I have never liked running. Give me a bike, and I will cross the country. Running was always the exercise I had to do before I could enjoy the actual sport I was about to practice or play: football, wrestling, track, basketball, or just jogging. Regardless, I just never really liked it. But it was one way to get yourself in shape for the task at hand. I always felt biking made a lot more sense. You could see so much more, go faster, enjoy the downhills, but running? Let’s be honest—I have not seen too many 70- and 80-year-olds who didn’t look like they were in excruciating pain as they hobbled along, while riders of that age seemed to still have a smile on their face.
The feet, knees, and hips were not made for long-term pounding. But as one married to a multi-marathon runner, I understand the passion. Yet, you’ll probably see me on a bicycle, singing along to James Taylor playing through my Bluetooth.
So it seems strange that at the age of 45, I found myself running to country music in Tennessee. On a beautiful day, my intention was to be a spectator, cheering on my wife and her group of friends who had signed up for the Nashville Marathon. I married a wonderful woman who does not understand the word stop. After dating for nearly seven years, I knew I had found the girl of my dreams. One of her greatest qualities is her “never quit” attitude. She has incredible energy. She is the type of woman who, after a 12-hour day dealing with work, family, and putting up with her very strange husband, would still be working around the house like she was on a mission. After a long day, I would eventually find myself falling on the couch, needing to recoup my energy. But not Tammy. After a couple more hours, only with the promise of rubbing her feet would she finally submit and sit down.
When she and her friend Paula decided to take up running and take it to the level of quite long distances, I was not surprised to hear they were going to start running half and full marathons in their 30s. The two of them ran often on the west side of Evansville, Indiana, and each year they were off to a number of local and regional treks. Tammy was not a big runner in high school or college, but the thrill, enjoyment, and natural exercise outdoors allowed this talented jeweler to reduce some stress and stay in great shape—which I definitely approved of.
During the summer of her prep for a marathon, I began to watch the schedule she and Paula would follow leading up to the race. They began at 3-5 miles, then slowly increased to around 18-20 miles, then began the descent back to around 2 miles as they warmed down a couple of days before the race. I was staying fairly active with my landscape company and getting my bike rides in occasionally. I decided that as a sending-off gesture, I would try to run with her the last time she ran her two miles as a show of love and support, even though I would probably slow her down a bit.
A couple of weeks before that day arrived, I decided to begin my training by running around the house twice. The next day, I ran around the property and then planned a couple of loops around a local golf course, where many people on the west side of Evansville walk or jog for a breath of fresh air. My only goal was to get fast enough so that when I ran with the two of them, I would not slow them up. Jesus, I do not like this sport. I would rather be on a bike, and I just could not see the joy of running every day. I remember in my high school football days seeing the cross-country team come to practice every day and just run and run and run. That was it. How boring, I thought. Interestingly, little did I realize that many years later my youngest son, Dawson, would take on his mother’s talents and actually become a very successful cross-country runner at Mater Dei. Like mother, like son. I was so proud of them both.
A couple of days before leaving for Nashville, I got to run the two miles with them and decided then that I would go down with the other eight runners from her group to enjoy what looked like a fun, relaxing weekend—or so I thought. As we arrived that evening at the building housing all the hoopla for the big day, you could feel the energy and excitement as the runners went from booth to booth, looking at what all the vendors had to offer. There was electricity in the air, and you could sense that for many of these athletes, this was the culmination of many weeks of training to prepare for a true bucket-list moment. I thoroughly enjoyed watching and hearing the excitement of those around me and enjoyed the laughter as we made our way to the registration table.
As I stood there observing the two lines—one for half-marathon runners and one for full-marathon runners—I began to smile as I watched Tammy and Paula pick up their packets. And just as one gets swept up in a crazed concert or adrenaline-filled football game, I began to wonder how fun it could be to try to run with this pack of frenzied joggers. I guess it was about that time when Tammy said, “You know it doesn’t cost very much, and it’s going to be a nice day tomorrow. Why don’t you see how far you can run? It will be good for you. Get in the half and just have some fun.” Immediately, Paula, who loves to bust my chops, chimed in, “John, you’re in pretty good shape with your biking. Come on, you big sissy, come with us tomorrow.” I don’t know what propelled me, but for some reason the excitement of the moment made me suddenly feel like running was a great idea. And the next thing I knew, I was in the half-marathon line, signing up.
