Kiltboy: a Life on the Run: The Twelve Days of Marathon

By Paul Ingham Lineback

There are many books about running available that attempt to discover what it all means to be out along a course, street, or trail; about the psychology, makeup, sensibility and consciousness of it all, the camaraderie, the friendship, the overcoming, surmounting, and the conquering of ones selfjust the mindfulness, the being and presence of running. This book is definitely not one of them!
During his runs in the kilt, the overriding question was: What do you have on underneath? His response? Do you really want to know? So, in the picture, the girl is attempting to discover the secret for herself, peaking behind the curtain, if you will. A metaphorical look into the mysteries that we all have within.
I didnt know there were Twelve days of Marathon! I wish that I were young and indestructible again. I would join you in some of your delightful adventures. What a wonderful way to keep a personal journal! Youre my hero (Dean Thomson).
What an epic! Keep on charging, Kilt Boy (Dean Karnazes).
I have no idea how you run in the kilt. If I have the slightest rough spot or friction from my outfit, I rash out. The kilt doesn't wilt! (Charlie Nickell).

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546226765

Paul Ingham Lineback

Paul has run, to this date, exactly 100 marathons. In these stories about his first twelve, and runs of other distances, he finds the comical aspects to his running through social interaction; an approach in which we can all identify. A consummate storyteller, he makes the mundane not only believable, but immensely entertaining as well. Follow his frequent follies, faults, and foibles, as he fumbles and feels his way to a flawless run. Find more comical interaction at, [e-mail] and oddpaul.com.

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© 2018 Paul Ingham Lineback. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/23/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2677-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2675-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2676-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018901304

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedication

Introduction

Chapter One Confessions of a Novice Runner (Or, What Not to Do in the Preparation and Running of a Marathon.)

Chapter Two A Renewed Faith in Love

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six Motorcycle Marathon, August, 2003

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight California International Marathon

Chapter Nine San Francisco Marathon July 3⁰th 2005

Chapter Ten Cow Town Half-Marathon

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve San Francisco Marathon #2 The Redneck Marathon Tour July 2⁹th, 2006

Chapter Thirteen A Baker’s Dozen

Dedication

To my running buddies Teresa, Suzy, Drea, and Susan, without whom running would not nearly have been as much fun.

Introduction

I USED TO BELONG TO A group that would meet periodically to discuss important topics; or at least, I would say, things that were important to us. During this group meeting, I would pass out copies of what I called, my running reports for them to peruse.

At one point, one of the members mentioned that he loved the marathon stories that I wrote. They are so detailed, he said. They make me feel like I’m right there running with you.

I do that, I casually mentioned, because I want you to feel my pain.

After a hearty laugh among those assembled, the group leader smiled and said, No, that’s not it. What I get from your narratives, is the joy that you feel when you run. I remember thinking at the time, that that was the nicest, most eloquent way it has ever been expressed. And it is so true; the enjoyment that running gives allows me to discover the comical aspects to my follies and foibles, and those of other runners while I’m out on the course interacting with them.

May you similarly find joy, not only in these stories, but through your own efforts as well; in whatever situation you may find yourself.

Chapter One

Confessions of a Novice Runner

(Or, What Not to Do in the Preparation and Running of a Marathon.)

I HAVE ALWAYS FELT THAT BEFORE a story could properly be told, a little history about the situation would be in order. The modern-day marathon celebrates the heroic feat of a Greek messenger, Pheidippides by name, who was supposed to have run from Marathon to Athens in 490 B.C, a distance of about twenty-five miles. In this run, he announced triumph over the Persians (running information back and forth was the manner in which people reached out and touched one another before Alexander Graham Bell and AT&T). His last words before he collapsed and died was thought to have been, Victory! Victory! Rejoice! We conquer. (When you are out of breath, one to two word sentences is about all you can muster.) Now that’s what I call really hitting a wall. It’s a lot more dedication to the run than I currently have. The first winner of the modern twenty-five mile Olympic marathon was, appropriately enough, Spyridon Spyros Louis, in 1896. He, himself, was Greek. Of course, in the first marathon, the field was a little stacked. Seventeen out of the twenty-one runners were Greek; so the odds were in their favor, so to speak.

