From today's Washington Post Health section -

A Late Starter Finishes Ahead
- With the Appalachian Trail Behind Him, 73-Year-Old Reston Runner
Gets Ready for the Next Race

By Jerry Lewis
Special to The Washington Post
Tuesday, December 5, 2006; HE06

"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.