brains off

The train is packed, so much that the announcement comes at every stop: “Please keep the doors clear or we won't be able to proceed.” I sit on the top deck and wonder. All seats are taken but there's no one in the aisle. It is not nearly as crowded as it seems from the announcement. Another stop, another delay: “Please keep the doors clear.”

I've been on the train for a good forty minutes already, roughly following the Elbe upriver. From my parents' town it is twenty kilometers to Dresden and another forty to Königstein where I'm headed. Where, in fact, nearly everyone in the train is headed. I'm leaning back, trying not to think about what I'm about to take on, what's about to hit me. I withdraw to my music but the announcement makes it through “We won't be able to proceed.”

I am not alone and I can't deny that a thousand other idiots have the same destination. It is the last Sunday in April, the date, traditionally now already, that the Oberelbe-Marathon is held. This year, yet again, more runners have registered than ever before. A good 1300 are on their way to the start. I am one of them.

It's my second time. Last year, I ran my first marathon here, with legs that were already hurting before I crossed the start line. I had old shoes and undiagnosed shin splints. After a swift first half, the pain in my legs became excruciating, overpowering all other feelings and sensations. There was no exhaustion in my legs and no thought of giving up in my head. The pain wouldn't allow it. I kept all my mental energy focused on my legs to keep them from exploding. After a bit more than three hours, I crossed the finish line, but the suffering was far from over. I could hardly walk for the next week and didn't run for another two months.

At the beginning of this year, I eased back into running, encouraged by a swelling belly and supportive stockings that my mom had found somewhere and given me. My legs were pain-free and my spirits high. Fifteen minutes before the deadline, I registered for the marathon for a second time. Now I am sitting in a train that makes its way to the start only hesitantly. People blocking the doors at every stop and always the same announcement.

Suddenly, a surprised murmur sweeps through the train. What did the guy say? We look at each other, puzzled glances are exchanged, but everyone has understood correctly. “Because of a passenger incident, this train will terminate at Rathen.” The information screen in the car confirms what most know and I feared. Rathen is one stop from our destination, and it's in the middle of nowhere. It's a stunningly beautiful place in a National Park, by the river that the race will follow but far from any sort of alternative transportation. Even big roads are distant.

The feeling of consternation is palpable. Besides the odd hiker and a fair number of supportive family members looking forward to cheering their heroes on from the steamboat on the river, every single person on the train has worked hard for this day. Countless hours of sweat, hundreds of kilometers on lonely paths, frequently with pumping music as the only companion. They have followed a training regimen to have their form peak on this day because they want to do good in a marathon, no matter how much suffering this will entail. Now it seems as if the railroad is letting us down. “There will be shuttle buses”, another announcement promises, but warns that “because of the short notice there might not be enough.” It is Sunday morning. Where will the drivers come from?

The train was scheduled to arrive in Königstein at 8:40, forty minutes before the start and with plenty of time for everyone to take a leak, drop personal items in the truck that will carry them to the finish, and warm up. Now, the clock has just reached 9, and we are still on the tracks. Nervousness is spreading. Ripples of despair bounce through the aisles. People's jokes can't hide their worries. “We could just start in Rathen, would save us 6k.” What they really want is simply run the race, the full distance, as planned. Suddenly the train jerks back into motion and slowly makes its way into the next station. “The buses will pick passengers up on the main parking lot in town. It's a ten minute walk.”

With this last announcement, the first race is on. Most of the runners, myself included, had long turned the brains off – or maybe never turned them on in the first place this morning. In a marathon, too much thinking is dangerous. Your brain might argue what nonsense it is you are engaged in and convince you to bail. There is nothing rational in a marathon and rational thought has no place in it. With brain activity suspended, more than a thousand runners are now descending on this quiet town's parking lot like a human avalanche, but no bus is to be seen.

I am worried like everyone else and imagine having come out for nothing, missing a race because of a silly incident with the train. That's when I run into a race official who, like a lighthouse in a raging sea, just stands there offering guidance. "The race will take place", she says, "and everyone would be in it." The start will be delayed until everyone has made his way to Königstein. No worries at all.

Not everyone hears her or heeds her words. The first three buses are besieged like food aid trucks in the Congo. It is utter madness, fists of desperation banging against glass doors, hapless bodies squashes tight against warm metal – and all for nothing, as we find out a little while later. When I finally get on a bus, the forth of fifth one it was, the railroad is back to normal again and a bright red train pulls out of the station, six minutes of journey ahead of it compared to our twenty, just when we are leaving the parking lot.

---

The chaos at the beginning, owing to a suicide on the tracks, could have completely ruined the day. Instead, the railroad and the organizers showed amazing flexibility and pulled everything straight in no time. The race continued like this, flawlessly organized and in perfect conditions. Too bad my legs couldn't compete. There might have been no pain, but there wasn't any power either. After 25 km, I felt like collapsing and when I saw my mom and sister standing at the side, I did. I took a five-minute break, drinking, eating and being miserable. As I hadn't turned my brain on in the morning, I didn't think of giving up. When enough racers had passed me, I got back up and tackled the last 8 km. After 3:15, I finally crossed the finish line, exhausted, frustrated and certain I wouldn't do such a foolish thing again. We'll see.