In 1908, the marathon distance was standardized to 26.2 miles. That .2 makes it seem so pretentious, and the reason for it makes it appear all the more so. The marathon in the standardized distance came about because the House of Windsor, during the Summer Olympics held in England of that year, simply wanted to get a glimpse of the runners without having to leave their residence. If ever there was a family prepared for TV… I could just imagine it, Do you want your tea and crumpets in the sitting parlor, Sir?

Oh, no thank-you, Jeeves. I’ll have it out here on the veranda. I want to see the runners as they go by. Oh, look, good show, there goes one now.

In other words, we have to run an extra 1.2 miles because one family was too lazy to get their collective butts off of their loungers and down into the stadium. Of course, if Pheidippides had died a few miles earlier we wouldn’t have had to run as far either—so there’s a lot of blame to go around.

I was just a mid-range runner when I decided to run the California International Marathon held in early December. The year was 1999. Over the years of inactivity, I had ballooned up to about 250 pounds on my 6’2 frame; although people said that I carried it well. This was in 1996. I knew I needed to do something when at the age of thirty-eight, I kneeled down to empty a drain on a ventilator circuit, and then had a difficult time getting back up. I am too young for this!" I said to myself, matter-of-factly. However, starting an exercise program working sixty hours per week, along with a twelve hour weekly commute proved difficult.

It all came to a head about a year later when my wife left me, stating I was fat. After that, I was so restless, I could hardly sit still. I had to do something, and remembered from high school that when disappointments and hardships came my way, if I took it out on the track, or a weight room, I always felt much better.

With that in mind, on my two days off in the week, I would go twice around a two mile loop in my neighborhood, once in the morning, and once in the evening. On the last part of the run there was a really steep hill; at first, all I could do was walk up. Slowly, over time, however, I found that I could actually run the hill as well. So, wow! Improvement!

After moving from the house, I relocated closer to my place of employment. This afforded less of a commute and more time I could spend running on my days off, not being nearly as tired; although I never went past the four mile mark. At this point, I began running with a friend from work, Suzy, who took me to that fourth mile. Shortly thereafter, however, I tweaked my back; which, unbeknownst to me, was a bulging disc in the lower lumbar region. I continued to run, hoping to work the soreness out. All that did, however, was weaken the annulus—the covering of the disc—which eventually herniated. Shortly thereafter, I couldn’t run at all, and could barely walk. An operation became necessary, and I underwent a discectomy—or surgery to remove the herniation.

Rehab for the first month was boring, walking a three mile route around my residence, all by myself. Then, Suzy, my running buddy, began walking with me. The first time around was so nice, finally having someone with whom to talk. The three miles went by quickly. She then asked, Want to go again? After completing six miles without incident, she said, If you can do that here, you can complete my regular seven mile rural route. So we began walking the seven miles. I knew she wanted to run; and, truth be told, so did I. So, over time, I slowly began running a little, walking a lot; then closed the walking gaps with more running. Over an eight month period, I was finally able to run the whole seven miles. Not bad, considering the doctor had said after surgery that I’d never run again.

One morning, thinking my running buddy was at work, I ran the seven mile course on my own. Returning home, the phone rang, Oh, and I was so looking forward to running this morning, she replied in frustration, after telling her that I had already been out. She had helped me so much, and had been so patient and kind with rehab, that I felt like I couldn’t disappoint her. Okay, I replied, not actually believing I was going to say this. I’ll go again.