We went back to the hotel and turned in early. As I lay there, now away from the crowd, I began to rethink why I was going to run in a race that was not my forte. I’ll just run till I get tired, I thought, then prepare for the party that will ensue.
So when morning came, I welcomed it with a laugh and thought about the night we would all share. I began to prepare for an unexpected day.
As we got to the starting line, I felt nature calling one more time. To relieve my bowels and lighten my load, I joined the quite long lines at the porta-potties and began to fear that the start might actually begin without me. Even worse, I realized the porta-john I was in did not have the necessary paperwork to finish the job. Crap—I mean, darn—this was not good. Mild anxiety began to creep in. Then I suddenly remembered I had a neck scarf that someone had told me would help in the race. Boy, she was absolutely right. It was a godsend. A minute later, I exited the booth and felt clean and happy again as I made my way to the back of the start line, feeling wonderful that this was going to be interesting.
I had no expectations for the day. In my life, when I’m doing something for the first time, I feel a sense of ease. My philosophy is, when one does something for the first time, there’s no pressure, because quite frankly, you are given a pass since it is new. For example, the first time you tried to walk, you probably did poorly, but you tried again later, most likely improving. The first time you talked, the first time you drove a car, the first time you kissed your first girlfriend (OK, on that one, I was a bit nervous. But in time, I got better, I hope). Remember, it probably wasn’t your best effort. That is why life gives you a bunch of dress rehearsals. When you realize this, doing something for the first time should not make you nervous but instead relaxed, because you will always get some do-overs.
So as I waited for the gun to sound, I was really enjoying myself, knowing that being here in the race was already my victory. My wife and the team were way ahead of me. They were in the 9-10 minute milers’ corral, meaning they were running 9-minute miles, so they would not be a distraction for the 5-6 minute milers, and yet they were much faster than guys like me who were going to be a lot slower. You runners know what I’m talking about. So as the gun sounded, I took off, hearing the shouts of the crowd as we slowly began to move. Not sure where this would take me, but it was a beautiful day. I was around a lot of people, which I always enjoy, and I had started my first—and last—marathon. The weather was about perfect: sun shining and low wind. And as I began the trek, I really did not know anything other than, let’s just see how this turns out.
Now, if you believe in good gene pools, I have always felt grateful that I came from one. I also acknowledged that, due to my sports careers and my work, I could push myself for long periods of time. In the early days of my mowing business, when we were only using push mowers and weed eaters, it was not uncommon for me to go 12-plus hours at a fairly fast pace. I remember one particular condominium complex (The Woodlands) we would mow every Wednesday. On occasion, I would push the mower so fast and for so long that I would develop “runner’s high.” Basically, you exert yourself for so long, your endorphins kick in, and you feel a euphoria that makes
Starting out with thousands of other people, I got into a good rhythm. I began to enjoy the many runners around me, the encouragement from the crowd, and the music from street performers, which energized me and made me realize I was in a good place. As I approached the 8th and 9th mile, still feeling very comfortable, I began to imagine that going the full 13 miles was going to be very doable. So what if—just what if—I decided to go a bit further? I knew that soon there would be a fork in the road: the half-marathoners would go right to their early finish line, while those running the full marathon would turn left for the full 26 miles. I began to wonder just how far I could go if I took that left turn.
Several thoughts occurred to me. One, I doubted I’d go the full 26 miles, but I could always go until I was done and then catch a ride back to the finish line. The other thought was, if I was ever going to do a full marathon, this was as good a time as any to try. If I completed it, I could cross it off my bucket list—not that it was on my list, but it would be something I’d never have to consider again. After all, I really don’t like running.
