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April 27, 2012

Jerusalem’s marathon

Despite the weather, Vancouverite finishes run.
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, here, he writes about the marathon in Jerusalem. In a future issue, he will write about the March 30 marathon in Tel Aviv.

As always, my lead up to the Jerusalem Marathon on March 16 – 42.2 kilometres of twists and turns, hills and valleys – started with my obsessive scrutiny of the weather forecasts. They ranged from truly terrible to absolutely terrible.

The night before the event, I went through my pre-race ritual of laying all my clothing options on our living room couch, which included the rain-resistant black Nike tights and Segoi rain jacket I had worn during the Tiberias Marathon. I then prepared two large garbage bags for additional protection, cutting out holes for my head and arms in the first bag, and a single large hole for my waist in the second, to be worn as a skirt.

Marathon morning, I crawled out of bed at 5:30 a.m., an hour and a half ahead of the 7 a.m. zee’nuk (starting gun). The ground outside was wet, but the rain had stopped. Feeling bold, I discarded my regular rain gear, but grabbed an additional garbage bag and cut out just a head hole, so my arms would be covered.

As I walked through the neighborhood of Katamon, along Kovshai Katamon Street, I saw that the cross streets were blocked with metal barriers to keep vehicle traffic off the course. Sleepy-eyed marathon security guards looked indifferently past me, as though a person dressed in garbage bags with white compression knee socks was as common as the men hurrying off to morning prayers with their tallit and tefillin bags tucked under their arms.

The rain began as I neared the starting area, first in isolated large drops and then, in short order, in a torrent. The giant Israeli flag over the Knesset whipped in the icy wind. The 1,000-plus runners milled about on Derech Ruppin in front of the kav hazee’nuk (starting line) trying to stay warm – stamping feet, jumping on the stop. The 30 elite African runners ran in tight circles wrapped in shiny gold space blankets. I sidled up to a marathon security guard who was inhaling deeply on her cigarette while standing under the narrow cover of the starting gate. Somehow breathing in the smoke made me feel a little warmer. When my guard wandered off, I eased under the umbrella of a spectator.

With minutes to go before the zee’nuk, runners stripped off extra layers of clothing, the Africans threw off their space blankets. Snagging one, I wrapped myself in it for a moment of warmth.

Jerusalem Mayor Nir Barkat fired the starting gun. As I passed the starting gate, I let the golden blanket fall away. It felt great to be running. In my town. On my streets. Streets that I had come to know intimately from many early mornings running in the darkness while the city slept.

As we headed west towards the Givat Ram campus of the Hebrew University, I ripped away my garbage-bag skirt. We circled the campus and, within minutes, had gone up and down more hills than in the entire Tiberias Marathon. Again, men outnumbered women by about a 10 to one margin, but, Jerusalem being Jerusalem, a religious woman – kerchiefed and wearing loose black sweat pants under a long black skirt – ran in front of me for the first quarter of the race.

The course climbed Tchernichowsky Street, back to Katamon and past the President’s Official Residence. The sidewalk in front of the residence was patrolled by black-clad guards in sunglasses, with automatic weapons and stony faces. By now, the rain had largely subsided, though skies remained grey. A runner called out to the guards, “Ha’eem Motti po?” (“Is Motti here?”) The guards pointed to a nearby security booth. The runner and a silhouette seated behind tinted bulletproof glass – apparently Motti – exchanged waves.

I pulled off my sleeveless garbage bag and continued up towards the centre of town. The rain started again, this time combined with a headwind that drove the cold rain into my face and my now-bare arms. I turned right onto Jaffa Street, along the tracks of the new light rail train.

As the walls of the Old City came into view, so too did a wave of African runners returning from Givat Tsorfateet (French Hill). As I let gravity pull me down the steep incline of Tsanchanim (Paratroopers) Street towards Damascus Gate, the Africans zoomed back up towards me, apparently unaffected by gravity. I then turned left onto the Kav Hatefer (the Seam Line) cutting diagonally across the city between the Jewish neighborhoods of Musrarra and Me’ah She’arim to the left, and the Arab neighborhoods of Wadi al-Joz and Sheikh Jarrah to the right. The Kav Hatefer is the former armistice line that existed from 1948 to the 1967 Six Day War, dividing Israeli Jerusalem and Jordanian-occupied Jerusalem. On Marathon Friday, the Kav Hatefer was lined with groups of soldiers from the Border Police, including many Ethiopian Israelis, who are heavily represented in the force.

Bar Lev Boulevard, along the Kav Hatefer, is now Jerusalem’s central artery, and constitutes the longest sustained hill of the marathon, rising steadily for more than two kilometres. Well familiar with Bar Lev as part of my routine training run, my body churned upwards on autopilot. At the top, the marathon turned right into Givat Tsorfateet and then right again, heading south to the main campus of the Hebrew University on Har Hatsofim (Mount Scopus). I heard a shout from among the marathoners who were doubling back – “Frrrrrrrrrreddy!” I looked over my shoulder to see my downstairs neighbor and friend, Yaacov, as he sped off, 25 minutes in front of me. I waved, wondering how Yaacov managed to get so far ahead.

