Looking Around for a Fall Marathon

That's the expression that Anthony used this morning during our long run - he was "looking around for a Fall marathon," sort of as if he was checking out restaurants on-line in a new city that he was visiting, or trying to find a good place in his yard to plant an apple tree.  I went down the list of marathons that I had run in the Fall with varying degrees of success:  Rocket City Marathon in Huntsville, with a new course this year; Richmond Marathon, where Anthony had run a PR that stood for many years; Kiawah Marathon, where he had run the half many years ago; or the OBX Marathon, the main attraction being "OBX" and the seafood and beer that follows thereupon.  And then I asked him if he knew anything about the Chickamauga Battlefield Marathon, which is in Georgia technically but actually 15 minutes from Chattanooga, which I had been reading about recently (and which revealed that I, too had been "looking around," but in a far less definite fashion).  But it is Brian, I remembered, who had run Chickamauga, that small race identified as one of the top small marathons in the country by Runners World a few years ago.

The discussion was inconclusive, but it made me realize that I had been thinking about marathons recently.  Surely a 65-year-old runner on Medicare would be foolish to try to run another marathon.  Wouldn't he?  26 miles?  Isn't it time to settle for shorter distances at my advanced age?

I took a look at my running log this week:  a 9:12 mile on Monday following a jaunt up Big Bearpen, not too shabby when considering my marathon goal pace (MGP) these days would be about 9:30 per mile.  And then those two Yassos - 800-meter intervals - that I did on Thursday in 4:06 and 4:03, also not too shabby when considering my Yasso pace would be about 4:10.  And today?  Today I slowed down, stifling my runner's ego, realizing that everybody out on the road (except dauntless Anthony) was running way too fast for me, but only going 3 or 4 miles, maybe 6 at most.  Morris passed me in his car as I was at the almost-9-mile mark.  "Still running?" he hollered out.  I went three more after that, reaching that magical 12-mile mark, where in my experience I can almost feel another gear kicking in, the next one on the little stick-shift that is my running pace, when suddenly the RPMs back off and I find myself rambling far and wide as I did last Saturday at a relaxed pace.  Why some runners I know persist in running 3.14 miles (the "usual route") as fast as they can any given day is something I have never understood.  We have gears.  We should use them.

And what about me?  Am I gearing up for that magical long race once again?