So, the decision was made: I veered left at the fork in the road, and with a smile, I suddenly heard a chorus of concerned shouts behind me. “Sir, you made a mistake! The half marathon is back to your right. This is the full marathon!” “Hey, buddy, you took the wrong turn! You were supposed to turn right back there. This is the full marathon!” They were all being so nice, I thought, as I realized my half-marathon ID number on my back was clearly visible to everyone running behind me. I wasn’t about to explain that I had decided to go a little further; in fact, I was enjoying the bewilderment of my fellow runners, who seemed almost upset that I must be delirious to have made such an obvious mistake. “Oh, no problem,” I’d retort. “I’m feeling pretty good right now; I think I’ll stay the course.”
For the next two miles, I prepared myself for the concerned comments of people who had no idea of my mindset but still tried to be appreciative of their kindness. At this point, I ran alongside a few other runners, who would have a brief conversation with me, but I must admit, I did more listening than talking. By the grace of God, if I was going to finish this race, I knew that talking wasn’t going to be my friend from a breathing standpoint. Years earlier, when my wife had become pregnant, I’d run with her running partner, Paula. Tammy felt bad she couldn’t run during her sixth or seventh month, so I took her place on a few short runs. Paula and I both share the gift of gab, but I quickly learned how winded I’d get if I talked while running; Paula, on the other hand, had no problem going on and on. So, if I was going to have any chance of finishing this race, I’d have to keep my mouth shut. And for my friends who know me, they’d understand that wasn’t easy!
As I was coming up on my 15th or 16th mile, I was surprised by just how good I was feeling. My feet weren’t hurting, and my stride was staying pretty consistent. I took my occasional sips of water handed out by the friendly volunteers. At this point, I felt that if I could get to 20 miles and not hit the proverbial wall, I might just finish this thing. I’d certainly settled into a good flow, and I began remembering back to my long days, years ago, behind a mower. I realized that 5-6 hours of running wasn’t all that different from a dozen hours of fast walking. But what about “THE WALL”?
The Wall
I’d always heard that this was the part of the race that really took a toll on runners. Was it physical, psychological, or both? In a nutshell, I’d heard it described as a moment when you’re feeling pretty good, and then all of a sudden, your body or mind hits something so hard, the pavement is no longer your friend. The run becomes your worst nightmare. And it seemed like everyone said it hit around the 20-mile mark.
So, I began to think: how would I prepare for the wall, and would it affect me more through the body or the mind? I really felt that physically, it was not going to be a problem. But what could I do mentally to make it more bearable? Before I could go there, I realized something else was going to happen that might surprise my wife and the others.
For the first time in the race, we were running along a boulevard in the street where we’d be making a loop. In other words, we now saw the runners ahead of us coming from the opposite direction on the other side of the street. And for the first time, it occurred to me that I might see Tammy. She had no idea I’d decided to run the full race. Sure enough, a short time later, I saw her coming toward me. With a shout and a wave, I got her attention and saw this very curious look on her face, like, What in the hell… As she passed me, I saw her keep her concentration, but I knew at some point I was going to have some explaining to do. I also saw a few others from her group, and it was just about then that I was passing the 20-mile marker.
How strong an influence was the psychological difficulty going to be? Since I graduated with a minor in psychology years ago and loved the subject immensely, I tried to prepare myself in the best way possible for what I felt would be the toughest part of the day. I knew the physical part was not going to be an issue. But mentally? As I began to think about how I would step out of the realm of fatigue and reduce thoughts of pain that were beginning to rear their ugly heads (my right big toe was starting to talk to me), it came to me, and yes, it made sense.
What if, for each of the six miles left, I concentrated on the wonderful memories I had of my mom, dad, my three sons—Quinn, Branson, and Dawson—and, for the last mile, the woman who had said yes to me many years ago?
