Act II, Scene 26.2: That Damn Point Two

The way the course map was drawn, it looked like the finish line was only a few short blocks after the final turn.  I was pretty familiar with this neighborhood.  We ran these very streets when we trained for our first marathon 11 years ago.  I didn’t think the distance was as short as the map made it seem, but I ignored those doubts and approached the corner completely certain that I’d see the bright arch of the finish line right in front of me.

I was jogging as fast as I could, around 9-minute miles according to my unreliable watch.  I promised I would not walk once I made the turn.  It was only two short blocks, I told myself.

As I negotiated the turn, excited and happy for the first time in months, I looked up from the road and saw…more road.  What the hell?  Where was the finish line?  I thought I was almost done?

There were a lot of spectators cheering and holding signs behind temporary barricades.  A few people yelled, “Almost there!”  I had been hearing that since mile 20.  There is no more subjective term to a marathoner than “almost”.  After 4 hours in 80 degree heat, telling me I was “almost there” when all the visual evidence was to the contrary seemed extraordinarily cruel.

I scoured the crowd to see if I could find A.  Was he going to run the final two tenths with me and cross the finish line again?  I couldn’t fathom running one more inch once I was finished and I wondered if he was as in bad a shape as I was.

Slowly there emerged small indications that I was getting closer.  A few race volunteers were on the course holding signs that read, “Bandits cannot cross the finish line” and “Bandits, leave the course now!”  In my delirium, I wondered why outlaw cowboys would be running a marathon before I realized they were referring to unregistered runners.  I remember thinking that the end of a marathon really wasn’t the best place for euphemism.

Some of my compatriots seemed to have the same idea to run uninterrupted to the finish after the turn.  Many became equally disillusioned and stopped once they realized it was further than advertised.  I honestly cannot remember if I ended up walking at some point.  I want to say that I was on the verge of giving up right at the moment when the finish line finally materialized before me.  I’m not sure if that’s how it really went down, but it makes for a nice story so I’m sticking to it.

With the end in sight, I noticed others around me starting to shift into high gear.  I, too, tried to put a spring in my step, but no matter how hard I kicked, my step had no spring left.  It felt like I was running through molasses.

The arch was growing and the music was getting louder, but the crowd had disappeared.  Extra security measures kept spectators from the finish area to guard against any unsavory activity, but it made the finish line feel strangely desolate, like a banging party nobody showed up for.

I tried to hear if the announcer said my name as I crossed the finish.  He didn’t.  As I ran under the orange inflatable arch, even though I was 23 minutes slower than intended, I raised my arms in victory, if only for the photo op.  I might have been bitterly disappointed, but at least the historical evidence would show me victorious.

Once through, I immediately started walking.  That’s when I saw the timing mat still a few feet ahead.  Panicked that I quit too soon, I made one last pathetic lunge for those precious little milliseconds, but it didn’t really matter.  My race was done.

Act II, Scene 17-26: Too Hot To Trot

I developed a run/walk strategy that mainly revolved around how to spend the most time in the shade.  I ran from tree to tree, building to building, walking anytime I was out of the sun.

I also decided to walk the entire length of the water stations since I find it difficult to swallow and run simultaneously.  I’d take a cup from the first volunteer, sip half, then throw the rest on my head.  This process would take me to the end of the station, where’d I’d take another cup from the last volunteer and do it all again.

I quickly learned that my headphones were not waterproof.  Luckily it was only the left side that shorted out, and often it would dry and start working again before the next drenching.

With all the walking I was doing, I had a lot more time to take in my surroundings.  The long stretch on Santa Monica in Century City was particularly dead.  The layout of the road was not very spectator-friendly, and there was very little and shade.  Looking straight ahead, all you could see was a mass of people walking up one rolling cement hill after the other.

Century City aside, there were a lot of people cheering along the course, remarkable considering how very hot it was.  Even more remarkable was how a lot of them, completely unaffiliated with the race, came armed with food for the runners simply because they were awesome.  Someone gave me a half a banana.  I had countless orange slices from people on the side of the road.  I almost grabbed a stick a woman was holding out, hoping it was a popsicle, before she told me it was Vaseline.

During one particularly hot stretch, a random little girl handed me a cup of water that turned out to have an ice cube in it.  I almost cried.

I’m not quite sure where I was, but I came upon a group of Port-A-Potties.  I didn’t really need to use it, but one was unoccupied so headed on in.  Maybe because it just looked so nice and shady.  Yes, it was that hot that I sat in a poorly-ventilated, plastic outhouse just for a few minutes’ shade.

