De rennende Hollander



The Dutchare definitely not known for overt patriotism. But this surprised even me, a non-patriotic Dutchman. There we were, fellow Flyer Noel and I, freezing and ready in the gorgeously renovated Olympic Stadium in Amsterdam. What we heard was not the national anthem, but the Vangelis song from Chariots of Fire, the ultimate running movie. Then again, a reminder of the film seemed to suit the venue where the 1928 Olympics were held.

And the music did fire up the crowd. Off we went on the track, then into the city streets. These tend to be narrow and tricky, with tram rails and masses of runners looking for their pace.

Diederik "D.J." V.H., running his homeland marathon

I didn't find mine until the 4K point, losing time and energy passing and weaving. I had started too far back in the crowded field; a rookie mistake from a non-rookie. Maybe I had fallen for the organizer's conceit. On the website they had suggested that our chips would not correctly read the starting time if we didn't line up in the appointed corral. Nonsense, of course: there was one starting line, one place to read the starting time, regardless of corral.

This was my first marathon outside the United States. My first race in Holland since 1993. The first time running with my family and friends along the course. It added some new nervousness, more so since my book on running and life in New York had just come out. I had spent two days on my feet, selling and talking about the book at the expo, and skipping a few meals. Sleep was a rare commodity - all in all not the best way to prep for a marathon, perhaps.

Also, I was trying to run a 4:20 pace, which sounds a bit fast to a runner used to miles. In truth, it's just confusing. But there were only kilometer signs to go by.



Crowd support, always appreciated!

Being spoiled by the support in American cities it's hard to run a mostly quiet course, mostly devoid of spectators. Nice scenery is, well, nice. But after the midway point, and especially around 32K, it really didn't register. Screaming masses carried me through New Yorkand Boston. Here, the folks who did show up mostly stared quietly, like visitors of a zoo pondering the fate of the apes rushing past. They were possibly wondering why we were putting ourselves through this, while they had to endure street closings. It's a valid question --why do we run 42K-- but after 2 hours I really wasn't up for a Great Debate on running.

Thankfully, my large family is not reserved, not 'cool', not afraid to act wildly crazy - in that sense, they're not truly Dutch, I suppose. At three different points my parents, sisters, brother-in-law, nieces and nephews screamed, cheered, high-fived, ran with me, handed me gels, took photos and told me to hurry up. And so I tried.



Lead men, and Flyer nephews looking on.



The course was flat, but some tricky bridges and gradual uphills got me in the end. The struggle in the final 3K through the lovely Vondelpark was brutal. I was glad, though, to realize in that moment that I now know the marathon. I was once intimidated by this distance, an unpredictable beast I could not tame or truly understand. The final miles had previously felt like defeat. This time I knew what would happen at 40K. I knew how I would feel, and that I would make it through.

Words from fellow Flyers echoed through my mind. "Remember", Eddie had written the day before, "everyone hurts in the last 10k - you just have to fight through it." "Take the first half strong," said Gordon, "and the second half even stronger."



Sharing a finisher's medal.

I picked up my feet and the pace when we approached the Olympic Stadium. The announcer called out my name, and my family in the stands gave it their all with cheers and whoops. I squeezed out something resembling a sprint on the track. Having finished, a wave of emotion came over me. It happened in Boston too: a short rush of tears, probably stemming from a combination of the cumulative pain, the end of pain, the medal around my neck and the achievement in the ongoing struggle with my former self.

The net result was an 8-minute, 3:03 PR in my home country. All that was missing was the national anthem. -DJvH

Blogmaster's note: DJ ia a Flyer, author and blogger. If you enjoyed reading his post, there's more of him to be found on his blog, The Running Dutchman. If you read Dutch, check out his new book!