This past weekend I ran across the state of New Jersey with six of my friends -- some of whom I’ve known since first grade. Every summer since 2008, the Dale Marsh Memorial Runners have competed in the 91-mile River to Sea Relay. We run to honor our favorite elementary school teacher who died way too soon, and we run for each other.
A sacred bond to the New Jersey shore
Every summer a group of friends run across the state of New Jersey from the Delaware River to the Atlantic Ocean -- for each other and for the memory of one who can’t be there.
The race starts from the bridge in Milford over the Delaware River that connects Pennsylvania to Jersey and cuts across the state until we hit the beach in Manasquan. We all get two legs of varying length and difficulty. Some of the stages are 4-6 miles across relatively flat terrain. Others, like the fabled Beast, are straight uphill meat grinders.
We’ll spend almost 10 hours running an endless series of hills along two-lane highways in the foot-long shoulder by the side of the road against traffic. Afterward we’ll relive every stage over beers at Leggett’s and make plans to do it again next year.
Four of us -- Brian, Dom, Jeff and myself -- have run every year we’ve had a team. Andy, our invaluable driver, timekeeper and emergency fill-in, had to take the year off, but he texted throughout the day for updates. We’ve all been friends since childhood and this is better than any reunion.
We'll spend almost 10 hours running an endless series of hills along two-lane highways in the foot-long shoulder by the side of the road against traffic.
Brian is our best runner. In college, he had two toes cut off on his left foot because of cancer. Somehow that didn’t affect his stride. He ran the Boston Marathon in 2 hours, 32 minutes during a nor’easter and regularly churns out 5:30 miles. Dom is our rock and a brilliant runner in his own right. We give him heavy mileage year after year and he does it without complaint at a ridiculous pace. Jeff is our conscience and de facto captain. He has one speed -- all-out -- and signs off on emails by telling us he’s ready to leave every ounce of his soul out on the course, which he does annually.
Tim, another old friend who does triathlons, joined up last year along with Gary, a 5:40 miler. Gary knows everyone in the local running community and recruited Bob, who was making his debut. Bob replaced Henry, who has run with us the last three years but had to sit out with an injury. Henry volunteered to drive because once you do something like this, it gets hard to stay home.
There were 119 teams competing with starts staggered by 5K times, so slower teams started as early as 6 in the morning. We went off at 9:10 a.m., along with the teams packed with college runners. One of them sized me up at the starting line and asked, “Aren’t you a little old to be starting this late?”
Well, yeah.
All of our runners are over 35, which lets us compete in the Masters Division. We’ve finished with the fastest time the last two years, but the race organizers only count first to the beach as the winners. Doesn’t matter to us. We were going for a three-peat and you can’t tell us otherwise.
Dom Grillo running the Beast (Bob Skorupski in background)
The logistics and weather are essential components of the race. The R2C takes place on the first Saturday in August and most of the course is open and exposed to the elements. We’ve had runners make their way through epic summer storms hurtling fallen trees and downed power lines, and more than a few collapse from heat exhaustion.
One year, Brian decided on his own to pull one of our guys out who was struggling in late afternoon 90-degree heat. It was a risky plan. Brian had already done the hardest 8 miles on the course and now he was adding 10 more on top of it. The last part of his run was through woods with no way for us to provide support, so he was on his own.
To do it for ourselves was validation. To do it for our friends was to hold up our end of a sacred bargain.
When he finally came into view, he looked wrung out and desperate. He could barely speak, except to ask for water and salt tablets. We limped back to the car, his arm on my shoulder to steady his halting steps. It was both devastating and inspiring to see him in this state. He still ran 6-minute miles.
We all would have done the same. Not as fast, or even as valiantly as Brian did, but all of us have been tested physically and mentally during this race, and we would all step in for our teammates without thinking twice about the consequences.
The weather was more favorable this year. Temperatures stayed in the 70s with overcast skies and high humidity making for ideal conditions, but we all needed to pick up our pace. Brian’s hamstring was bothering him and he reluctantly agreed to cut back on his mileage, which meant churning out 15 miles in less than 90 minutes. He apologized repeatedly for his performance, which was both endearing and obviously unnecessary.
Dom expertly handled the Beast and knocked out a strong 6-miler on his second leg. Jeff tore through a 22-minute 4-miler and picked up Brian’s long second leg, holding off a charging opponent about half his age. Tim asked for more mileage and delivered a solid 8 on the front side, while Bob cranked out 14 steady miles over two stages. Gary gave us a 10K in 35 minutes and I managed a personal record on my first leg.
For the second half, Gary and I teamed up for the wild card, a 13.9-mile stretch of hills and turns where we would tag in and out. The plan was to alternate miles. We would run like hell, hop in the car and get out and do it again six or seven times each. Those plans blew up as I tagged in for my second stint where we approached a notorious traffic intersection. Car after car was backed up at a light -- I stopped counting at 30 -- and I settled in for what I knew would be a lot longer than 1 mile.
One mile became 2 miles and there was still no sight of them. It was just me, the road and a hill that seemed to go on forever. I kept running. This was the moment I had prepared for all year. After last year’s race I made a decision to train seriously. Fifteen-mile weeks became 25s and 30s. I ran 5Ks, 10Ks and a half marathon. That was for pride. This was for my friends.
The hill was finally cresting and our support car sped past and pulled over. Gary sprinted across two lanes of traffic and mercifully tagged me out. In another mile, I’d be out there again and two more times after that, but the hard part was over. That was my race.
Everyone had a moment like this during the day. All of our training, PR goals and road races during the year led up to those individual moments. To do it for ourselves was validation. To do it for our friends was to hold up our end of a sacred bargain. This was why we were here and why we’ll be out here the next year and the year after that.
When Tim hit the tape at the beach, we finished in 9 hours and 29 minutes. The day had turned unseasonably cool, so we didn’t hang around long after dropping off our time sheet. We were at Leggett’s ordering our first round when Gary got a text from a friend at the beach telling us we had won, although what we had won was unclear: Best time? Fastest to the beach? None of us knew for sure and none of it mattered anyway. What we did would sustain us for another year.
“I don’t know where I’ll be next week,” Brian said by way of a toast. “But I know where I’ll be on the first Saturday in August.”
Top (L-R): Henry Abbott, Gary Rosenberg, Bob Skorupski; Bottom (L-R): Tim Arnold, Brian Harris, Dom Grillo, Paul Flannery, Jeff Shanklin
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