In the VA hospital around mile 20, someone held a sign that read “Near Beer” which was shortly followed by people holding cups of what smelled like actual beer.  I couldn’t tell if the sign was meant to tell me I was in close proximity to beer, or if they were serving Near Beer.  Had it been the latter, I might have partaken, but I couldn’t devote the few brain cells I had left to figuring it out before I had moved on.  I was running at this point, but that ended quickly as I approached the last major incline that many people had warned me about, exiting the grounds of the VA.

As I walked up that hill, I remember looking at my watch and thinking, if A makes his goal, he’ll be finishing right about now.  I hoped he made it.

The hill crested and the decline spit us out onto San Vicente, a stretch of road I had run a dozen times before.  I told myself that if I ran hard, I’d break 4 hours, but I simply didn’t have it in me.

The spectators were out in full force in Brentwood, leaning into the road, right on top of the runners.  Many called out to me by name, which was printed on my bib.  Every time I stopped to walk, someone would shout, “Come on, R!  You can do it!”  Sometimes I’d smile weakly back.  I appreciated the support, but my will was shattered.

About 2.5 miles from the finish, I looked down at my watch.  The screen read, “Resume time?"

Resume time?!!  Somehow my watch paused without me realizing it.  Just like my watch’s satellite connection, any hope of breaking 4 hours completely evaporated into the ether.  I thought I’d be close, but now I had no way of knowing.

I kept craning my neck for a view of the Pacific.  I knew once I saw water, I’d be close to the turn home.  Once I made that turn, I’d be mere moments away.  I just needed to get to the corner.

Act II, Scenes 7-16: I Walk Alone

After A took off, I felt myself slowing down.  I hadn’t realized that having to fight through all that traffic at the start would wear me down so early, and I had counted on the fact that I’d have A as a pace runner for longer than 6 miles.  I was still a few minutes ahead of my pace bracelet, but I was slowing a lot sooner than I had originally intended. 

I didn’t take my headphones out just yet.  I wanted to wait as long as I could so that music would be both a reward and an energy boost when I needed it.  Fortunately, tunes were already provided in the form of a squat, older gentleman shuffling next to me carrying a boom box blaring mariachi music.  I flanked him for about 2 miles, unable to pull away.  I wondered what was wrong with me.

We rounded the newly restored Echo Park Lake and headed north into Silverlake.  There was good crowd support here – who knew hipsters woke up so early?  The crowd was so thick that I vaguely remembered that A and I had lunch on this street a few weekends before, but I couldn’t find the restaurant because there were too many people in the way.

I noticed in particular how every water stop was extremely well-manned, not just in Silverlake but throughout the entire course.  Each station was a well-oiled machine, from the people who poured the beverages, to those who held out color-coded cups of water or Gatorade, to the sweepers who dodged in and out between runners to whisk away the trash we threw onto the ground.  And I noticed how the volunteers were as diverse as the city itself.  All ages and ethnicities were represented; the only common denominator was that every single person was smiling, encouraging, and enthusiastic.  Far and away, the best thing about the LA Marathon was the volunteer army.

I approached the turn west heading into Hollywood.  As we ran down the Walk of Fame, I missed seeing all the famous Hollywood landmarks advertised on the course map because I was too distracted by a strange, ugly haze.  The morning light had changed from gray to brown and I couldn’t figure why it was starting to feel so hot even though it was still overcast.  After seeing photos from this point in the race, I realized what I thought was cloud coverage was actually something else LA is famous for, though definitely not featured on the course map: air pollution.

We shimmied south off Hollywood Boulevard and onto the Sunset Strip.  The haze gave way to hot sun as I crossed the halfway point.  I was over 15 minutes slower than the half marathon I ran last year and only mere seconds ahead of my pace bracelet.  It wasn’t good.  It was time for reinforcements.  I pulled out my iPod and cranked it up.

I was entering West Hollywood, where a few people I knew might be on the sidelines.  I didn’t want the indignity of being seen walking, so I used that as motivation.  I encountered a friend cheering for me around mile 15.  I was happy to see her face, but didn’t stop lest I be tempted to ask for a ride to the finish line.  The thought had seriously crossed my mind.  If I wasn’t going to make my goal, what was the point of even finishing?  I turned my music up loader and headed toward Beverly Hills as David Byrne was sang, “Run, run, run…run, run, run away….”

The sun was beating down so brightly that the blacktop looked white.  I had slowed so significantly, I was hemorrhaging time.  After mile 16, now about a minute off pace, I realized trying to make my goal time was a lost cause.  As that reality sunk in, I started to walk.  I was immediately angry with myself, and after just a few steps, started to run again.  I tried to compel myself to push, but it didn’t last long, and a block later, I stopped…again.  I walked almost the entire length of Rodeo Drive as the well-dressed mannequins watched me in haughty disgust.

