The 23rd Mile
It's 5 a.m., July 24th, the morning of Liberia’s first marathon. The rain is coming down in solid sheets. The droplets strike against ground in a mirror of cloud and thunder; so hard that the crashing waves at the ocean’s edge appear soft. This is what I think it means to be a human speck against awesome nature. This is what I think it means to experience beauty while deaf.
Liberia's first ever marathon
I am driving to station 23, the last refreshment and medical stop before the race finish line three miles away from SKD Stadium. The main road of Tubman is eerily empty. I am hunched down neck up peering through the blur of unwieldy windshield wipers. When I see people, it is sudden and dramatic. The car headlights reveal the backs of people’s shoes giving them figurative flats—cotton tips on the piston of skinny legs. Passerbys in the opposite direction have startled expressions, like they have been caught red-handed thinking in private without regard to social obligation and looks. They push away at the light with their hands and their faces quickly wash away.
I’ve been roped into running the medical tent, which I cannot imagine will look like in the deluge which is Monrovia’s four month rainy season. My tendency was to say no. It is the weekend when even roosters sleep. I don’t consider myself support staff. But the request came at a time when I was recalling a fuck yes stage of my life, whereby all questions were dealt with similarly
“You want to go dancing?” (even if you don’t know how to dance), “fuck yes.”
“You want to help me move?” (even if it kills you), “fuck yes.”
“Do you want to treat injured runners without ace bandages or ice?” (oh come on, it will be fun), “fuck yes!”
Of course, I initially considered running the marathon myself. But perhaps for the first time in my life, it occurred to me that I would not be able to complete the distance. Two weeks prior, I had played rugby with the U.S. marines at the base in Mamba Point along an expansive stretch of grass occupied by militant fire ants. In one instance while chasing a twenty-two year old woman cadet from Nebraska who had gotten loose down the sideline, who took 1/2 of the field to catch, I realized that life is long but in the process one gets old. The marine at the turn had about two yards on me when she took off straight. I accelerated at an angle but the distance did not close. For a while we were running companions, the space between us constant. I watched this slim brunette running confident and compact tasting the clods of her heals as if in the slow motion of omniscient dreams. I thought wow, this is what it is like to be forty-one. This is the space of transition. How long can one fight? The woman’s T-shirt was deep blue and made from soft cotton polyester mix. I pumped my arms harder leaning into the air, deliberately pushing into the ground with my feet in a test of Newton’s laws. A wide-angle lens would have captured the awkward flight of an athlete actor in pursuit of a woman who could be mistaken for a teen. A microscope would have captured the progressive pull of wispy hamstrings. A biophysicist would have pressed the button on an unwieldy contraption of sticks and joints illustrating the inevitable relationship between energy, velocity and torque. The woman barely felt the brush of my hands as I reached out at the last minute at her right shoulder for the tag. My momentum kept me going off the playing field almost onto the road. The marine was irritated. I could sense this even from my back. Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t.
Liberia's finest (guy on right)
The Liberian army and a collection of volunteer nurses are already at the site when I pull up alongside the dark green canopy, which is the medical shelter. It is quite dark inside. There are two cots and on an around them is a stethoscope, medical sheets, a box of crackers, and bags of water in smaller bags. I introduce myself, find out who is who and commence organizing the team.
“Pierre, do you mind running triage?”
“Not at all, bossman”
“Andy, can you start preparing the ORS solution and lace it with this Gatorade for taste?”
“Of course.”
I decide to move the cots parallel to each other so that an IV line can hang between them from the main tent pole if things come to that. We move out a plastic table to the road where we will pass out refreshment to approximately 250 marathon runners and 2000 10K runners. It is obvious by a quick calculation that what we have will not be enough. I use the phone found in the supply box to order more water and oral rehydration salts. Someone actually answers on the other side and tells me that a truck will come by in 15 minutes. I feel like I am being tricked. This is Liberia. I can’t believe the system works.
It is about 8:30 when the first of the 10K participants literally start rolling in. These are Liberians in wheel chairs, propelling their creaky contraptions with muscular shoulders in a test of will over 1980’s technology. At first the team is confused why the athletes don’t stop at the table we have carefully prepared for refreshment.
“Bring out the drinks to them!” I yell.
The team scrambles and a few cups are over turned and a nurse trips. There is hurried laughter, a blast of commentary but the volunteers quickly get the picture. The men in wheel chairs grunt in acknowledgement as they flip the cups vertical down their throats with one hand, their off hand gliding against the opposite running wheel so as to steer. The texture of rubber against leather makes the same sound as a zip-line along a linear trajectory. One man I notice rolls away with two unopened bags of water in his lap.
One legged division
Next, the one legged men come and they present problems to the operation. These men appear at first in the distance bobbing up and down like displaced swimmers engaged in an urban breaststroke. One hundred yards from the operation the picture is clearer. The men catapult along the course with crutches resembling match sticks and forearms rippling with sinewy steel. They are moving urgently. Their expressions are tortured and it is obvious that momentum at mile 23-station is their key. But the men have no extra limbs to hold a cup! The team ends up running along side the men pouring the ORS-Gatorade solution into their mouths from up high as they gallop as if they are pouring fancy tea. To do this right, the volunteers unknowingly take on the same cadence as those they serve. To receive, the runners extend their heads back and to the right. Through all this, the crutches clip-clop against the wet pavement like pogo sticks robbed of their springs. There is no time for thank you’s but the gratitude on both sides is implied.
The majority mass of 10K runners overruns our meager aid station. The scene is from a modern day Brave Heart. The men and women are still pumped but their shirts are soaked and the paint from the event logos are beginning to smear. Some cry out in confusion as to the direction of the finish, though they only need look up at the propulsion of other runners veering right at the arrow right up from the 23-mile sign. Some manage to utilize momentarily the cots in the tent desperately requesting for massage, which we do not give. They hobble away.
The group is moving at a respectable seven minute pace. It is a rag tag army of white and black, slim and fat, short and tall with non-issue equipment of bright colored rain jackets, dangling water bottles and dripping backpacks. “Go, go, go!” we yell, “You guys are awesome!!!”
The runners appreciate the encouragement. The Liberians initially appear shocked
“You are super heroes next to humans,” I yell, “You are almost there!!”
Barefoot runners
It is another half an hour when the marathon contingent starts to trickle in. Marauders, deserters-- one can tell that this cohort has endured three plus hours of waterlogged shoe on skin, knee joint on pavement, quad against pot hole. From afar, the runners faces look exactly like the faces I passed in my car in the hard rain here: blank, searching, roving, the pace of fatigue, the will of progressive steps. Up close and with cups of water in their hand, I quickly comprehend my big mistake: We have given all our ORS away! The runners, already salt-depleted from this unnatural marathonic act, at our medical station will be further diluting their serum with pure water. While the runners mumble thank you at our encouragement, as they tilt the delicious feel of fluid across the parched lining of their throats, we will actually be hurting them. If one is going to die in a marathon, it will probably be from this.
I remember the crackers, yell “cracker” and the team scrambles for them. It is now we who act as if we are starving. The runners at the sense of salt and carbohydrate open their eyes especially wide and grab desperately at the pro-offerings. They don’t even want the water now. I feel idiotic with a tinge of residual guilt. I recall in two flashes eight years ago running the Boston Marathon. One flash: All the Twizzlers, chocolate chip cookies, brownies, oranges wedges, bananas, runner’s goo, one hoagie sandwich with beer that I ate. So good. The other flash: The two consecutive miles of Wellesley students giving me high fives. So good too. But it is not too late. It is never too late on a long run.
Seongeun with other volunteers