On the 21st mile, I filled my mind with memories of the wonderful fishing and hunting trips I shared with my incredible father, the many camping trips he took our family on, the strong leader he was, and the many sacrifices he made to raise five children. This mile went by so fast, I was amazed. Mile 22 was for the most positive woman I could think of, a lady who taught me that no matter what negatives came at you, there was always a silver lining. My mother was smart enough, raising five kids, to make the right decision when things got tight financially. She stayed home with us but started a small babysitting service in our house for two- to six-year-olds. She would use these eight children as my alarm clock. If I didn’t get out of bed after she called me a third time, yes, she’d send up the squad to jump on me until I rolled out. Being 10 or 12 years old, I couldn’t stop laughing, and the memory of the children laughing hysterically and calling my name is, to this day, unforgettable.
Mile 23 was here before I knew it, and I thought of my eldest son, Quinn. I reminisced about the strong-willed young man who would someday become the family’s first medical doctor. A kid with his mom’s artistic talents and love of nature who, like his father, always had something to say and the courage to say it. A strong wrestler and competitive spirit who had the gift of helping others. Once again, this mile flew by.
Looks like I’m going to finish this thing, I mused, as the image of Branson, our middle son, came to mind. Branson, the peacemaker, was born 16 months after Quinn—a highly competitive young man who loved baseball and thought Albert Pujols hung the moon. A state qualifier in wrestling and a tremendous catcher during his baseball career, he was usually the one who could mediate and take family debates to a better place.
Now came mile 25. As the crowd cheered us on, they saw some 45-year-old man nearing the end of the race, laughing his fool head off. Why would one be laughing at this point? What’s the story, they must have wondered.
Dawson Schroeder, our “bonus surprise,” was born ten years after his two brothers. We really weren’t planning on a third. In fact, I can vividly remember the night of conception when I got so caught up in the passion of the moment. My wife, with a look of concern, inquired, “Do you realize we…ah… you didn’t use that thing you were supposed to?”
As always, she was right. But as I lay beside her, I remember thinking it was a one-in-100,000 chance. No need to worry. Funny how us men think sometimes—I think I’ll go to sleep now.
Weeks later, I was watching my two boys tossing the football outside our bathroom window. “Look at them out there. They’re great, aren’t they?” I remarked to my very quiet wife, who walked into the room. “You’re really glad we had them, right?” she asked. “Of course, how could you not?” I answered. “Good,” she said, “because we’re going to have another one. I’ve been wanting to tell you for a few weeks.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I turned around slowly, slumping and sitting on the floor. “Yes, our night of unprotected love has now added 33.3 percent more children to the family.”
But this is not why I was laughing on mile 25.
Dawson would grow up under his brothers’ guidance—the kind you see on shows like Wild America. Yes, he was the scapegoat who kept his mother nervous and his father shaking his head. If Quinn and Branson jumped off the 8-foot deck at 13 and 12, why couldn’t Dawson at four and a half? While Quinn drove a four-wheeler across the field, why not put Dawson on the back with an insect net to catch bugs in flight at 20 miles an hour? And let’s see how many snakes we can catch and keep in mom’s bathtub. Of course, we’d ask her if it’s okay… when she gets home. My favorite movie of all time was Swiss Family Robinson. Minus the pirates and the three-story treehouse, we were pretty close.
But why was I laughing so hard? What kind of drugs was this guy on, the crowd must be thinking.
Rule number one at the Schroeder house: a young man never, never, never hits a girl. You respect them, appreciate them, but no matter how mad they make you, you never hit a girl. I’d have them repeat it over to me in their younger years, and yes, Dawson, at age six, had it down pretty good.
Then one day, Quinn brought his girlfriend home, and they were all playing in the living room while I was out in the kitchen with Tammy. All of a sudden, I heard Kelsey scream, and as I turned around, I saw her holding her hand above her right eye. Confused and frustrated, I stormed into the room and saw Dawson holding a Nerf gun, the type with the soft, slender bullets.
“Dawson,” I shouted angrily, “What did you do to Kelsey? Did you hit her?” With tears streaming down his face, barely able to speak, he blurted out, “Dad, I didn’t hit her, I just shot her.”
