paul·a·ver

Come on, Baby, don’t you want to go
Back to the same old place, sweet home Chicago

Chicago is every midwesterner’s hometown, and it’s no different for me. I was born in Rockford, IL, grew up in Madison, WI, and until recently never lived more than about five hours drive from the Loop. Chicago has always been my place to go to do or see something special.

Where did we go for the big school field trips when I was growing up? The Field Museum.

Where did I first discover art and art history? The Art Institute.

Where did I attend my first big arena rock shows on roadtrips with highschool friends? The Rosemont Horizon (now the Allstate Arena).

I am fond of many other midwestern towns (Minneapolis/St. Paul, Des Moines, Ann Arbor, and Madison), but Chicago means more to me than hotdogs with kraut, pizza, or the Blackhawks.

Chicago is my sentimental hometown. For all those of us from orbital satellite towns throughout the midwest, cruising in to Grant Park for the Taste or road trippin in for the Blues Fest is like getting home to the hood for a massive blockparty.

You are just never lost, when you know the lake is to the east.

This weekend, I ran what I think I’ll remember as my favorite marathon for a long time.

Several months ago, my friend Dan called from Baton Rouge. Dan and I have been together through Webelo scouts, Sr. Janelle’s English class at Our Lady Queen of Peace School, Mr. Rafoth’s concert band at Madison West High, undergrad with the Badgers, and too many career changes and heartbreaks to list here: 32 years of challenges, disappointments and triumphs.

This past Sunday? A triumph of family and friendship over 26.2 miles.

When Dan called, it was to tell me that his mother has lymphoma, that he was planning to run Chicago with Team in Training, and that he wondered if I might join him.

I had already registered for the USAF Marathon in Dayton, OH, not more than a week before his call, but I didn’t hesitate. While the Airforce Marathon runs only a month before Chicago, I’d run them both.

Dan and I would meet back home in the Upper Midwest and crack jokes on Michigan Avenue, just as we did sneaking away for weekends twenty years ago.

I met Dan and his wife, Catherine, at O’Hare. We hugged. I am no good at the whole continental kissing thing. A hug will do. I suggested we hop the El downtown and walk to Navy Pier for lunch.

None of us is poorly traveled exactly, but we all struggled with the ticket vending machines, and Dan asked, “Do you think anybody can tell we’re from out of town?”

On the walk from the train station to Navy Pier, I discovered something about Catherine. She is a fast walker. Normally in a group, I am the fastest walker. Jennifer has to pull on my coat to slow me down. I find myself ten steps ahead and look back to discover my party has turned into some coffee shop or boutique. Catherine left me in the dust, smiling the whole way. She said, “I’m hungry.”

We had a lunch of seared tuna and cabernet at Riva on Navy Pier. We talked kids and careers. Dan and I made inappropriate and puerile remarks about the waitstaff and passersby, though we did not play with our food. We were too hungry. Catherine, kindly, ignored us. She was hungry.

After lunch, we hopped a cab to McCormick Place for the runner’s expo and packet pick up. Having run Chicago last year, I knew it was a big expo, but the event still amazes me. It’s fantastic to see all those runners of so many different shapes and levels of fitness handing over white envelopes at the chip check, picking up long-sleeved tshirts, and grabbing handfuls of Sport Beans. I am a little perplexed by the numbers of people buying new shoes the day before a major event, but whatever gets you to the finish.

We met Dan’s sister Kathy (now Kathleen because she’s a grown up) and her husband Frank beneath the big ABN AMRO sign. They were joining us for the run, both of them first time marathoners, though Frank was planning to drop out halfway through.

We had our team. And that’s what this run was about for all of us. I was crashing the family thing a little bit to help Dan in support of his mom. Still, after roughly 32 years, nobody treated me as anything other than part of that family, the weird over-talkative cousin from Kentucky perhaps, but family nonetheless.

On the way to our hotel, I teased Frank about his driving, though I was very grateful for the ride.

“You know,” Kathy said, “There’s truth in sarcasm.”

“No there’s not,” I said incredulously, and I might have winked.

That night we shopped a little on Michigan Avenue. Catherine had never been to Water Tower Place before, and just up the street, she wanted to visit JCrew. I eyed the Border’s on the corner, which is one of my favorite bookstores next to Powells, but behaved myself knowing that I’d packed a good Terry Pratchett paperback.

Then, we walked to the Giordano’s at Rush and Superior. None of us wasn’t hungry for pizza. Here’s a little tip, however. 7:30 on Saturday night isn’t a great time to try for pizza at Giordano’s on a walk in. We found a 2:45 wait, and walked out the door pouting slightly. Up the street, was a sign reading, “Spanish Cuisine.”

“Hey,” I said, “Paella. That’s just Spanish for pizza, right?”

“No shellfish,” somebody said, but we were already headed that direction.

“Tapas?” we all said together as we stepped up the curb, and we soon found ourselves upstairs of 1492 Tapas Bar with glasses of tinto and a feast of stuffed peppers, feta, garlic mushrooms, and other delights.

We toasted Dan’s mom. We toasted the run. The wine and candle light warmed our smiles.

The next morning, we were up at 6:30 in our tights, with bibs all pinned, hungry for continental breakfast and thirsty for coffee. “Makes you run faster,” Dan said.

It was brutal cold to be going out for a run by Lake Michigan, but it wasn’t snowing, and that had been the prediction. We waited as long as possible before asking the bellhop to call a cab.

By the time we were in the thick crowd at Congress in Grant Park, we were warm if not toasty.

We held back for the start, near the 5:45 pace team. We were in no hurry.

The gun went off at 8:00, and at 8:25, our chips buzzed across the starting pads. “Good run,” we smiled at each other and knocked fists.

Catherine, the fast walker, did not train at all for the marathon. I should probably repeat that so it’s clear: She did no exercise, other than riding her horse before the marathon.

Frank dropped back to walk at the first mile. His plan was to walk halfway and dropout, heading back in a sagwagon. We were sorry to wave him off, but since that was the plan anyway, we kept scooting along.

Catherine, however, held on to 13.1. That’s right, she ran a half-marathon with no training. We were goofing off and going slow, but still, that’s pretty impressive. More impressive is that she finished the 26.2 not long after the rest of us.

Somewhere around mile 15, Kathy’s knee began to hurt, so we walked with her. We took several walk breaks and dropped one another off here and there for potty breaks. “Go on ahead, you guys,” she urged us.

“Are you kidding?” we told her. “This isn’t about going fast. It’s about having this time together. We’ll walk the rest if we have to.”

At mile 18, Catherine caught up to us, walking fast, and we had our gang of four again. We laughed, and Catherine thanked me for wearing such bright colors, since it made me easy to spot in the crowd.

When Kathy was ready, we picked it back up again and waved cheers to Catherine.

Kathy hung with it strong until mile 23. At that point, she insisted we go on.

“We can walk,” we suggeseted. But eventually, we decided she’d made it far enough that she’d finish strong, so we ran on.

“I get very emotional at these things,” I told Dan.

“I know,” he said.

“Sometimes I cry,” I told him.

We both laughed, and in our laughter we acknowledged that there was plenty of truth in our sarcasm.

“Thanks for asking me to do this, Man,” I told him. “It’s been my favorite ever.”

“Thanks for comin,” he said, and I blew a long string from my right nostril to the pavement. “Nice,” he finished.

We smiled, and we ran it home, sweet home, together.

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