My first attempt at a marathon, more than 30 years ago, could not have
been more different from running the Chicago marathon on Sunday morning
October 22.  
        The first run was a result of three of us Colby High School freshman
football players taunting the cross-country runners.  "Distance running is
easy," we said.  "Football is a man's sport.  Anybody could run a marathon."
        The cross-country runners laughed.  "You guys couldn't run five miles."
One cold Saturday October morning at 6:30 a.m., the freshman football coach
picked up three skinny freshman football players and headed south out of
Colby, Kansas.  A half-hour and 26.2 miles later, three boys stepped onto a
desolate highway in the middle of nowhere in high-top sneakers and gray
sweats.  
        We started by eating Twinkies we had brought along.  For the next
hour-and-a-half we jogged off and on, covering about 5 miles.  It wasn't
long before two of us got sick.  Then we all got into an argument, and we
finally hitchhiked home.  An old farmer had mercy and took us back to Colby
in the back of his truck.  
        The cross-country runners were right, of course.  A marathon cannot be
completed without serious training.  To prepare for the Chicago marathon,
my running partner and I followed a guide that starts 18 weeks prior to the
race.  Hal Higdon, the trainer we consulted, believes that to run a
marathon well you have to be in excellent shape 18 weeks before the race.
Then the serious training begins.
        After pounding 400 miles along the streets of Champaign-Urbana, my
partner and I hopped out of the van in downtown Chicago on Sunday morning October
22.  It was 6:30 a.m. when we walked across Lakeshore Drive, through Grant
Park and stepped onto Columbus Drive, where the race began.    
        Two hundred portable toilets standing at attention already had lines with
7 to 10 runners.  Shoes were being tied into double knots and Vaseline to
prevent chafing was be applied from head to foot.  At 7:20 the announcer,
in a Chicago-Bulls playoff voice, asked, "Are you ready to run Chicago?"
        At 7:30 sharp more than 33,000 runners were packed for 200 yards behind
the starting line on Columbus Drive.  After the race began,
seven-and-a-half minutes elapsed before people at my pace reached the
starting line.  The elite runners were well into their second mile as my
partner and I settled into our 10-minute miles.  
        The first 10 miles were fun as we ran through the Lincoln Park,
Wrigleyville, Greektown and Little Italy.  The streets were continuously
lined on both sides with cheering fans.   At the 13.1 mile mark someone
yelled, "Halfway, baby.  Keep pressing."  A rescue mission choir holding
hymnals stood at the edge of the street singing "Press on, Press on."  
        The choir's song reminded me of Paul's words in Philippians that say, "I
strain to reach the end of the race and receive the prize for which God,
through Christ Jesus, is calling us up to heaven."  Beside me a runner's
shirt read, "For physical exercise profits a little, but godliness is
profitable for all things - I Timothy 4:8."  
        I kept pressing, but when we passed by the White Sox stadium at the
21-mile mark my wheels were close to falling off.  I was exhausted.  Though
it was a beautiful 72-degree day, it was warm for a marathon.  Runners
began stopping to stretch their cramping legs.  My left thigh was cramping
and I resorted to taking little baby steps.
        My baby steps had become old man steps when I grabbed two cups of
Gatorade at the 23-mile aid station.  "Twenty-three miles," I mumbled to the man
handing me the drink.  He said, "No, buddy, three miles not 23.  Three to
go.  You da man!"
        Somehow I rallied.  I found myself running with Allyson.  I knew that
because her shirt read, "My name is Allyson -- Please cheer for me."
Allyson and I were step for step when a spectator at the McCormick Place
yelled, "Go, Allyson, Go.  And man beside her, Go."
        At 25 miles, though utterly spent, I knew I could finish.  With hands
raised and 26.2 miles behind me, I passed under the balloon-arch finish
line at 4 hours 29 minutes and 33 seconds.   I had never run any farther.   
        Life is much more of a marathon than a sprint.  The race every human runs
takes continual training, strict discipline, absolute tenacity and lots of
fans.  Invincible 14-year-old football players in high-top sneakers and
gray sweats will discover that soon enough.

Don Follis is an Urbana minister.  Reprinted with permission from the
Champaign-Urbana News-Gazette, Copyright 2000.