Oh my God, he really did say it. Everyone in the room burst out laughing. It was clear that Kelsey wasn’t hurt; it just startled her. With us laughing and Dawson still quite emotional, I muttered, “Well, okay then, but you shouldn’t shoot girls either.” One of the funniest, most natural, and innocent moments. I shared this story at his high school graduation party, and all agreed. Mile 25 was a real hoot. And here I was with one mile left to go, and the wall I kept hearing about was totally nonexistent.
Mile 26.
I first noticed her when she was a sophomore, and I was a senior in high school. A couple of years later, I had the opportunity to convince her to ride in the back of a Jeep with me for an evening. She was patient enough to wait seven years as we dated through college—I started a business, and she became a jeweler. In many ways, we were exact opposites: while she worked with tiny stones, I worked with large ones, as my maintenance company transformed into a landscaping business specializing in retaining walls, aquatic ponds, and later synthetic turf. She was the perfectionist, the artist, the realist, while I was the disheveled, wild dreamer who loved the challenge of trying new things. This is why I was here at mile 26, feeling as good as I was. She worked toward perfection in her way, and I tried for it in mine.
Over the next 5,280 feet, I was immersed in thoughts of her—the woman who drove me crazy at times, just as I’m sure I did to her. The woman who brought balance to my often strange idiosyncrasies. The person God made specifically for me, who over the years has made me into the person I’m supposed to be. The more I thought of her, the tougher it became to hide the emotions I was feeling. Tammy, I thought, “this day is for you.”
This mile was the most satisfying of the race. As I entered the last 352 yards toward the finish line, I finally found the opportunity and comfort to finish what I had started over five hours before with a slowed stride. I observed the faces of the crowd as they cheered us on in those last few paces. As I crossed the line, I slowly put my hands on my hips as someone handed me a water bottle. Did I mention I’ve always hated running? I still do. But for some reason, that day in Nashville proved to be a truly great day that I never need to redo.
Sometimes we can’t explain why things go so poorly—so frustrating, so maddening. And in those times, we look up to heaven and say, “Why me, Lord?” But do we also look up when things unexpectedly go great and admit that it wasn’t just us making it happen? That maybe there was a hand helping us along, so we can show others that ordinary people can do extraordinary things when we let ourselves believe. Maybe we’re not alone and have to trust in the power that’s guiding us to be the best we can be.
In the days that followed, I had a lot of questions to answer: You ran the marathon? You didn’t train for this? When did you decide to run it all? How much pain are you in? Why do you think you were able to make it to the end? “You know you’re making us feel bad,” some said, “we’ve been training for months.” We always knew he was a bit different.
On the third day, I lost the toenail on my big toe on my right foot. For two days, it was painful going downstairs. Beyond that, it was time to get back to life and write a new chapter. Choosing to take each mile and focus on those I love most helped me break down “the wall” into rubble perfectly. So if you know the history of how the Greek Pheidippides, in 490 BC, ran from the plains of Marathon to Athens to announce their victory over the Persian army, I could now relate. And it’s interesting to think how many of my fellow men and women crossing the line that day in Nashville could say, “It’s been a great day. Good job, my brothers and sisters.” Sure beats staying home on the couch eating bonbons.
An important note: I would never recommend running this kind of distance without proper training or consulting your doctor or trainer to ensure you’re adequately prepared. My history as an athlete and my career of knowing what my physical body is capable of gives me a unique knowledge through experience. And I’m sure if I asked a thousand doctors, only one or two would suggest, “Sure, run it without training. I’ll sign off on that!” (Lol!) Many people will say this is one of the stupidest things you could ever do (except for those who have done something similar; I’m sure I’m not alone here!).
I always say I may be dumb, but I’m not stupid. So, this may be the dumbest thing I’ve done—but I never really planned on going the distance until I could understand my body’s abilities based on years of experience and knew my limitations. A person must know their limitations. Always be safe; consult your doctor.
Now, go out there and have a great day.