This is the sixth in a continuing series on marathon mishaps.
I ran my first marathon in 2008 in Potsdam, Germany. But that wasn’t my first marathon experience.
My first marathon experience came two years before that in Mombasa, Kenya. I didn’t run, but rather I helped organize the first (and only) Americans in Mombasa Marathon.
It was the summer of 2006, and I was in Mombasa learning Swahili with a small group of Americans. Several were runners, and two had the bright idea of running a marathon. Their first. On their own.
So I pitched in. We measured out a course–nearly a dozen laps along Mama Ngina Drive, with beautiful ocean views. Bright and early one weekend they set out, and I set up shop outside the Florida Club halfway along the course with water, candy, and other essentials. Time and time again they went by, and each time I recorded their time and helped them refuel and rehydrate.
Then came the moment of truth–the lead runner passed me on her way out for the second to last time, and I started back towards the start/finish line. It was a bit of a hike, and I knew I’d need a little time to get the finish prepared. So instead of waiting with food and water at the Florida Club, I waited at Treasury Square, closer to home base. After the lead runner headed out on the last lap, I’d head to the finish.
As she finished her second to last lap, the lead runner shook her head. She stopped for some water, and I asked her what was wrong.
“I was so mad at you, Jason!” she told me. “I thought you abandoned me!” Turns out I hadn’t made my plan clear. When she got to the old aid station location, suffering more than ever in the African heat, I had simply vanished, and it appeared she was out of luck for the rest of the race.
Fortunately she made it to my new, temporary aid station, and with my (minor) help she ultimately finished her first marathon, with an (unofficial) Boston qualifying time! (The other runner finished as well, with the help of a friendly local pacing her on bike.)