It’s the night before the 2008 LaSalle Bank Chicago Marathon and I’m eating dessert. And I’ve had wine. And it’s getting late. I did run this morning. I also rested my legs for two hours on the Untouchables Mafia tour bus. But then I shopped on Michigan Avenue for a few hours. And now, I’m eating dessert. Yummm… I mean, “Hmm, what’s my race strategy for tomorrow?”
Okay, I’m not actually running the marathon, but I will be running. I have flown in from Colorado with my husband, Mike, and my parents, Jim and Sally. Our local Chicago friends, Erin and Jim, are looking forward to watching the race and Erin’s mom, Shannon, rounds out the team. We are an experienced posse of spectators with specific assignments for tomorrow. While none of us will pin a bib number to our shirt or lace a timing chip into our flats come morning, we all have the pre-race jitters. My sister, Paige Higgins, runs her third Chicago Marathon tomorrow.
Spectating will be interesting this year. We all know that no matter how hard we run or how many shortcuts we take, it is possible that Paige will beat us to each of our designated cheer spots. Last year, Paige had a breakthrough marathon, running two hours, 40 minutes, and 14 seconds, in a race that was eventually cancelled due to record heat, and finished second for the American women. She is the 2008 USATF 25K champion, running one hour, 30 minutes, and 49 seconds. She runs for Greg McMillan, coach of McMillan Elite. She’s fast. I should probably nix the dessert.
The morning of the race, we get down to the specs of spectating over breakfast. With the course map, a road map of Chicago, and a transit map unfolded before us, we designate individual battle stations. Paige wants the majority of the cheering done over the second half of the course, so we plan accordingly.
Spectating requires planning, flexibility and cognizance of lessons past. Last year, while Paige and around 35,000 others ran in Chicago disguised as a sauna, I wore jeans. Trying to run, cheer and take pictures while my sweaty jeans sagged ever lower off my butt does not work. Lesson learned. This year, we all have running clothes and shoes on. We exit the hotel with cell phones, maps, watches, cash and I have the camera. Time to get our cheer on.
Erin, Jim, and Shannon are going to hover at the start and finish. Mom and Dad are going to cheer Paige on within the first mile, as she runs down Columbus Drive and over the Chicago River, before turning left onto Grand Avenue. Then they will make their way to the half. Mike and I will go to the starting line, to capture her elite start in still frame, before heading west on Monroe, also to the half.
Forget pictures of the elite start. By the time we make it to the intersection of Columbus and Monroe all of Chicago is in my way. The gun goes off. All I can do is hold the camera above my head and click in the direction I think Paige is running.
Our workout, although not at the same intensity, starts when Paige’s does. Paige heads north on Columbus as Mike and I turn west onto Monroe. We stop briefly at State and LaSalle to cheer Paige within the first and third miles. We’re loud. People look at us. I just shrug my shoulders and say she’s my sister, which seems to satisfy curiosity.
Paige is front and center of the pack when she flies by Monroe and LaSalle. The marathon tracks northward now, to Lincoln Park, so we have 10 miles, or about 55 minutes, to get to the half. We are there in about five minutes and stake our claim at the front of the barrier, at the corner of Franklin and Adams. I call my parents and find out they are on their way.
Over the next hour, it seemed every spectator in Chicago filled in around us – except my mom and dad. Cell phones and maps do not always make up for a sense of direction that relies on Colorado’s mountains, when there are no mountains in sight. With each cell call I try something different. We are at the corner of Franklin and Adams. We are to the right of an over-excited, orange-clad, Dutch crowd. We are directly underneath the northeast corner of the Sears Tower. You know – the tallest building in the city. Eventually Mom and Dad determine they walked right past us and will just cheer Paige from where they are now, which turned out to be about a block west. Amazingly, Paige and I survived childhood.
At about one hour, 14 minutes, and 4 seconds, the elite girls round the corner from Franklin onto Adams. Paige is still in the lead! My parents call after Paige speeds by and I tell them to walk east on Adams and we’ll walk west. We can’t miss them.
No surprise, Mom is crying proud-mommy tears when we meet up, but that won’t stop her. No time to waste, Mike and Dad run south together. Mike will cheer at miles 17 and 20 on Halstead, before turning east toward the 40K. Dad will run further south on Halstead, to cheer just past the twentieth mile, before going east to Cermak Road, then south again on Michigan to mile 24. Mom and I buddy up and run to the “L” station on Quincy and Wells. Clever me, I deciphered the transit map this morning and we will take the Orange Line to Ashland Avenue between miles 18 and 19.
