Third marathon complete!

FRED TISCHLER

In this short series, Fred Tischler, who is living in Israel for the year with his family, writes about his experiences running all of Israel’s full marathons in one year - in under three months, to be exact. In the March 23 Independent, he wrote about the Tiberias Marathon, which took place in January, and, in the April 27 issue, he wrote about the March 16 marathon in Jerusalem. Here, he writes about the March 30 marathon in Tel Aviv.

After shuffling home from the Jerusalem Marathon, I stood in the shower for longer than Israel’s water shortage could ever justify and let the hot water massage away the heavy stiffness in all my muscles. Following previous marathons, my body and brain had instantly forgotten how hard the run was the moment I crossed the kav hasee’um (the finish line). Jerusalem was different. It took several hours before my internal auto-delete program wiped away the painful memories, leaving only the highs of running 42.2 kilometres along the byways of my new hometown.

By evening, my mind started reviewing the detailed schedule of gentle workouts provided by my running guru, Jerry Ziak of Vancouver Forerunners, in preparation for the Tel Aviv Marathon a short 14 days later: walk-runs interspersing a few minutes walking with equal amounts of running, swimming, running in the pool (to avoid impact), massages, and lots of physical rest and sleep.

This all made perfect sense, except for the fact that two days after the Jerusalem Marathon, early on the Sunday morning, I was to start a week at the Tel Burna archeological excavations, located halfway between Jerusalem and Ashdod. Instead of sleep, massages and easy work-outs, I spent the week after the Jerusalem Marathon rolling out of bed at 5 a.m., then digging and loading buckets of Iron Age (ninth- to seventh-century BCE) dirt. I interspersed walking and running into the process.

The morning of the marathon, I got a ride to Tel Aviv with my downstairs neighbor and friend Yaacov, who ran the full Jerusalem Marathon two weeks earlier but was now running only the half marathon in Tel Aviv. (The Hebrew word for wimp is ch’nun.) We set out at 5:30 a.m., which meant I would be cutting it close for my 6:45 a.m. start time.

The kav hazeenuk (the starting line) was along the southern waterfront, just north of Jaffa. As we entered the city from the south through the city’s industrial underbelly, we landed in gridlock together with the day’s 25,000 participants. Miraculously, Yaacov found a spot that others had concluded was too narrow for any car. After telling me to exit because there was no way I’d be able to get my door open after he parked, Yaacov somehow slid his car into the spot and then squeezed out through the crack between his car and the one pressed up against it. I quickly wolfed down my pre-marathon banana, wished Yaacov well, and joined the waves of runners heading towards the starting area.

With three minutes until the zeenuk, the giant starting gate on Hayarkon Street came into view. The closest I’ve ever cut it to the starting gun. With one minute to go, I sat on the curb and retied my shoes. I took a deep breath. I had made it. Three marathons. Three starting lines. Now I just had to make it to my third finishing line.

As appears to be the routine with Israeli marathons, Tel Aviv’s Mayor Ron Huldai welcomed the international runners in heavily accented English – Gooood Morrrrrrrrning, Tel Aviv! – then fired the starting gun. Run slow, run slow, I repeated to myself. I knew that running slowly was the only way my body would get me to the finish. Running north between rows of hotels and restaurants on Hayarkon, my legs felt as if they’d already run 10 kilometres, but I also felt a sense of anticipation as I embarked on a tour of a city that was largely a mystery to me.

The marathon turned inland, eastbound on Allenby Street. Still early, the many shops, cafés, pubs and restaurants of Allenby were hours away from springing back to life. At the intersection of Allenby and Rothschild Boulevard stands the landmark Lederberg House, completed in 1925, which is surfaced with ceramic murals, including one of Jerusalem with a quote from Jeremiah, verse 31:3: “Od evnach v’neevnet,” “Again I will rebuild you and you will be rebuilt.” The verse refers to both Jerusalem and the Jewish nation. After almost a year of personal renewal in Jerusalem, it definitely touched a nerve.

We turned onto Rothschild Boulevard, one of Tel Aviv’s most desirable and, therefore, expensive addresses. I could see why. Rothschild contains a promenade down the middle lined with almost-century-old trees, as well as benches, walking and cycling paths and old-time kiosks; essentially, a 10-block-long story-book park in the middle of the street. I pictured myself sipping café haffuch (a latte) and reading the Friday edition of Haaretz on a nearby bench.

There’s lots of history on Rothschild as well, including Independence Hall, in which modern Israel’s founders signed the Declaration of Independence on May 14, 1948, and the many Bauhaus buildings that led UNESCO to designate this segment of Tel Aviv a World Heritage Site.

As I approached the 10-kilometre mark, I pulled alongside a 70-plus-year-old runner wearing a Jerusalem Marathon shirt and struck up a conversation. Turns out my senior friend had also ran the full marathons in Jerusalem two weeks before and Tiberias in January. He was sweating profusely and seemed to be struggling, just a little. He tapped his right index finger on his temple and said, “Hakol b’rosh” (“It’s all in the head”). As the run progressed, I thought of my new-old friend often, then tapped my temple and repeated, “Hakol b’rosh.”

The route circled back to Allenby, where we encountered thousands of half-marathoners running towards us in a tsunami of orange Tel Aviv Marathon shirts. Included within the Jaffa-orange wave was Yaacov, who gave me the now-traditional wave and greeting.

