Absolution

A Disney Half-Marathon Remembrance

Sheri Bedford
January 10, 2001

        Sunday, January 7, 2001: the finish of the Disney Half Marathon. My right knee felt sprained and my left knee wouldn’t bend very well. I didn’t know which leg to limp on. My time had been a personal worst by nine minutes.

        I was crying. I was cold.

        I had started with so many others in the darkness, the fireworks sizzling behind me over corral 4, Mickey Mouse’s voice blaring in my ears from the nearby loudspeaker. As I stretched in the foremost red corral, the temperature sat stubbornly at an un-Floridian 32 degrees, but I felt confident and well prepared for this race, my fourth Disney Half.

        This year runners were sorted by color: blue number tag for the blue starting corrals; red for the red start. Half and full marathoners stretched and puffed vapor in both.

        Mickey started the race a few minutes late. No surprise. Hundreds of the 18,000 participants were still walking to the starting corrals at 6 a.m., the official starting time.

        For the past four years, Disney race officials had prevented runners from assembling in their corrals. Instead, they’ve kept the entire population of runners in a holding lot till 5:30 a.m. Physics has proven that a crowd of 18,000 humans need more than a mere thirty minutes to shuffle half a mile to a starting line.

        In an effort to create some body heat till all the runners were assembled, those of us in area 1 boogied to "Tequila", did jumping jacks and hamstring stretches, griping in the cold. At last Superrodent Mickey squeaked a few words of encouragement, reminded us to be exhilarated at every mile and then yelled, "Go!"

        The herd surged forward. Timing chips on our shoes tweeted like a flock of annoyed birds as we passed over the mats which recorded our individual starting times.

        In the darkness and in my eagerness to get warm, I ran miles 1 through 4 fast. But as the race progressed, the lanes became more crowded--there were 3000 more participants this year than last-- and my pace slowed. I thought I would run faster in the cold since I wouldn’t be fighting heat and humidity, but I couldn’t seem to warm up, even wearing tights and long-sleeved shirt.

        "That’s ok," I reassured myself, "I’ll loosen up after a few miles."

        On the long open straightaway before mile 6, I tried to pick up my pace. My legs refused. Too many runners glided past. Was I running backwards?

        I got slower and slower. One sympathetic spectator on Main Street cried out, "Go lady in red…not too far now…you can do it!"

        I pumped my arms harder for the last two miles, but waddled across the finish line. I was damp, freezing and depleted. My legs were as wooden as Pinnochio’s.

        The temperature had risen a wretched five degrees to 36 Fahrenheit by this time, 7:49 a.m. A grudging sun was out, its warmth a tiny relief.

        A volunteer removed my time chip with a simple snip of clippers instead of the former long process of unthreading of a shoelace. Allowing another volunteer to drape the Donald Duck finish medal around my neck, I gratefully accepted the silver mylar blanket and wrapped it around me, scanning the parking lot for the baggage bus. My legs were cramping up. Tears started oozing from my eyes.

        There was the bus just across the lot, not far. But a volunteer pointed away from it. "You can’t go that way . Take this path," a choked three-foot alleyway of net fencing, down a muddy slope packed with spectators.

        I hitched past a baby buggy taking up the entire width of the path, limped through the rough and up the small hill toward the bus. Tears streamed down my face. From the crest of the hill, a fellow club member noticed my hunched posture and asked if I was ok. "No," I stuttered, embarrassed at my public weeping.

        A female runner came up beside me as I stumbled to the top of the slope. Did I need help walking?

        "No," I snuffled, "my knees just won’t work."

        "Do you think it was the camber of the roads or the amount of concrete on the course?" she asked. "I’m having the same problem."

        Together we limped across the parking lot toward the yellow school bus that had held our bags of warm clothing for after the race.

        For twenty minutes, we rooted through hundreds of black and white striped plastic bags strewn haphazardly onto the asphalt, cooling off all the while. Before the race, we    had handed our bags in numerical order to a volunteer to pack onto the bus seats, but now these sacks were in total disarray. In an effort to shorten the search, some runners called out identification numbers they spotted as they looked for their own bag. The search took a long time and we were freezing.

        When I finally found my sack, I pulled off my sodden shirt and my body’s warmth sent off clouds of vapor.

        "Hey! This is a no smoking area," joked a nearby runner.

        I was starting to gain some emotional equilibrium and smiled back at him. But it didn’t lessen the ordeal of putting on warmer clothing. Teetering on my mylar blanket, I discovered neither of my knees would bend enough for me to slide on my warm-up pants the regular way.

        I decided to use a method I had when babysitting little kids: scrunch up the pant legs, lay them on the ground, remove shoes, aim toes through the hole in the pant leg, bend from the waist and slide the pants up. Good thing those pants were roomy.

        I started talking to myself, "This is ridiculous; I’ve got to be able to bend my knees." I tried to reach my ankle so I could do a quad stretch. No way. Maybe some walking would help. Certainly standing around was only turning me into a human icicle.

        I began stumping the mile back to the Grand Floridian Hotel. My thoughts bombarded me. Guilt. I hadn’t met my goal. I had told myself I would run a personal best. I knew I usually ran faster in cold weather.

        Maybe not this cold.

        Doubt. Hadn’t it been a reasonable goal? I mentally lashed myself. I hadn’t even made my average time for the half marathon. Boo. Hiss.

        Rationalization. Not enough training. Too little sleep. Wrong diet. Too many rest days before the race.

        It took me a full day to recover a sense of perspective, but at 9 a.m. Monday, January 8, I began to be more sanguine about continuing my running training.

        At the Wide World of Sports arena in the Disney complex, I listened carefully to the times as awards were announced. Famous runners Frank Shorter, Jeff Galloway and Ingrid Kristiansen handed Mickey Mouse statuettes and plaques to the marathoners and plastic Donald Duck squares to the half marathoners.

        Many times were slow. Even the elite runners had faltered. Ingrid Kristiansen, 44, overall female masters’ winner for the half marathon, had come in with a 1:19 something. "Slow" time for her, poor dear.

        I had run this race four times and decided that because this would be my last Disney Half Marathon, I would say goodbye to a friend. Still stiff-legged, I inched my way down the bleacher steps to the floor of the arena to say a word to Jeff Galloway.

        Every year, since he had handed me my fifth place award in 1996, Jeff had talked with me at this race, at the Gasparilla 15K and at other events. I once shared a long airline flight with Jeff and his family. He was able now to recognize me among the thousands he saw at expos and lectures.

        In comfy blue sweats, he stood next to the award table patting winners on the shoulder, smiling in that easy friendly way of his.

        I extended my hand. "Hi Jeff."

        "Hi Sheri! How did you do this time?" He shook my had firmly.

        "Not so good. A personal worst by nine minutes," I knew I sounded glum.

        "Well, that’s ok. You know, a lot of people had a slow time for this race." Jeff smiled understandingly.

        "Is it because of the cold?" I was looking for a way out of my self-imposed guilt.

        "Yes. I know when I run in the 30’s or below, my muscles never really warm up and my times are slower."

        "Really?" I was feeling more hopeful. If it happened to Jeff , it could happen to anyone.

"No kidding."

        "Well, I was feeling guilty because I hadn’t met my goal this time."

        Jeff looked me in the eye, put both hands on my shoulders, paused, then said, "You’re absolved." He grinned.

        I immediately felt better. I chuckled. Everything was ok; I was ok.

        I hugged Jeff goodbye and strolled (ok—limped) out of the stadium with a smile. My guilt feelings had vanished. I could look forward to the next two half marathons of my running season. I had been absolved.

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