Hopping aboard, now there is nothing to do but wait. Paige looked like she was feeling great and I think to myself that maybe my dessert was not such a bad pre-race meal after all. I’ve done some running this morning and my stomach feels fine. The station operator said we will definitely beat the runners to the Ashland stop, but still I’m nervous Paige will beat us. Mom and I occupy our time discussing the race and looking at the pictures I’ve taken thus far. It seemed we stopped at every transit station in the city when finally we pull into the Ashland station. We beat them. There is no runner in sight.
And no barriers. No spectators. No police cars. Descending the stairs of the station, I see taxis and buses and regularly moving traffic. Chicago is functioning as normal here. “Ahhhhhhhh!” Scrutinizing the map, we realize that the Orange Line took us too far south on Ashland Avenue. Amid my horror Mike calls. After the half, a duo of Russian women launched a series of attacks that splintered the field. Paige had fallen behind to about tenth when she ran by Mike at mile 17. But a pace-text he just received indicated she is picking it up.
I hang up and Mom and I leap back up the stairs to board the train back into center city. There is no way we will catch Paige at mile 18 now, so instead we’ll ride to the Roosevelt station and go from there. We have the train ride to come up with a new strategy. Back on the Orange Line, busy apologizing to Mom, we pull into Halstead station. The doors open. I glance to my right and my brain takes just long enough to compute what I see before the doors close. At the corner of Halstead and Archer, the marathoners are rounding the turn, spectators cheer wildly and policemen are keeping order. Are you kidding me?
I consider throwing myself against the door. But the train surged to motion, gliding above Archer Avenue and the elite women running below. The Orange line parallels Archer through the twentieth mile, so looking down, we keep an eye out for Paige. Before the train veered north away from the course, we did not see Paige, but we did see about three elite women, including Olympic Champion Constantina Tomescu-Dita.
The doors ajar at Roosevelt Street and Mom and I burst out. Mom is off to the finish line about two blocks to the east, while I run south on Michigan Avenue. Slaloming through spectators – considerably thinned at this section of the race – I decide to run until I intercept Paige. I spot and flag down Paige’s coach, Greg, who says he is going to the 40K. I keep running south, knowing Mike and Dad are somewhere along this stretch, and with Greg at the 40K, Paige will get maximum encouragement over the final two miles.
The first elite women began passing, in the opposite direction, on my right. I start to count. Seven women by, I notice the eighth just down the road. Paige’s style has improved considerably since joining McMillan, so at first I did not recognize her. A few strides later, however, I am certain. I let my vocal cords have a field day.
“Come on, Paigie! You can do it! Go Paigie!” I am jumping and dancing and feel my camera dangling by my side. Hello! Take some pictures! Capture the moment! “Come on, Paige! You’re almost there!” Click. Click. Click. “Go Paige!”
I cheered as long as I thought she could hear me. Now the cheer torch has passed to Greg, Mike and Mom, all three still waiting her arrival further up Michigan. That is the last I will see of her race. Hopefully she can hold it until the finish.
My phone rings. Dad is just south of where I am, so I stay put and wait on him. When he arrives we start walking to the finish, when Mike calls. He is at the 40K and will wait for us there. Unofficially, Paige ran two hours, 33 minutes, and 5 seconds, he tells us, which she should be very happy with.
Athlete, coach and team of spectators reunite at the inspiration tent just beyond the finish. Dad, Mike, and I find the tent last, after trekking around the finishers chute that extended all the way to Buckingham fountain. Remarkably coherent, Paige emerges from the tent and is bombarded by hugs and congratulations and pictures. Her teammate, Brianna Torres, who ran 2 hours, 45 minutes, and 4 seconds, exits the tent a little after, to congratulations as well. We crowd around and listen as Paige recounts the race, from the slow pace through the half, to her competitors’ surge tactics in the final miles, to the experience of leading the pack with Colleen DeReuck, Kate O’Neill, and Constantina Tomescu-Dita. They are stories we will ask her to tell again. For now though, mission accomplished, it is time to rest. It is time to eat, shower, nap and take off the running shoes. Paige will probably do all that too.
Officially, Paige clocked two hours, 33 minutes, and 6 seconds. She was the eighth female finisher and the third American woman. Her posse of spectators took over 200 pictures, made dozens of phone calls and texts, paid four dollars for an ill-fated train ride, and while we did not run a marathon, we got our fair share of mileage in for the day. Now, who wants dessert?
By Shannon Sharkey