It’s 3:30 in the morning, and I’m applying Band-Aids to my nipples, which have been lightly coated in Vaseline—a necessity so they won’t chafe during the 26.2 miles ahead of me. It’s the morning of my first marathon, and my stomach is twisted in knots, not only from the anticipation but also from the copious amount of carbs and fluids I’ve been consuming the last 48 hours.
I’m thinking of Rob, my friend and avid runner who talked me into signing up for the Los Angeles Marathon last fall, despite the fact that, at the time, I had not run longer than 8 miles since high school. Starting at the home of the Dodgers and ending at the Santa Monica Pier, we were to endure the grueling-yet-scenic course together. Instead, on this far-too-early morning, he was in Costa Rica attending a wedding—and laughing sinisterly, I was sure of it.
I slip on my fancy sweat-wicking shirt, which fits a little tight around my middle-aged midsection. I had safety-pinned the shirt the night before with my official marathon bib and positioned it on a chair, along with my shorts and shoes so that my gear would be facing me upon my awakening at 3 a.m.—for inspiration. Along with the carb-loading, the Band-Aids and the Vaseline, that’s another tip I learned from author Hal Higdon, whose book “Marathon: The Ultimate Training Guide” is required reading for newbies.
According to Higdon, the long-distance event known as the marathon is named after the celebrated Athenian victory over Persian invaders near the Bay of Marathon in Greece in 490 B.C. The first marathon, at the 1896 Olympic games, commemorated the legendary feat of the Greek soldier Pheidippides (a designated “hemerodromo” or runner-messenger), who ran 25 miles from the battlefield to Athens with tidings of the victory. Pretty cool, I thought. Until I learned that Pheidippides died of exhaustion shortly after exulting, “Rejoice. We conquer!”
My friend Kathy arrives at 5:15 a.m. in the cab that will take us to Dodgers Stadium. It’s still pitch black outside when I inform her that because of a knee injury (Iliotibial Band Syndrome, or ITB, to be exact) I suffered in January, I couldn’t run for six weeks, so my farthest training distance has only been 13 miles. Higdon recommends that first-timers run at least 18 to 20 miles before the event; however, the recurring inflammation and pain on the outside of my left knee made it impossible to run. By mid-February, I was lightly jogging, but I had to slowly build my mileage back up before tapering off.
“Oh, you’ll be fine,” Kathy assures me, but I detect a tone of skepticism. I’m reminded of co-workers who stopped me in the hallway nearly every half hour in the weeks prior, asking, “Are you ready for the marathon?” But in my head, it always sounded more like, “You’re not ready for the marathon…are you?”
Our cab comes to a halt on the 110 freeway—it’s surreal seeing cars snaking around the entrance leading into Dodgers Stadium at 5:30 a.m. Not only am I concerned about making it in time for the 7:25 start time, but I also really have to pee. (You haven’t experienced true freedom until you’ve urinated on the side of a busy freeway overpass.) One after another on the gridlocked freeway, runners dressed in layers hastily exit their rides and trudge toward the stadium. We pay our driver and follow their lead.
Thousands of runners pour into the stadium like ants. Nearly everyone I see looks fitter than me and, therefore, far saner—that is, until we enter the front gates. Mixed in with the countless athletes who look they just sprinted off the cover of Runner’s World: a ’70s-era bloated Elvis in a sequined jumpsuit, a Boy George lookalike in hot-pink Nikes, Darth Vader in a black cape and running shorts, and Uncle Fester from the Addams Family, complete with a glowing light bulb in his mouth and the trusty Hand affixed atop his bald head. Is this a marathon or a variety show from hell? My only consolation is that I might be dreaming.
Creepy, kooky, spooky...altogether ooky: Uncle Fester needs a Hand in running the marathon.
I lose Kathy in the throngs of people. But after drinking all that water the last few days, I have far more important things on my mind—like finding a bathroom. Looking down over the front parking-lot area is an awesome sight: thousands of runners in line for what appears to be about 100 Port-A-Potties, reminiscent of the Memphis in May Music Festival or a Jimmy Buffett concert. I have to say, the wooded area surrounding the stadium is lovely this time of year.
With the start time approaching, I’m herded into the 5-hour pace group near the finish line. As long I stay with these runners and monitor my times at the mile markers, I should finish in around 5 hours—provided my knee and my heart hold up.
Shortly before the first group of elite runners takes off, the sky is littered with thousands of pieces of clothing as runners peel off their layers and toss them to the side, leaving their discarded garments behind for charity—a marathon tradition.