I casually mentioned the mileage to colleagues at work the next day, and with the misplaced encouragement of these so-called friends, they convinced me that if I could run fourteen miles, I could cover a 26.2 mile distance; and I foolishly believed them. So I set out to see if I could do just that. First I ran a successful fifteen-miler, then a thirteen; after that, a couple of more fourteens. Sure, no problem, I thought, not knowing anything more about it than what my coworkers—who had never run one before—had told me; nor that I needed more information than that. I could run a marathon!

Why is it when you say you’re going to do something that strenuous, the first thing people do is look at your stomach? So I still had twenty-three percent body fat; I was a Clydesdale, so what? A lot of running is in your head, right? Your mental outlook and determination. I felt like pointing to my noggin and saying, Hello! I’m up here, not down there! Eyes up here buddy! Now I have some idea of what women go through on a date.

After a few of the long runs, I noticed a very peculiar thing; my nipples would get very tender. Not putting two and two together, I mentioned this to one of my compadres who also ran. He told me that it was from the shirt rubbing against them; a normal thing and not to worry. Whew! That was a relief! I assumed for a moment that I was undergoing some kind of midlife change. I mean, I’ve heard of male menopause, but I’ve always thought that it was largely a myth; manifesting itself mainly with little red sports cars, or Harley-Davidson motorcycles. Someone needed to invent something to go across them for the run. It could be called the Trainer-Bra for men (or something like, The Bro or Manzier, from Seinfeld).

Signing up for the early December, local marathon, and squeaking in before the November nineteenth deadline, I was all set. I thought I remembered reading in the pre-run packet that there was going to be Power Gel 41390.png at each of the aid-stations, so I began training with it. I had never tried it before, but with a name like gel I knew it had to be thick, and I wanted to get used to swallowing on the run. There was no way I was going to choke in front of three thousand athletes and additional spectators. For those who have never tasted the different gels, it was like eating pure frosting (which…was probably one reason I liked it).

I told my running buddy my intentions, and that I was going to run it with just my regular cheap tennis shoes. Oh, no you’re not, she told me, sensibly. You are going to go down to a running store in El Dorado Hills and get fitted by a friend of mine who owns the store. So I went down on Tuesday to pick up some running shoes. "You’re doing what with only fifteen miles of training? he said, after I told him my plan. If that’s all the distance you are going to do, you need to run back to back fifteen milers so that you know what kind of pain you’re going to be in."

The marathon is this Sunday, I replied, not realizing that new shoes also needed to be broken in. I don’t have time for that. He just shook his head, and sold me a pair of size fourteen Saucony’s for my size twelve and a half feet. That because my feet were so wide, I needed the extra space to fit them all in once they started to swell from the distance. You’re supposed to go up one full shoe size; however, they don’t make size thirteen and a half shoes.

Suzy presented me with a light, sweat-wicking, technical T-shirt on Friday, because I told her that I was just going to run in the regular cotton tee in which I had been running. I seriously (or, what I surmised was serious) trained for approximately two months before my first street race ever at any distance. I didn’t begin with a 5, or a 10K, or even a half-marathon. That would have been the normal, responsible, sane thing to do. Oh no, I had to start with a complete marathon. Yeah, sure, I told myself. I was ready.

I went down to the expo the day before and picked up the race packet, and bib number—can’t remember if they gave out timing chips at this point. It was so cool being there with all of the runners; you could feel the potential energy in the air. It was an eclectic, electric atmosphere. In the packet, we received some pertinent pre-race instruction. One of the more memorable was, Starting line advice; show up on time. Duh!

California International Marathon

December 5th, 1999—On race day, I was up at 4 a.m. I dressed with nervous excitement. Not wanting to be weighed down before the run, I skipped breakfast (big mistake) and headed down to the Doubletree Hotel in Sacramento, where the expo had been, and where the bus would be caught to the start. Breakfast for me amounted to two packages of Power Gel, and some Ibuprofen.