Back on Hayarkon, the marathon proceeded north for a number of kilometres along “embassy row,” then veered left onto Rehov Namal Tel Aviv and through the recently restored old port area. Once the country’s biggest, Namal Tel Aviv is no longer a commercial port; its many warehouses are now filled with nightclubs, pricy boutiques and name-brand outlets whose marques bled together at the periphery of my vision. Kind of like a Robson Street on the Mediterranean.

Emerging from the port, we crossed the mouth of the Yarkon River for the first of four times. This first crossing was on a pedestrian bridge, which leads onto Hatayelet, the new walking/running/bike promenade that snakes through the undeveloped northern shoreline of Tel Aviv. One-third of the way into the marathon, and still early in the morning, there was no one here but us marathoners. The only sound was the patter of running shoes, and the occasional word exchanged between runners.

The middle third of the marathon took us up and then back down the Yarkon River. The 9 a.m. sun started beating down, and I eased over to whichever side of the path offered the most shade. The river runs through Park Hayarkon, so thankfully there was some shade for most of its length. At every water station – located at two-kilometre intervals – I made sure to down more water than I felt like drinking, and now started emptying out the remainder of every bottle onto my head. Every five kilometres, I sucked down a GU running gel for a hit of carbohydrates, electrolytes and sugar. Between the rising temperature and the crush of the sun, I felt queasier and queasier with each gel. I tapped my temple and repeated, “Hakol b’rosh.” For the umpteenth time, I tried to convince myself that, in Theodor Herzl’s parallel words, “Eem tirtzu, ayn zo agadah,” “If you will it, it is no dream.”

At the halfway mark, I felt like I’d already run the full marathon. But, having kept to a slow and steady cadence, my legs somehow kept moving. Perhaps because Tel Aviv, unlike Jerusalem two weeks earlier, is as flat as Richmond.

At this point, the elite runners were sprinting across the kav hasee’um. Kenyan runner Sammy Tu set a course record of 2:15:14, just ahead of countryman Chamba Henry Kipkirui, who crossed the finish line in 2:16:59. Ethiopian Ada Abda Tula, the fastest woman, finished at 2:38:27.

Meanwhile, I tried to distract myself by taking in the scenery through Park Hayarkon and its array of gardens, sporting facilities and outdoor performance venues. I crossed the river for the final time and headed south back into the heart of the city along Ibn Gabriol Street, all six of its lanes closed to traffic. Lined with expansive sidewalks and shaded cafés, the street itself – where we ran – is not shaded at all. I kept pace to the mantra in my head, “Hakol b’rosh, hakol b’rosh....” I had stopped tapping my temple to preserve upper body strength. I continued pouring water down my throat and onto my head, but could not force myself to suck down my last GU gel. The queasiness was now full-blown nausea.

Along Ibn Gabriol, I noticed a group of teenage Tel Avivians along the curb leaning towards me and squinting at my chest. They all broke into a chant of “Frrrrreddy, Frrrrreddy, Frrrrrreddy!” Turns out they had been trying to decipher the name printed in Hebrew on my running bib. I grinned as I continued south while the Frrrrrrrreddy Fan Club continued its chant.

Along Dizengoff Street, I tried to trick my mind and body into thinking they were on a sightseeing excursion, rather than 39 kilometres into a now-sizzling-hot marathon. It didn’t work. Back on Hayarkon, the image of the kav hasee’um pulled me forward. Knowing that my running escort – my wife Aimee and our boys Ezra and Adin – was somewhere up ahead also gave me a lift. Groups of runners, with finisher medals swinging from their necks, cheered me on as they walked up Hayarkon to their cars. With the gate over the kav hasee’um coming into view 500 metres ahead, Ezra and Adin spotted me. They ran up, each grabbed a hand and hauled me towards the finish. My eyes locked on the gate, I did not even notice the massive digital clock showing my time. Only later, when I checked online, did I find out that I had crossed the kav at 4:40:47. Amazingly, a mere 16 seconds off my Jerusalem Marathon time. I guess I’ll just have to get used to the fact that, in my golden years, I really have become a slow runner.

A volunteer at the finish handed me a marathon medal, which I immediately gave to Adin. We walked over to the fenced-off food area, where a second volunteer refused to let Aimee and the boys enter. The volunteer did, however, notice that I wasn’t wearing a medal and gave me another one, which I passed to Ezra. We circled around to the back of the food area, where there was an entrance manned by security guards. Adin, who has become a complete Israeli, said, “Hey, we can just walk in through here.” So, with Adin boldly leading the way, we walked in and helped ourselves to post-run treats.

With all three Israeli marathons now under my belt, we drove home to Jerusalem. That wasn’t so bad I thought to myself, having already started to forget the 126.6 punishing kilometres of Holy Land that I’d run over within two months and 18 days. No reason I couldn’t do the same in 2013. In fact, why not organize an Israel Marathon Mission from Vancouver to run in one of Israel’s marathons that year? Hmm. Now there’s an idea worth pursuing. So stay tuned! And remember ... “Hakol b’rosh.”

Vancouver native Fred Tischler is spending the year in Jerusalem with wife Aimee, sons Ezra and Adin, and Labradoodle Rosie. Ezra recently described the family experience to Aimee – “For you and Baba (Dad) this is like a big long road trip, but for me [and Adin], this is really hard work.” True to Ezra’s words, the boys are at the regular neighborhood school, while Fred and Aimee are upgrading their Hebrew, taking academic courses and pursuing various creative endeavors.

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