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.