It was exciting to see everyone mingling around different points of the staging area; the camaraderie, the togetherness, the port-a-potties as far as the eye could see—everybody stretching and warming up; what more could you ask for? We were all there for one purpose and for one purpose alone, to get to the finish line; for me, to get there in one piece if at all possible.

When the race was about to begin, this being my first time, I went up front close to the starting line because I wanted to see more of what was going on; another big mistake. I had no idea about pacing, and did not know that this was where all the rabbits congregated; those who could run a sub-three hour marathon.

The race started; and, with adrenalin flowing, I was carried along by the fast crowd. Race officials called out the first mile, which was completed in 7:56—no GPS at that time, I was just wearing my regular everyday wristwatch. Whoa, I thought, "way too fast for the ten-minute mile pace I had trained for and set for myself. So I slowed a bit. Next mile was 8:07. "Dang, still too fast!" Then I ran an 8:15 mile, an 8:24, and then an 8:30. Over seven miles, I finally got down to a 9:20 pace. I was getting tired of trying to run slower; so, since the last time felt comfortable, I thought I would just hang out at that pace for a while.

I took in about four ounces of fluid at every aid-station, but by mile eight, I was beginning to feel the effects of dehydration. Did I drink anything yesterday? I asked myself. Let’s see, one glass of milk, a glass of orange juice, and one of water; so, approximately forty-eight ounces all told. Definitely not enough on which to run a marathon. Not adequately hydrating myself was another big mistake; but I also knew that by the time I was feeling it, it was too late. I would be sure to experience some problems later on in the race no matter how much I drank at the aid-stations from then on. What problems that would entail, however, were unknown to me at the time. I really had no clue as to what I was doing out there.

I also discovered early on that they were only giving out Power Gel at miles fourteen and eighteen. I would have brought my own had I known! Man, was I hungry! It was early Sunday morning; I had some cash with me, and looked in vain for an open stop-and-rob along the course. I would have gone in for some orange juice, and a sweet roll or bagel.

Someone along the way had dropped an unopened packet of GU brand energy gel, and I almost stopped to pick it up. Fortunately, at mile nine, they were giving out GU at an impromptu aid-station; so I grabbed four and quickly downed two. The next would be saved for mile twelve. At mile ten, seeing my friend Dean, who was spectating, lifted my spirits.

By mile 13.1, half-way through (which I finished in under two hours), I tried to remind myself, Now why I am doing this again? Although, I knew that if I could keep up with that pace, I would kill the arbitrary five hour time limit I had set for myself.

At around mile fourteen I had my first bout with muscle spasms; severe cramping in my left hamstrings. This was a lingering phenomenon left over from the back surgery, where, initially, they would cramp up for no reason at all; just standing doing dishes would sometimes set them off. However, I had never experienced muscle spasms to this degree before. Others running by told me to walk through them, which I did; it was the only thing I could do. They eventually, after about a mile, went away. But I could tell ever after that they were always on the verge of a relapse.

People have said that at mile eighteen to twenty there is a runner’s wall that every runner comes up against at one time or another. Well, at eighteen and a half miles, I didn’t just hit the wall—I slammed into it like road-kill. I crashed and burned; it wasn’t pretty.

I had been told over the years by various instructors that muscles had memory. That they tended to bounce back quickly after periods of lay-off. However, the only thing my muscles ever seemed to have had a memory for was, Don’t you remember how much WE HATE THIS? Muscles were also like babies. When it was time for them to get attention, they would definitely let you know. It was the E.F. Hutton of running. When they talked, you’d listen. They tended to use Gestapo-like tactics, You’re beink foolish, ve hef vays to make you valk.

No, no walking, I said, as I was having a conversation with myself, gotta keep pushing; gotta keep moving.

Oh, yeah? Do you feel that?

Ow, ow, ow! Yes, yes, I feel it. I feel it.

That is your Gracilis muscle.

My, my…my what? Ow, ow.

