wanted me to do.

I felt his presence during the run. Part of me felt him saying, "Come on! You have to finish! You can do it!" Part of me felt him saying, "Ha ha ha! I'll bet you wish you had dropped 20 pounds and avoided the beer and burgers for a change!!!"

I don't know where this demoralized sea-level sailor will go next, but I'll probably avoid anything high, hot and hilly for a while.

And I'll think long and hard about those extra pounds.

Oh well. So long, Arizona.