It's All About The Shirt

Everyone’s motivation for tackling their first marathon is different.  Some want the pure challenge of pushing their body to the limit.  Some endure the arduous training to raise money for a cause or in honor or memory of a loved one who endured something harder.  Still others want to prove that “can’t” is really “can,” either to others or themselves.

My motivation? It’s was all about the shirt.

Those in Portland know the shirt real well.  While the change colors every year, the iconic Portland Marathon shirt features the finisher’s year above the logo.  Below it is a map of the course, if you will.  A large square of text describing the 26.2-mile course turn by turn.

I had admired that shirt for years.  I admired those who got to wear the shirt, a badge of honor of those who had not only battled Portland, but also conquered it.  After my dad captured his own flag, running his first marathon at age 55 in 2007, I knew my turn would come soon.

You know the joke at some races.  “Yeah.  I’m just running this for the shirt.” Well this time, for me, it was the truth.

As I began training in the spring of 2010, the image of that shirt was burned into my mind.  It started when I woke up every morning and set in each night in settled into bed.  The poster from that 2007 marathon, featuring that same text-made map, was taped on the bookcase right next to my bed along with a picture of my dad and I along the course.

Through the summer days of arduous training, the soul-testing training runs along the Wildwood Trail and the 20-milers on my own, circling Hagg Lake twice, I thought of that shirt and how good it would look on it.  It didn’t matter the color.  It didn’t matter that my belly would still show.  It was going to look damn good.

It seemed like whenever I took off for one of my longer runs, almost without fail, I would see someone pacing by in one of those Portland Marathon shirts.  It was like they were part of an exclusive one, and one I wanted to be part of…if I could get past the initiation rite.

On race morning, conditions were less than optimal.  I wore a heavy trash bag over my body to keep me from getting soaked before the start.  As it would end up, the rain wouldn’t let up.  The Portland Marathon on a typical October Portland Morning.  By mile two it didn’t matter.  I was soaked.  I wasn’t going to get any wetter and I had to have that shirt.

By mile 17 the mind was still willing, but the legs were not.  A fairly even 8:30 pace turned into a run/walk.  My dream of a 3:40 finish was soon out the window.  Could I still beat four hours?  Who knew?  Was quitting an option?  Definitely not.  It was still all about the shirt.

Just after 11 a.m. the initiation rite was over.  I crossed the finish line cold, wet and tired.  I had made it, and had still managed to duck across the finish line under the four-hour mark.  Walking was hard and initially the block-long buffet of oranges, juices, candy, cookies and other high-energy snacks look far from appetizing.  I just walked to cool down, half in a stupor, half in the wonderment of what I had just done.

At the end of that long block was my reward.  A line of tables with the one thing I had spent most of the last year training, sacrificing and giving time for.  It was black, so a bonus for being a slimming color.  The green and white text described the very course that I had just completed (though it would take me sometime that the word SWANISLAND was not some long-past amusement park sight near the University of Portland, but in fact advertised the view of Swan Island from along the Bluff).

Above that map, the large words said it all.  2010 Finisher, Portland Marathon.

It didn’t matter that my singlet had more water in it than the Willamette River, that Dry-Fit cloth seemed to suck some of it out and infused more energy back in.  It kept me warmer than the space blanket and, to me, was flashier than the medal.

You see, that Portland Marathon finisher’s shirt was more than just another race shirt.  It is a symbol of a very long, but fulfilling journey.  I start training for the Portland Marathon seven years, back when my legs were a little faster.  A couple of anxiety attacks kept me from training for a month and derailed that attempt.  I could have trained for a later marathon, such as Seattle, but I wanted Portland to be my first.  So, rightly or wrongly, the journey stopped.

The next year I suffered a very chronic case of Achilles tendonitis, the type that, no matter what I did or how closely I followed doctor’s instructions, never seemed to get better.  I wouldn’t run regularly again for another four years.  When I was really able to start training seriously again, about three years ago, a lower back injury provided yet another setback.  After about four months with a really helpful physical therapist, I was truly on my way.  I got through 2010 with no major injuries.  I have the shirt to prove it.

After my dad ran his marathon, I felt like I had no choice but to do it.  And that was a good thing.  He started running when I began to run high school cross country, and early morning runs became a bonding experience for us.  His marathon journey too had been slowed by injuries, moves and job changes.  It had been over a decade in the making.  Completing my marathon, to have him there on the course and to have my picture with him at the end, both of us wearing our finisher’s shirts, meant as much as finishing the race itself.

I own the shirt now.  I belong to the fraternity.  I’m in the club.  I am one of them.

When one completes a marathon, there is usually one of two reactions.  You either catch the bug and start looking ahead to the next or one, or you swear off anything over 10 kilometers again.  I was the former.  So whenever I see someone out donning their finisher’s shirt, or even sometimes looking in the mirror, I relish the challenge of doing it all again and adding another one to my wardrobe.

My next marathon?  Yeah, I’ll be running for the shirt.