A Late Starter Finishes Ahead

With the Appalachian Trail Behind Him, 73-Year-Old Reston Runner Gets Ready for the Next Race

"You're 73 and you've just run a 50-mile race? Are you putting me on?"

In order, yes and no. I get those questions all the time. Running-wise, I'm what you could call a late bloomer. But I'm making up for lost time. Since I took up running at age 48, I've completed 25 marathons (including seven Marine Corps Marathons) and two 50-mile ultramarathons. The most recent was last month's JFK race from Boonsboro to Williamsport, Md., where I was the oldest member of my Reston Runners club ever to finish the rugged course, clocking in at just under 11 hours.

My secret? It's certainly not my past. I used to be a couch potato, a two-to-three-pack-a-day smoker who had never done anything more athletic than run for a train. I don't have a special diet. I don't stretch before I run. Or after. I don't have any special training regime, though I do run five miles or more five days a week -- two with my 33-year-old son and weekends with other club members.

What I do have is a pre-race ritual that I swear by -- an elaborate set of preparations that let me run long-distance races worry- and injury-free. More on that in a moment. But first, to some basic questions:

1.Am I nuts? Sure, but I feel good and can eat what I want and don't have any medical problems. Whenever I go in for a medical exam and they take my blood pressure, I say, 'How is it?' They say, 'It's good.' I say, 'Good?' They say, 'Very good.' I say, 'Very good?' They say, 'It's great.' (It's 110/52.) I'm 6-3 and weigh 170 pounds -- 20 pounds less than when I was smoking. (When I began racing, I would smoke at the starting line, put out the cigarette and then light up another at the end. But when I decided to run a marathon I stopped and haven't had another since.) I have a 44 pulse; that's pretty low. I have lost my belly over the years. My joints are holding up. I attribute that to starting late.

2.What's it like to run an ultramarathon? It's painful and boring and stressful. It's also exhilarating. The JFK course starts with 16 steep, rocky miles of the Appalachian Trail. The weekend of the race, much of it was covered with wet leaves after a storm. I ran head-down, always watching where the person ahead placed his foot, but I still took a couple of headers, bloodying my left knee and hand. Once I slipped on a rock and grabbed a tree for stability. "I haven't seen such fancy footwork since 'Dancing With the Stars!' " shouted a runner behind me.

Getting off the rocky trail and onto the C&O towpath was great -- and then boring and stressful. Because of the slippery footing, I didn't dare look up to enjoy the scenery. Then while I was walking -- I try to run 10 minutes, then walk one -- some runners came alongside me. One was 62, running his 25th consecutive JFK. (There are people who are more insane than I.) I was wiped out. This guy was running three minutes, walking for two. So I said, 'Do you mind if I join you?' And I stayed with these guys for about 10 miles. And it gave me second wind. I felt so good I ran off way ahead of them.

3.Why do I do it? A lot of it is, when you're banging your head against a wall, it feels so good when you stop. But seriously, to know you've run 26 miles is an amazing thing. It makes you feel powerful. To run 50 miles is twice as powerful. And when it's all over and they put that medal on you at the finish line, it always brings tears. I always get emotional.

4.Why else? I feel good. It's like climbing Mount Everest: It puts you in a select group. A lot of the younger runners look at me and appreciate the fact that I'm one of the oldest guys in the club and I keep up with them. A lot of times I'm beating them.

Whenever I see people walking, I always want to say, "Just pick up the pace a little bit" -- to get an aerobic effect. I'm not saying everybody can do what I'm doing. But more people can run. If you can't run, shuffle -- lift your feet and move as far as you can. Do it for 20 minutes if you're just starting, and build up your capacity.

I don't walk. If there's a flight of stairs, I wait for the elevator. I want a parking space close in, not far out. I'll run 50 miles but I won't walk two blocks.

5.So what's my pre-race ritual?

After a pizza dinner (carbo-loading is supposed to reduce the risk of glycogen depletion), I set out everything I need for the race. This has become a near Zen ritual for me -- like a bullfighter's ordered dressing in his costume.

I pin my bib number to my running shirt, attach the computer timing chip to my shoelaces, set out my running shorts, socks, shoes, six small packets of energy gel and four Advil pills (two to take before the start and two at the end). To this I add a long-sleeved running shirt that I pitch before the race start, a pair of throwaway gloves and a large plastic trash bag (with head and arm cutouts) for morning cold or rain. I also pack a miniature bottle of indomethacin solution (my "miracle" analgesic spray), good for sore muscles and joints. "Is that a bottle of hair spray strapped to your arm?" one fellow JFK runner wisecracked as he passed me. "Wanna look good for the photographers?"

Next to the pile of clothes I set a wide-necked water bottle to hydrate myself. Then I use the empty bottle to relieve myself (modestly, of course) just before the gun goes off. Instants before the start, I toss the bottle to the sidelines (with the top securely tightened!).

Crowning the mound are a granola bar and a Snickers bar to eat on waking, so they will be digested by the time my feet are in action.

I set three alarms to wake me at 3:30 a.m. And then I sleep -- if possible. Some researchers recommend sex the night before a race to promote relaxation. But New York Yankees manager Casey Stengel perhaps said it best: "It ain't the sex that wrecks these guys, it's staying up all night looking for it."

In the morning I dress, placing Band-Aids over my nipples (to avoid rubbing) and on the inside of each ankle bone. I smear Vaseline on the insides of my thighs to avoid chafing.

Last, I load the carbo-gel packets, the Advil and the magic spray in the pockets of my shorts, stick the gloves into the waistband and tuck in some toilet tissue -- for emergency stops -- next to the gloves. Now, I'm set to race.

I'll start planning soon for my next JFK 50-miler. That will be in 2014, when I'm -- yikes -- 81. Will you need that long, my friends tease me, to make up your mind? No, I say. It will take me that long to forget the pain of my last race. ·

Jerry Lewis lives in Reston, where he will be training over the next few months to run a marathon in Rome in March. Comments:health@washpost.com.