At first I spent a lot of time justifying my decision to stop running.  It was hot, it was too crowded at the beginning, it just “wasn’t my day”.  I always hated that saying, and I couldn’t believe I was using it now.  It wasn’t the day’s fault; it was my fault.  Was my strategy to blame?  Should I have finished that bagel?  Should I have worn that tech shirt after all?  Did I train hard enough?  I ran 21 miles in training, why am I failing here at 16?

At the next water stop, I poured a cup of water on my head.  It felt glorious dripping down my hair and neck.  With a cooler head, I realized that whether by running, walking, skipping, or jumping, my legs were the only thing that would deliver me to the finish line, and I still had a long way to go.

Act II, Scenes 1-6: Slow Going

It took almost 3 minutes for A and I to shuffle across the start line.  As we stepped underneath the bright orange arch, the shuffle became a trot, and after a few yards, the trot became a jog.  There were a number of pushy racers who elbowed their way ahead.  Many of them were men sprinting to an adjacent berm to water the weeds in full view of the thousands running by.

The current picked up speed thanks to a steep downhill getting out of Dodger Stadium.  A and I were trying to advance our position while keeping track of each other.  I could hear A yelling at me, “Don’t look back!  Stop looking back!” because I kept turning my head to make sure I didn’t lose him in the crowd.

We ran like this all through downtown, dodging people, looking for pathways through clustered bodies, running on and off sidewalks.  There was a steep uphill for around mile 5 that A strategically thought we could take advantage of.  It might not have been the smartest idea for people who didn’t  train hills, but we were able to pass a lot of people, many of whom were already walking.

We had picked up pace bracelets at the expo.  The bracelet I wore had printed the aggregate time needed per mile to finish at 3 hours and 35 minutes.  A was wearing one for a 3 hour and 25 minute finish.

My strategy for the race was to hang with A at his pace for at least 10 miles in order to bank some time that I could burn during the second half.  Many people had warned me in advance that this plan of action was fraught, but I hadn’t trained for and didn’t think I was capable of running negative splits.

Around the 6-mile mark, A looked down at his wrist and said he wasn’t going to make his goal.

Even though we were finally able to run the pace A needed, he was at such a deficit thanks to the logjam at the start that he knew he had to run under pace to make up all the time lost.  I knew I couldn’t and shouldn’t run any faster.  I had found all the dodging and weaving very taxing and there was still many slower runners ahead.  I could hear the frustration in A’s voice, and I told him to go ahead without me.

“Are you sure?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at me.

I told him to have a great race and I would see him at the finish.  He said goodbye and began to kick a little harder, pulling away into the crowd ahead.  The course made a sharp left off a freeway overpass.  I saw him running well after he made that turn, but a few minutes later I reached the corner myself and lost sight of him for good.  Now I was really on my own.

A Race in Three Acts: Act I

After nearly a week, I’m finally ready to write about my experience running the LA Marathon last Sunday.  Right off the bat, I must disclose that I did not come in under the time I was hoping for.  I didn’t even make my secondary goal, which was breaking the 4-hour mark; I missed that by 3 minutes.  But I’m happy to say I’ve processed my disappointment and have moved (or should I say hobbled?) on.  Therefore I will spare you the self-flagellation and commence in giving you my race report in three parts: the beginning, the middle, and the end.

In the beginning…

A and I had prepaid to park at the finish line and take a shuttle to the start.  There was a long line of cars to park and an even longer line of people to board the shuttles.  My anxiety and impatience kicked in immediately, but both lines moved pretty swiftly.  (A tip for future LA Marathoners: they ask you to pick a shuttle at half-hour increments, but you don’t need to abide by the time you signed up for since the shuttles run continuously and no one checks to make sure you’re boarding at your designated time.)

Since the daylight savings time change occurred mere hours before we boarded, it was still dark outside.  We took the freeway from Santa Monica to Dodger Stadium.  It was alarming how long the ride took going 60 miles per hour, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how much longer it will be at a tenth of that speed.

We were sitting next to a “legacy” runner, someone who’s run the LA Marathon every year since inception.  I’m not sure if it was because of his vaunted status or if he had a miracle race at his advanced age, but he was granted a place in Corral A, the fastest seeded corral, right behind the elite runners.  He told us he expected to finish in 5 and a half hours.

I felt a pit forming in my stomach, knowing we were at least ten thousand runners behind him thanks to the seeded corrals.

When we arrived at Dodger Stadium, A and I bee-lined to the portable toilets.  My ideal intake versus output ratio before a race can be summed up in this equation:

[Fluid ounces + (1.5 hours – X minutes in line)] x 2 = < 10 minutes till start time

As any good mathematician knows, X is always the variable.  In our first round of expulsion, X ended up being about 20 minutes.  We were in good shape.

