ALS robbed Craig Martinson of his goal of running 10 Grandma's Marathons in 10 years, but he still tries to live life to the fullest
Craig Martinson didn't reach his goal of running 10 Grandma's Marathons in 10 years because of ALS, but he still tries to live life to the fullest.
By Bruce Brothers
bbrothers@pioneerpress.com
Article Last Updated: 06/15/2008 12:15:48 AM CDT


Craig Martinson surfs off the coast of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, in January 2005, just a few months before he was diagnosed with ALS. (Photo courtesy of the Craig Martinson family)
This was the time of year Craig Martinson loved, the time of year he looked forward to another round of goose bumps at the Grandma's Marathon start line.

But Martinson won't be running on Saturday in Duluth. He can't. He can't even walk.

A former world-class mountain climber, accomplished distance runner, avid downhill skier and surfer, Martinson has been robbed of it all by a deadly disease: amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.

"I can stand," he says matter-of-factly, "but I can't walk anymore."

It's a monumental change for a former Twin Cities resident who ran Grandma's eight consecutive times and crammed enough living into his 53 years for two lifetimes.

"You'd be hard-pressed to find a soft-spoken guy from the Midwest who's done the things Craig has done," says friend Craig Wood of Minneapolis. "He does things to the fullest. He lived it to the fullest; he pushed it."

Less than 10 years after running a 100-mile race along the tortuous terrain of the Superior Hiking Trail and less than five years after finishing his last Grandma's Marathon, Martinson requires assistance just to shower and use the toilet. Because of ALS, he needs a powered wheelchair to get from his kitchen table to his bed.

Often referred to as Lou Gehrig's disease, ALS is a progressive neurodegenerative disease that affects nerve cells in the brain and the spinal cord.

It is incurable.

"There's nothing good to say about ALS," Martinson says. "It's all negative."

When

doctors told Martinson of his condition, he reacted like anyone: "A lot of crying."
His wife, Cindy, a former nurse from Minneapolis, knew the expected life span of an ALS patient is two to five years and contributed her tears to the mix.

"It's a bad disease," she says.

But her husband has given her strength.

"To my mind, he's doing an amazing job with this," she says. "I look at the position he's in, I think I'd be going out of my mind being in that chair."

Martinson, who gave up driving in May 2007 and started using a wheelchair all the time last August, has refused to allow ALS to dampen his trademark enthusiasm. He sold his plumbing business, and he and Cindy sold their two-story home in Plymouth last fall and moved to Phoenix, where a one-level house and warmer climate provide Martinson with the chance to do some daily stretching and light exercising in the backyard pool.

Despite his condition, his tears have dried and his positive outlook has returned.

"You can make what you want out of it," he says. "If you want to go downhill and hide and retreat and become depressed, you can, but I wasn't going to go that route."

ALS has handed Martinson a death sentence, but he's facing it the way he has faced everything in a life of athletic accomplishments: head on.

"I've always been a positive thinker, a can-do person; I've always looked forward to challenges," he explains. "I went out and did 'em, and with some degree of success.

"It's the same with ALS."

Martinson first noticed something wasn't right with his body after he finished Grandma's Marathon in Duluth in 2003. On later runs, his right foot sometimes came down crooked, and his stamina was not the same. It was bad enough to end his goal of running Grandma's 10 times in 10 years, but he tried.

"Grandma's was always a thrill," he says.

He purchased entry into the 2004 Grandma's and again in 2005 but didn't feel strong enough to take another run at the event where he produced his best marathon time of 3 hours, 53 minutes, 1 second in 1999.

Martinson took up running as a replacement for his first love: mountain climbing.

A native of Eau Claire, Wis., who grew up in Crystal and played soccer at Robbinsdale Cooper High School, Martinson's dream of mountain climbing started early. He was 7 years old when he saw a Life magazine cover photo of Sen. Robert F. Kennedy after Kennedy had climbed a mountain in Alaska. A light bulb went on inside Martinson's head that only grew stronger.

Martinson started climbing in Taylors Falls at age 17 and soon became one of the best in the United States, earning the nickname "El Tigre" for his practice of attacking rocks like a tiger. He landed a spot on a U.S. contingent sent to the Soviet Union during the height of the Cold War in 1976. He loved climbing, but the deaths of a dozen acquaintances on ascents prompted Martinson to give it up and settle down with Cindy to raise two kids.

Running became his new passion, along with studying Tibetan practices, skiing, gardening and leading trips for like-minded adventurers around the globe. He completed more than 25 marathons, three 50-milers and one 100-miler, especially relishing the longer runs on trails.

"I always liked the challenge," he says. "To me, it wasn't the competitiveness. After a while, I'd throw the watch away. I slowed down and enjoyed it."

When he no longer could run, he decided at age 50 to try surfing. In his typical fashion, Martinson jumped in full throttle, rounding up a group of very fit beginners from Minnesota and traveling to Spain's Canary Islands for instruction. That sparked surfing excursions to Brazil and Bali and Morocco, among other places.

Wood remembers Martinson calculating how to lead a 14-day surfing and downhill skiing expedition to Morocco with a one-day stop in Madrid, all for about $2,000 a person. The stop in Madrid was for its Mardi Gras, Wood recalls.

"He knows how to party, too," Wood says with a laugh.

Martinson has competed hard and played hard. At Grandma's, for example, he always arranged to have friends Pat and Mel Padden waiting for him with a margarita near the finish line. And after that international climbing trip in the Soviet Union in 1976, the seven-person group polished off more than a dozen bottles of "champagnski."

"Many good times," Martinson recalls with a laugh.

Wood got to know Martinson through adventure trips several years ago and quickly learned that his new friend has a lifestyle and a presence that immediately attracts laughter, admiration and friendship. The Dalai Lama personally blessed Martinson two summers ago for his volunteer plumbing work in Tibet.

"I think Craig has been a friend and kind of a hero, teacher and role model to hundreds of people," Wood says. "People kind of gravitate to him because he's a kind, honorable guy, not because he's an athletic champion."

That hasn't changed. A stream of friends has traveled to Phoenix to visit Martinson.

Sometimes, Martinson says, they're stunned by the changes they see in a buddy they knew as the picture of health, a guy always ready to strap on skis and zip down black-diamond slopes with a grin on his face.

Another change is the stress Martinson's situation places on his wife, he says appreciatively as the two prepare to celebrate their 30th wedding anniversary on June 24.

"You find yourself living moment to moment," Cindy says. "There's a lot of talk about living in the moment out there, but most of us don't do that. Here, we adapt to an increase in weakness, and within a week those adaptations have to be changed."

Cindy labels herself the realist in the family but understands that positive thinking seems to rise to the top when Craig is around.

"Both of us feel pretty fortunate to be able to do what we're doing, to have me taking care of him," she says. "It could be tons worse."

Craig, too, prefers to talk about the pluses.

"Lou Gehrig was 34 when he was diagnosed, and he died when he was 36," Martinson points out. "I've had more than 16 years more than him. And counting."

His spirituality — "I can't say I'm a Buddhist, but I have a Buddhist spirit" — helps him through the toughest times, just as it did when he was climbing a mountain or running 100 miles. He wonders aloud if there might be a cure for ALS "around the corner. But that's in somebody else's hands."

So, Martinson handles his deteriorating condition with the same dignity and humanity he brought to endeavors such as running and surfing.

"I look at the fact that I have more time, and that's a positive," he says. "I'm going to die young, but I haven't regretted anything in my life. I went out and did it. I've been blessed."

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