Your Gracilis. You know, the muscle that is the most superficial on the medial region of the posterior thigh; it helps to propel you forward.

Oh yeah, that one.

Say it! Gra-ci-lis.

Ow!

SAY IT!

Gra…Gra…Gra…Gracilis, ow…ow.

"You think you’re in charge here, don’t you? But you’re not. We can make you laugh, we can make you cry, we can make you hate your life. Feel the burn now baby, huh, huh? You will do as we say!"

And walk I did. At the mile nineteen nurses aid-station, one race official must have seen how terrible I looked. He grabbed me with both hands by the shirt and said, Get in here! I was oblivious to my surroundings only focusing on the pain, and would have just walked by otherwise. The nurses there gave me potassium, magnesium, calcium, and sodium chloride. The official then asked, What is your goal? I replied just to finish. Well then, he said, walk the rest of the way. However, after a few miles of working the electrolytes in, I was actually able to run again, though very carefully. Unfortunately, after another mile and a half, the hamstrings cramped up again—the third time. I was, thereafter, in need of more of the pills.

It was funny (funny-strange, not ha-ha), I was so worried about being weighed down at the start of the race if I ate anything; however, by the middle of the run, I was eating anything and everything I could get my hands on. People were handing out orange slices, parts of bananas, and so forth. There was even a bowl full of Advil. At about mile twenty-two, some kids were mocking us sitting in their beach/lounge chairs alongside the course, holding out Pringles and donuts. How did they know to taunt us; that we would be so hungry by that time? I packed up at the mile eighteen aid-station as many of the power gel packets as I could carry, but by the downing of the seventh one, it was getting pretty old. I was beginning to loathe that sweet taste.

At the mile 23.5 aid-station, in front of Mercy General, one of the hospitals where I work as a respiratory therapist, I saw my friends handing out water and All-sport drink (I asked the captain thereof, a good friend of mine, if he had any more electrolyte pills. He replied that he didn’t). Contrary to the belief of some (one doctor in particular, who had run this race before, and had heard how little I had trained), I had made it that far (a colleague who was helping to man the aid-station ran over to the medical tent and told him so. Well, he won’t make it into work tomorrow, he said). They saw how much pain I was in and gave much encouragement. By that time I would stoop over to one side, and then to the other, massaging the backs of my thighs.

A few hundred yards later, I heard someone call out the name, Paul. With as much pain as I was in, it didn’t register that he was referring to me; my deer in the headlights look. He then called out Mean Paul! I knew immediately who it was; my friend Sebe from UCD Medical Center, where I also work, who had said he’d be looking for me. I won’t go in to why I was called Mean Paul. Suffice it to say that you innocuously raise your adrenalin charged voice from a little distance to one emergency room clerk in order to get supplies—midst all of the commotion—and you’re labeled for life (colleagues from that era still call me that).

As I rounded Alhambra Blvd., with just two miles to go, one woman spectator gave me a whole banana from the bunch she was passing out. I was ever so grateful, thinking solely of the potassium it contained, and promptly devoured it. I held on to the banana peel because it was not at an aid-station where they collected garbage, and I didn’t want to litter. A few blocks later, I spied a waste receptacle on the sidewalk; and from about ten feet away, in perfect basketball form, made two points. Nothing but net. Just then someone who passed by, said, That was a great shot! To which I replied, Yeah, I could always play ball; I just can’t run.

A mile to go, and people were there on both sides encouraging my every step; essentially, I power-walked the last five miles, with trots in between as much as my legs could stand. It was killing me; cardio-pulmonary wise I felt great; it was just my legs that wouldn’t respond anymore.

My goal at the start of the race, as stated, was to run the marathon in under five hours. As I rounded the last stretch, I saw my time in living digital color, 4:59:30. I remember thinking, After all the pain I’ve been through, I’ll be darned if I’m going to run this thing in over five hours, and poured it on. Cramps immediately set in for the fourth time. I grabbed the back of my leg to stabilize it, and said to myself, Yes, I know which flipping muscle that is! Shut up!