Next, we hit up the gear check.  We had all our stuff in one of the clear plastic bags they provided at the expo.  As an added security measure after last year’s Boston marathon, you were required to use the bag the race provided.  Fortunately there were two of us running since one of the bags we got fell apart before we got home from the expo.

The gear check was a series of UPS trucks organized by badge number.  They were all manned by volunteers.  The confluence of famous brown trucks and large signage was easy to see and the denominations small enough that there was practically no wait.  It was a wonderful system. 

Since we were only using one bag, we checked it in under A’s number since, unless something went horribly awry, he would finish first.  We unzipped our hoodies and stuffed them into the bag.  I expected to be cold since the sun still hadn’t risen, but wasn’t.  This was a bad sign since if I wasn’t cold at 6 AM, I knew I would be hot by 7 AM.

After checking our gear, there was nothing to do but wait around.  Since we were in a ballpark, the best place to sit was the bleachers.  There were people milling all over the place and a commercial for Asics, the title sponsor, was on permanent loop on the big ballpark screen.  Tons of students wearing neon yellow vests teemed like ants everywhere I looked, with a large group of them taking up an entire bleacher section and reciting motivational cheers.  These were Students Run LA.

As the half hour mark approached, we decided to do one last pee.  The stadium restrooms were available to the runners, a nice perk over a smelly outhouse.  The line for the Men’s room was long.  The line for the Women’s was catastrophic.  It wrapped around almost to center field for a bathroom at home plate.  I saw my chance slipping away.  Then a woman came by and announced there were empty restrooms on the fourth floor.  A herd of us migrated to the stairwell.  They all darted up, but a security guard chased us down and said we weren’t allowed here.  Everyone ignored him but me.  I’d like to say that it was because of my respect for authority, but really I didn’t want to climb three flights of stairs before running 26.2 miles (little did I know I was already on the 2^nd floor).

Forced to the take the elevator, I waited for an eternity.  By the time I made it to the fourth floor, the secret was out and there was a small line, but including this line and the slow elevator, I still made out well.  X was about 25 minutes.

Confident with our empty bladders, A and I headed to the mess that was the start line just as the sun was rising.

We tried our best to follow the signs, but there were so many people in our way we couldn’t go far.  We found ourselves in a big traffic jam – trees who couldn’t see the forest.  Were we able to pan out, we’d realize we were outside the Open Corral, not even inside the chute.  People tried to push forward, but there was nowhere to go.  There was only a small opening to get into a small area already heaving with 21,000 other people.

The elite women took off 20 minutes before our start time.  People tried to surge ahead, little by little.  There were waves of movement as the countdown neared.  The mayor was talking as people shuffled forward.  Those in the corral started removing their excess sweatshirts and throwing them over the fence.  They landed on my head.  A and I held hands not to get separated.  Someone from American Idol sang the national anthem as patriots took off their hats in respect and traitors tried to take advantage and advance their positions.

The announcer started the countdown, “Five!  Four!  Three!  Two!  One!”

The horn blared, people cheered, and off we…walked. 

And Soon It Will Be Done

The marathon I’ve blogged incessantly about for months is finally this weekend.  Instead of feeling exciting, I find that I’m a strange combination of apprehensive and melancholy.

The apprehension I understand since nerves are normal before a race.  The melancholy is what is more surprising.  It’s not as if I relished the training.  I know I won’t miss running so much once the race is over.  Indeed, I’ve been saying for weeks how much I look forward to just being done.

I suspect my melancholy is born from the fact that I’m pretty convinced I will not make my goal.  I’m trying to justify the experience faced with anticipated disappointment.  I fear a mountain of regret, second guessing how I trained, lamenting my lack of mental fortitude.

I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to manage my expectations.  A few people have told me just to “have fun with it”, which is easy to say since most of them are much more accomplished runners than me.  Perhaps that is because they were able to follow their own advice.

I am trying to keep this whole thing in perspective.  Not accomplishing what I set out to do in this marathon is not a tragedy.  It will not portend failure for any future goals I have in life.  It does not impugn me as a person, no matter how much it feels like it would.  Life goes on.  It’s not as if world peace depends on me crossing the finish line at a certain time, which is a good thing since I could not fathom such pressure.

I reflect on the past four months and all the things that happened while we were training for this race.  I traveled through a super typhoon, logged countless miles on the treadmill, embraced a bedtime that most consider geriatric, said goodbye to a cheerleader and friend.  Four months is a long time to dedicate to anything, and now that the end is nigh, it feels like the end will be upon me too soon.  I probably won’t feel that way around mile 10, but it’s a nice reminder that the reward is the journey, not the destination.  I hope to carry that with me over all 26.2 miles.  If I can remember to do that, regardless of whether I make my goal or not, I know I will be able to have fun with it.