Remembering the 2008 Men’s Olympic Marathon Trials

In Jonathan Beverly’s Editor’s Note in the January issue of Running Times, he asks two other editors as RT about their “most vivid trials memories.” This got me thinking about mine. I was training for the 2008 DisneyWorld Marathon with Team in Training when our coach insisted we all meet outside of Magnolia Bakery on The Avenue of the Americas at something like 7 AM the day before the New York City Marathon to watch the Men’s Olympic Marathon Trials. I owe that coach a great debt for things in my running life, but spectating the OT’s that year was a pivotal moment in my trajectory as a runner.

It was a tough training season for me; it was my second marathon and I was afraid of not improving, and I struggled with heel pain (the same heel pain that gets me today) and a whole lot of crappy long training runs. I didn’t have the same amount of friends on the team, and I wasn’t losing weight even when I hit 30-mile weeks (that was a lot of mileage for me then). But, I’d gotten the marathon bug when I raced Arizona back in 2007, and had applied myself learning about the professionals in my sport. I knew the top guys who were racing in the trials, and I couldn’t wait to see athlets like Brian Sell (he was my favorite), Ryan Hall and Dathan Ritzenheim run by. I was also a fan of Abdi, and Ryan Shay, Alan Culpepper, and Khalid Khannouchi.

So there we all were, shivering our tushies off outside of the Magnolia Bakery, waiting for the guys to jet by and up Sixth Avenue into Central Park. And then here they were! Dashing past! Who’s that weirdo all the way our front? (Michael Wardian) And there they go! We were passed, and I didn’t pick a single athlete out of the pack.

Anticipating I’d be jogging from site to site, I’d worn running shoes, and a sports bra under my speater and jacket. So up I went, to position myself inside the loop of Central Park so I could move back and forth and see the racers twice in each lap. No one else was with me–I lost everyone else as thousands of other fans raggedly chased the elites into the park. I remember being thrilled at being part of this crowd of “real runners,” unsure I actually fit in.

In the beginning I ended up somewhere on East Drive beneath the 72nd Street Transverse. It’s the same spot I cheered at the NYRR Mini a couple of years ago. As I waited for the guys to show up, I struck up a conversation with other spectators. Unlike myself (just a fan), they were proud parents supporting their son, who had raced a qualifying time and was in the mix. I wish I could remember his name; I know I cheered for him the first time he came by. For some reason I want to say his name was Dan, and he had red hair, but I could be making that up. My imagination was siezed by the fact that “regular” people like you and me–runners who also held day jobs, and trained in their free time–could compete for the same honor as our nation’s elites.

From there I walked up to the 79th Street Transverse at the top of Cat Hill, and I basically jogged back and forth between the east and west side until it was time to head to the finish line by Tavern on the Green. This enabled me to see the men at all stages of their race; I think I saw them a total of 8 times. After a while, I recognized the men by their singlets, or their running style. I observed who fell off the pack, and when; how relaxed (or not) the runners looked at the various mile markers; and all their ticks: how their form maintained or crumbled; who looked behind them, gripped their hamstring, grimaced, or winked to the crowd.

Yes, at least one of the athletes gave a wink to some pals on the sidelines. One of my favorite parts of watching this race is that the other people out there really knew the sport, so their conversations were highly informative. Also, some of the guys I was standing near seemed to be working in a team, and would send half the group to work the sides and the other half to work the top and bottom of the loops and text back and forth updates. As I was eavesdropping on their shop talk during the later miles, one of them said, “Sell just ran past Rob* [a friend elsewhere on course] and winked. He’s got this.” I loved that little detail! I’d have never gotten that by watching the New York City Marathon, it’s too sprawling, the crowd is too focused on the amateurs.

Soon after that I hustled down to the finish line. I knew I wouldn’t get close, but I wanted to cram as close as I could. The energy and excitement was fantastic; everyone was so excited. Ryan Hall was about to win in record time and become our Golden Boy. I remember watching him race in, really savoring the moment, greeting the crowds. We all were cheering madly. Then came Dathan, and Brian. Our team, we had our Olympic team! They wrapped themselves in flags, and everyone shared their triumph. It was only once I’d made it home and jumped online to find out the final results did I read about Ryan Shay’s terrible collapse and death.

For over a year, whenever I ran past the place I imagined he’d fallen along East Drive, I’d say a quick prayer for him and his family.

Before I knew about Shay, before Hall had even crossed the finish line, something within me had permanently shifted. First, watching a marathon in person on a circuit course allowed me to observe the race’s progression in a way you can’t by standing in one spot. Because of this, I finally got the event.  I came to understand how a two or two and a half hour race could be suspenseful, and dramatic. I understood how small shifts in the middle of a race could be deceptively meaningless–but how a similar shift just a few miles later could mean the difference between the podium or simply finishing. I was hooked. I vowed that day to go watch the Women’s Trials in Boston.

Also, I was incredibly inspired. To watch our nation’s best male marathoners come together to push each other to run their best was a huge gift to me as a runner. It changed my attitude from that of someone hoping to finish, to someone wanting to try my best. Which begged the question for me, What does it mean to try my best as a runner? That was the big shift. I wanted to run my best, I wanted to find out what that was. Could I break 4:30? (My first marathon took me 4:45:45). Even though I knew I’d never run an Olympic qualifying time, I became a serious runner. It didn’t happen overnight–it took me another year before I could prove that I was the real deal in the NYCM–but I can say with only a sliver of hyperbole that spectating the Men’s Trials changed my life.

Cheering at the Olympic Trials is like spectating on steroids. It’s the one marathon where we get to see all of our nation’s best marathoners–professional and amateur–all race the same course, at the same time. And for most of the athletes on the course, it’s the one marathon where they are more likely in the pack than a front runner. I cannot wait to get some of that juice on January 14th. I’m hoping it will help propel me to my own PR on the half-marathon course the next day.

*placeholder name. I can’t remember the actual name.