Feb. 1st, 1998, Las Vegas. Feb. 28th, the Smoky Mountains. Glitz vs. the bucolic. Raucous vs. pastoral.Getting there: Feb. 1st. The Delta flight had a certain air of electricity. A couple in cowboy boots and hats were noisily telling their seat mate and the rest of the cabin what they planned to do on "The Strip". An elderly gentleman across the aisle repetitively threw dice on his airline tray table. The grey-haired retired priest responded to a question with "Of course I'm going to Vegas to gamble. Did you think I was going there to bless the tables?" We land and taxi down the runway. In clear view from the plane window is a giant black pyramid and a Sphinx. THIS IS LAS VEGAS?
Getting there: Feb. 28th. It was a straight shot northwest from Gainesville. You pick up Interstate 75 and take it for 533 miles until you find yourself in rolling hills and see a sign for Oak Ridge, outside of Knoxville. Then it is time to look at your map. Townsend, the little town that hosts the Smoky Mountain Marathon, is nestled nearby. The trip is made bearable by National Public Radio. As soon as you are out of range of WUFT you can pick up the Tallahassee station, then Atlanta, followed in succession by two University of Tennessee campus stations. In the registration line I tell another runner that it took me 9 hours to drive there. A group from Michigan say they drove 10 hours, only to be topped by two women from New Jersey at 11. I talk with the marathon organizer (Sherman Ames) who had jokingly written me suggesting that in this Tennessee locale I might not want to wear a shirt mentioning UF or Gators. For registration I wear my Marathon Group shirt with the alligator logo, and for the race I sport an FTC T-shirt.
Before the marathon: Feb. 1st. Hal Rothman is in Las Vegas to film the marathon and half-marathon for Running and Racing. Go to New York, New York (the casino) he says. I find a giant building encircled by an operating full-size roller coaster. Inside are connecting cavernous rooms that stretch forever, with slot machines and gaming tables as far as you can see. Around a corner you stumble upon a maze of busy sidewalk cafes that recreate a New York City street scene. Finding your way out is a challenge. I wander from Bally's to Monte Carlo to Caesar's Palace, Excalibur and Luxor, from one outrageous spectacle to another. I spend a half-hour watching Asian high-rollers play blackjack, and another half-hour observing a roulette table.
Eating is not a problem in Las Vegas. Each casino seems to have an all-you-can-eat buffet groaning with items that a carbo-loading runner on a low-fat diet doesn't want to eat. The race organizers have thoughtfully arranged for a spaghetti dinner at a sports bar. I sit with a couple from Seattle who have been running marathons on each continent. He tells me about running the 1995 Antarctic marathon through snow, mud and icy streams, and later sends me his own professional video of the event.
Before the marathon: Feb. 28th. We fill the motel banquet room with 380 marathoners plus runners who will attack an 8K. There is down-home catering with four different kinds of pasta, two sauces, salad plus a vegetarian and non-vegetarian lasagna. Everything is delicious; it is the best meal of its kind that I've had at any marathon. I sit with the friendly group from Michigan that will take many of the individual age group awards the next day. Bart Yasso from Runners' World is at our table, and some of his speed must have rubbed off on the rest of us.
The marathon: Feb. 1st. It is early and it is cold. We are bussed from the headquarters hotel (with its lobby full of slot machines) to the MGM Grand Hotel and Theme Park to board busses to the start, which is 26 miles out of town in the middle of nowhere. Runners huddle on the busses or make quick toilet trips through the sand and sagebrush until minutes before the start of the race. The course is along an unused straight road through desert. I concentrate on my running, ignoring the view of the barren Las Vegas mountains. In spite of the 500-foot net drop of the entire course, the first half is slightly uphill. I settle into what feels like a comfortable pace and am dismayed to find that it is 8:20, some 15 or 20 seconds slower than I had anticipated. There are the regular mile markers and water stops but essentially no spectators. Occasionally a car stops on the nearby interstate and a runner's support team hikes over to our road. Finally we pick up more speed on an imperceptible downhill slope that takes us to the slowly approaching edge of town. At the end, another runner and I share our surprise that we finished in 3:37 while expecting a faster time on this purportedly fast course.
The marathon: Feb. 28th. It is going to be a beautiful day. The tights, longsleeves and the preparations for rain are put away. Cap and sunglasses come out. We walk a few hundred yards from our motel to the race start, passing a rustic wedding chapel and a rushing mountain stream. Runners are animated and friendly; I share the secrets of my carbo-load and glycerin pre-race drink with a first-time marathoner and get advice from a fellow with a swoosh shoulder tatoo who has run more than 100 marathons in Nike shoes. We start the race along with the 8K runners, but soon leave them and parallel the Little River along Route 321. Crossing the river we go out-and-back on a winding road on the other side of the river. A fellow from New Mexico and I share stories of marathons that we have enjoyed and which we urge the other to run. I feel good and the miles seem to go by effortlessly. Mile 17 to 24 is a back road with rolling hills that gives you a taste of the real Appalachia with a mixture of rural rustic cabins and farms, tall trees and sheer rocky cliffs. Reentry to the little town brings a return to level ground, a better paved road, and a few modern homes. At this point the field has been spread out enough that you have to look carefully to see a runner in front or behind. I'm pleased to have finished this moderately difficult course in 3:33, compared to a slower time for the supposedly fast Las Vegas course. After the finish, I walk to my motel across the street and get ready for the post-race party. There is plenty of soup, bagels, fruit and drinks. Runners spill out of the banquet room onto the sunny terrace. The awards ceremony is spirited and clearly enjoyed by all of the participants. I think how nice it would be to return next year, run the marathon, and spend the weekend with my wife enjoying the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.