Circling around Hebrew U on the east side, we crossed over the highest ridge of Jerusalem, and descended into the upper fringe of the Judean desert. The rain stopped, the wind died and the temperature rose. I happily figured the weather had taken a turn for the better, but, as I rounded the corner back to the west side of Har Hatsofim, a cold blast of wind and rain almost stopped me in my tracks. Turns out that the wind and rain had never stopped – they had simply stayed on the windward side of the hill, waiting for me to round the corner.

Just in front of me, a blind marathoner and his escort ran side by side, tethered at the wrists. I pulled up beside them, synchronized my pace, and asked if they had a code for the steepness of hills. “Sure,” smiled the escort, an Israeli airforce pilot. “Zero is flat and five is hell.” The Kovshai Katamon hill in my neighborhood, he agreed, topped the list.

Turning back down Bar Lev and the Kav Hatefer, I crossed the halfway point of the marathon as the winners were crossing the kav hasee’um (finish line) in Gan (Park) Sacker. David Toniok of Kenya crossed first at 2:19:52, followed by Gudeta Biratu (Ethiopia) at 2:22:42 and John Mutai (Kenya) at 2:23:31. The female winner was Mihiret Antios of Ethiopia, who finished at 2:48:38. Next year, I’ll have to spend a little more time on speed training.

The marathon entered the Old City through Jaffa Gate. The shop merchants and the soldiers casually lolling about seemed indifferent to our presence. The course continued through the Armenian Quarter and then out through Zion Gate. I started to look forward to a return to the ’hood and meeting up with my wife, Aimee, and our two boys, Ezra and Adin.

With the sun now breaking through cracks in the clouds as I ran back up to Katamon, I pulled off my third and final garbage bag. Running alongside the Jerusalem Theatre, I saw the boys and Aimee, standing on the corner as pre-arranged. They ran towards me, and then alongside me, to Emek Refaim Street, slowing down to “keep up” with my pace. For the moment, the weather was perfect, and smiling marathon fans emerged from the side streets, fashionable shops and restaurants. After running with me for two kilometres, Aimee and the boys pulled over with a promise to meet up again on Tchernichowsky to run the final two kilometres together.

I zigged onto the bike path along Derech Harakevit (Railroad Way) then zagged onto Derech Hevron (Hebron Way), the eight-lane artery linking Jerusalem to Hebron to the south. Here, I encountered my second cheering section – Adin’s dreadlocked rock-star violin teacher Michael Greilsammer and his wife, Shimreet. Though eight months pregnant, Shimreet was leaping up and down and shouting my name, while Michael photographed us on his iPhone. With four kilometres to go, this gave me the huge lift I needed as I approached Jerusalem’s Heartbreak Hill, the Code 5 Hell of Kovshai Katamon Street.

At the base of the marathon’s final major hill, I glanced to my right at our apartment complex, and imagined myself soaking in a hot shower. Up the hill, I saw other marathoners walking. I willed myself to keep running, grinding my way up at a pace barely faster than walking.

Turning left onto Palmach Street, my body adjusted happily to the flat road, though my pace picked up only slightly. Down Tchernichowsky Street, I saw my other cheering section. Aimee said they’d been waiting in the rain, wind and hail for about almost an hour. All looked to be showing early signs of hypothermia. Ezra, hatless as always, was wet and shivering. Adin, his head under the hood of his red Spiderman jacket, was stiff with cold. The boys, having to make an effort to slow to my pace, wondered aloud how someone could possibly run so slowly.

At the entrance to Gan Sacker, 200 metres from the kav hasee’um, soldiers with M16 automatic rifles were stopping all non-participants from entering the park. The soldier who stopped Aimee was very apologetic, but stood his ground. I grabbed the boys’ hands, said, “Hem eetee, they’re with me,” and kept running. The soldier clearly didn’t have the heart to chase down two boys holding hands with their dad.

As we entered the park, the sun broke through. The giant digital clock by the finish showed 4:40, my slowest time ever. The three of us crossed the line together. A teenage volunteer – apparently assuming we’d all just completed the full 42.2 kilometres – placed medals around the necks of Adin and Ezra too. The boys, Cheshire Cat smiles on their faces, were not about tell her otherwise. 

The lawn of Gan Sacker had turned to sludge, sucking our shoes into the mud. I wrapped myself in a golden space blanket and entered the food tent, where Aimee joined us. I also met up with Yaacov, who finished with a fantastic time of 3:54, and was beaming. He couldn’t help but look surprised when I told him I had just arrived, but quickly caught himself and congratulated me on my successful race.

As we walked home, clouds swallowed the sun once and for all. Back at our apartment building, our next-door neighbor Dani, a chain-smoking pediatric surgeon, sat outside, puffing away. As I shuffled by him – pale, drained, shivering, clutching the blanket tightly to me – Danny motioned with his cigarette. “I am sure that smoking is healthier than marathon running,” he averred. With the way I looked and felt, and with the Tel Aviv Marathon two weeks away, I thought he might be right.

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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