My Warrenville buddies, Fast Eddy, Marathon Mike and I, were reminiscing the other day about places we have been, things we have seen and marathons we have run together over the years.
It has been quite an adventure, seeing the country up close and personal, as we ran through the scenic vistas that can be found in all of our cities and states.
When I posed the question as to which marathon was the favorite, we quickly agreed that it was impossible to choose. They were all memorable and unique, and each one was the best in one way or another. Every marathon is memorable and the best part of all of them is being able to share the experience with hometown friends.
For me, the strangest marathon I have ever run was the 1982 Mardi Gras Marathon in New Orleans, long before I met Mike and Eddy. I had run just two previous marathons, Chicago 1980 and ‘81, and when a friend suggested we go to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, it was mainly to have fun in the dead cold of February in Chicago. He mentioned, “By the way they have a Mardi Gras Marathon, and it is supposed to be a really fast course. Maybe you could improve your PR.”
He promised some bayou fishing for redfish on Saturday, running the marathon on Sunday, with Bourbon Street in between and after. It was billed as a jam-packed weekend of fun. We would be escaping winter for a few days of warmth in the Deep South—right?
Wrong! It was miserable. Windy, raining and cold, with temperatures in the mid 30s. We should have cancelled our fishing plans, but we thought, “What the heck, we’ll layer up and be fine. It’s above freezing and at least 30 degrees warmer than Chicago.”
I had always wanted to ride in an airboat across the reeds in the swamp, and as we headed out, our hopes were high that once the sun came up, we would warm up, catch some fish, and have a great morning. Well, we caught some fish and had a few laughs through chattering teeth, but the weather got worse. When it started sleeting, and we could not feel our toes or move our fingers to wind our reels or even think about baiting a hook, we called it quits.
To this day, I still say the coldest temperature I have ever experienced is that wet, cold, windy 37 degrees in the backwater bayou of New Orleans. It took hours to thaw out. It made sitting in the stands at a subzero December Bear game seem warm!
Marathon day was little different. We rose early and headed for the start line in Mandeville, LA. Remember, this was pre-internet days, so mostly you just showed up and registered on race day with little or no knowledge of the course or anything like an elevation chart. The only thing I really knew was that my friend said it was a fast course. I had also read a brief description of the race that said it was a fun event, and I did remember something about a bridge.
What I didn’t know was that, with the exception of the first and last miles, the entire race was run on a bridge. The largest bridge in the world! The causeway across Lake Ponchartrain is twenty-four miles long.
As we completed the first mile and stepped on the bridge, all I could think of was how cold I was the day before. Most of the runners had covered themselves in black plastic garbage bags to attempt to keep warm. This was not unusual at the beginning of a race, but many never took them off. In the early morning light, it was quite a sight. There we were, running bags of garbage, as far as the eye could see, on a bridge that appeared to go on forever.
For a few hours and many miles, you could not see land in front or behind—just more bridge. Every so often, dense fog would roll in and completely envelope the bridge. There were no spectators, few water stations, and a constant noise of water smacking the bridge.
It was eerie to say the least, and as the race progressed and the pack thinned out, there were times when I could not see another runner in front of or behind me. I was thankful when I heard someone gaining ground on me, and when I turned to strike up a conversation I had to laugh. It was a guy running in a black leotard with a pink tutu, carrying a pink parasol in his right hand. He said, “Be careful what you bet,” as I complimented his running attire! I hadn’t noticed any costumes at the start; perhaps it was too dark or they were under the garbage bags, but I saw quite a few more in Mardi Gras costumes as I continued running.
After what seemed like an eternity, we finally saw land, and the last mile is something I will never forget. It was packed with spectators in full party mode, cheering wildly. After quiet monotony, it seemed like pure bedlam. What a contrast! What a finish!
The statement, “The shortest distance between two points is a straight line,” took on new meaning for me that day. I got my PR—3:11:07—and I have never run faster since. Maybe I just wanted to get off that darn bridge!
They stopped running the bridge course in 1984, which makes it kind of special. World’s longest bridge? Yea—and I ran across it!
I sure wish Mike and Eddy would have been there with me.