The announcer, who was calling the names of those who crossed the finish line, saw me limp-running up the chute. He quickly looked up my bib number, and shouted out over the loudspeakers, "And pushing it through the pain, his left hamstrings, is Paul Lineback, of Cameron Park!"

The crowd cheered as I crossed the finish line. I stopped running, and the cramps immediately went away. They then placed the finisher’s medallion around my neck, and I was basking in the glory of what I had accomplished. My only thought at the time was, Oh, yeah, I’m doing this again! What a high! What a rush! It was a kick! All the pain I had experienced over the last twelve miles was quickly forgotten.

My final time: four hours, fifty-nine minutes, and fifty-seven seconds. I had made it in under my five hour goal time with just three seconds to spare. Shortly thereafter, they put a solar wrap around me; I warmed up very quickly. I can honestly say that I didn’t realize how cold I actually was.

It was especially gratifying to finish because of the back surgery of only a year and a half earlier. I still experience residual numbness and weakness in my left foot from the operation. It was then that I figured out why I had run; because I could when I was told that I could not. I have been blessed to have recovered so well, as promised by a friend. On the back of the finisher’s medallion itself, above where it states Finished, I’m going to have inscribed, Just.

I recovered somewhat after eating pizza, hot soup, bagels, and fluids. I then composed myself well enough to drive home in my standard transmission, no power steering truck, hoping that the hamstrings would not cramp up again. Don’t know what I’d do if they did. At home, dazed, I showered and dressed for church. When asked, I told not a few people that I had run the marathon in less than five minutes.

What?

Hours, I meant hours. Obviously, I wasn’t thinking too clearly. I then went home and crashed for a few hours. My running-buddy and her husband later invited me over for dinner, knowing that I didn’t feel like cooking for myself. I think I must have eaten half of what they had prepared. It was like (pointing to the side-dishes), Are you going to eat that? Are you going to eat that? I was ravenous. The taste was so good.

Contrary to the belief of the physician at the aide-station, I did make it into work the next morning, and worked twelve-hour shifts, five days straight, on my feet most of the time. Monday, during my breaks, I sat with ice packs under my thighs. By Wednesday, people noticed that the bounce in my step was back. I think one of the reasons I recovered so quickly, was because of my weight lifting regimen. I mentioned this to one of my buddies, a nationally ranked hammer thrower who threw at the 2000 Olympic Trials in Atlanta. He agreed that cross-training really helped. That’s what I was doing? Cross Training? Cool! I thought I was just lifting weights.

I think running a marathon gives one the opportunity to thumb his or her nose at every youth leader, teacher, or parent, who ever told them that playing in the streets wasn’t safe. Running down the middle of Fair Oaks Blvd., with no cars around except for emergency and transport vehicles, was such an incredible experience. Live bands were playing along the route on the cool December morning. It was perfect weather for the run.

In preparation for the race, as I subsequently discovered, I did everything wrong; not enough training, new shoes, no carbo-loading, no over-hydration, no breakfast, no idea about pacing, very few supplements during the run, etc. I had no business even being out there on the course. It’s not that I was disrespecting the distance (I didn’t know enough about the distance or training required to disrespect anything); I just honestly did not understand what I was getting myself into. Yet I still finished the race in less than five hours. Can’t wait to find out what I can do if I prepare everything right.

February 6th, 2000—Addendum: (With the emphasis on dumb.) Two more things one should not do during a run, as I subsequently discovered in a successive race. (Davis Stampede, Half-Marathon.) One, you should not run 13.1 miles on a sprained ankle; which should literally have been painfully obvious. I was a mile into my final preparation run down Starbuck Road (no relation to the coffee shop), in Cameron Park five days before, trying to push for the big race, and caught an edge of the asphalt. I went down hard. There I lay for a few minutes sprawled in