Marathon man - day-to-day account of journalist Michael Konik's first marathon - includes related article on a 17-week physical training program

Men's Fitness, Oct, 1998 by Michael Konik

Michael Konik, our man with the midsection, overcomes a few physiological, er, disadvantages and an innate tendency toward procrastination to train for and finish his first marathon in style. If he can do it, you can, too - in about four months.

GOING THE DISTANCE

October 18, 1997

The Ironman Triathlon in Kona, Hawaii, is supposed to be an awe-inspiring spectacle that showcases the human spirit at its indomitable best. The only problem is, the athletes who swim 2.4 miles, cycle 112 and then cool down with a 26.2-mile marathon are not human. They are gods.

On magazine assignment, with notebook and pen in hand, I'm watching these immortals do the unthinkable, and I am feeling hopelessly decrepit, fat and unattractive. (Seeing the Ironman can do this to you, even if you're 33 years old and 170 pounds of mostly muscle.) When the victors complete the race, their arms raised in triumph as they cross the finish line, I hear a distant voice - the kind you wish would just keep quiet - telling me I must do this. I must know what this sense of supreme accomplishment is like. I must.

A triathlon, I'm sane enough to realize, is out of the question. But a marathon! That, I convince myself, that I can do.

I do not let the fact that I'm built for catching medicine balls deter me. Shortish legs, stout shoulders and chest, thickish waist - this is not the physique that one would choose when constructing the perfect long-distance runner. An accountant, maybe. The Tanzanians and Kenyans and even the genetically blessed Americans, those skinny ectomorphs who glide along the road like so many thoroughbreds, are positively equine. I'm bordering on ursine. But I want to be a horse. If only for a few hours on a sunny Los Angeles morning, I want to trot like a pony, light and free and strong. I want to run.

October 19-December 1, 1997

I think about running the Los Angeles Marathon. For the past four years, I've watched the throngs rumble past my house in Hollywood, and I've always mused, "Isn't that wonderful? The dedication. The will. The perseverance. I should do that someday." But I never have. Now, after witnessing the Ironman, I continue to think about running the L.A. Marathon. I think hard.

Train? Of course not. Think? Oh, yeah!

December 9, 1997

As part of a public-relations package encouraging journalists to write about the event, an entry form for the L.A. Marathon ends up on my office desk. I give my love handles a reassuring squeeze and fill it out, blissfully ignorant of what awaits.

December 15, 1997

My girlfriend, Tamsyn, is in the process of getting certified as a personal trainer. I've just become her first client.

She gives me a handwritten training plan. Intervals, mostly, progressively building endurance: walk, jog; walk, jog. Easy. I mean ridiculously easy. Then again, I haven't really run since I was 17, as a student at the Colorado Outward Bound School. But that does not restrict my hubris. "Isn't this a little slow?" I ask Tammy. "I mean, I do hike almost every morning. This seems a little light. After all, I'm trying to get ready for a marathon. A marathon!"

She smiles knowingly, in the way that patient women do when dealing with impatient men. "Honey, you probably can't go slow enough at first."

January 3, 1998

Indeed, I can go slow enough.

After a couple of weeks of world-class procrastination, I begin my official training regimen. My initial sets consist of an inauspicious four minutes of walking and seven minutes of jogging. Three sets, 33 minutes total.

God, am I slow!

I seem to enjoy the walking part far more than I ought to. Wheezing through my second set of jogging, all I can think is, What are you doing, fat boy? Are you nuts?

January 16, 1998

While in Palm Springs for the weekend, I run at night to avoid the desert heat. What I cannot avoid, as I trundle along an Indian Wells sidewalk, is being passed by swarms of jogging octogenarians.

"I think I'm going slow enough," I tell Tammy.

January 21, 1998

An enormous billboard promoting the marathon goes up on Sunset Boulevard: "See How They Run." Simultaneously, my training plan has me walking a mere minute between 20-minute jogging sets. Quitting now is out of the question. How could I? There's an omnipresent 30-by-50 reminder around the corner from my house, constantly prodding, cajoling. I may end up walking half the course, but, I tell myself, I'm going to finish.

I am going to finish. I half believe myself.

January 26, 1998

It's official: I'm a stud.

No more walking, only running - albeit for a mere 30 minutes. With approximately two months to go until the day of the race, I can confidently say I'm able to run about an eighth of a marathon.

February 7, 1998

After putting many dozens of miles in the books, I come to a depressing realization: I don't like running. The concept of "runner's high" is a mystery to me. The concept of "second wind" might as well be an El Nino-related meteorological phenomenon. The concept of actually looking forward to a five-mile after-work jaunt is sublime comedy.