As Randy Newman’s “I Love L.A.” blares from speakers overhead, the herds make their way across the start line, activating the trackers attached to the back of our bibs. My wife, Hayley, will receive updates of my progress via text messages as I pass designated mile markers. She’s to meet me at the mile-13 marker on Sunset Blvd., which is about seven blocks from our home. If I’m in intense pain, the backup plan is for me to veer off the marathon route and go to our place. Although I’ve been self-deprecating about my chances of finishing, deep down, I really want this. When I told an acquaintance of my intentions to run the marathon months ago, he laughed, blurting out, “Like that’ll ever happen!” Heck, I need this.
I finish the rest of my soda (the sugar/caffeine rush provides a nice jolt before taking off, per Higdon’s book) and shuffle with the masses past the starting line. I’m off and running.
Mile 1: We’re barely out of the huge Dodgers parking lot when we complete mile 1. Hundreds of well-wishers line the streets holding handmade signs for their loved ones. I mutter, “Only 25 more to go.”
Mile 2: Lining the blocked-off streets are school kids and other volunteers offering us paper cups of water. I haven’t consumed fluids at such a rapid pace since abusing Chili’s happy hour back in college—I nearly choke as I attempt to maintain my pace as I drink on the run. I notice other runners discarding their crumpled-up cups on the street as volunteers sweep up behind us. For some reason, I enjoy throwing my trash on the ground in the presence of nearby police officers.
Sweet Jesus...I can see the finish line.
Mile 3: We pass Olvera Street, the home of a Mexican marketplace, with sombreros and brightly colored piñatas for sale, as the alluring smell of huevos rancheros fills the air. An R&B band, the first of several musical acts along the way, plays “Papa Was a Rollin’ Stone.”
Mile 5: I’m humbled by a runner in his mid-50s passing me. He’s lugging a giant wooden cross on his back with the words “Jesus Saves.” On a slight downhill, I feel the first tinge of pain in my knee—uh-oh. As I see the cross bobbing ahead in the increasing distance, I’m hoping for a little divine intervention.
Mile 8: The bloated Elvis from earlier zips past me…on roller skates. He’s carrying an old-school boom box playing the King’s version of “My Way.” Only in Hollywood. This is my cue to break out my iPod. I pull over to the side for some water and orange slices at a relief station. Never has an orange tasted so good.
Mile 10: The view of the famous HOLLYWOOD sign momentarily breaks up the monotony. Dueling high-school cheerleading squads scream encouragement as we pass. Thank God I have my earbuds in. I slap high-fives with volunteers who root us on. I need all the support I can get.
Mile 11.5: I begin to fear the unknown as I wonder what lies ahead past mile 13. My feet are now throbbing along with my knee. I’m in a bit of a daze when suddenly a girl from a crowd of onlookers runs out in front of me, urging me to “Pick it up!” It’s my friend Casey, whose enthusiasm is simultaneously both inspiring and annoying. Still, seeing a friendly face snaps me out of my malaise. Just one problem: I need a toilet…in the worst way.
Mile 12: The Port-A-Potties have long lines, so I keep running. Suddenly, I remember a public bathroom outside the Starbucks on my left…not a soul in sight. Wooo!
Mile 13: Along with our friend, Samantha, my wife has never looked more beautiful as she approaches with ibuprofen and water. I wash it down, along with an electrolyte gel, almonds and chocolate-covered espresso beans. “I feel great,” I lie. Hayley quickly kisses me on the cheek as I press on. She gives me a reluctant parting glance–like a mother dropping off her child at nursey school, as if to say, ”You’re sure you’re going to be all right?” I’m rather envious as I turn back and see Hayley heading toward our home. But I’m halfway to the finish.
Mile 16: As we pass older ladies gathering for brunch on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, the bewildered expressions on their faces seem to be saying, “To think—they paid to do this.” Unfortunately, no sign of Bobby Heenan or Nick Bockwinkel.
Mile 18: Total strangers on the sidelines, many of who are drinking beer or wine, read my name off my bib: “C’mon, Bowden! You can do it!” A far cry from the jeers and death threats I’m accustomed to by rasslin’ spectators. (If I were at the Mid-South Coliseum, I’d be bracing myself for people throwing their beers at me.) I appreciate the encouragement, but part of me is thinking, “Easy for you to f***in’ say.” I can barely hear the lookers-on anyway as the music in my headphones strangely echoes in my head, seemingly in rhythm with the sound of my beating heart—I think I’m becoming delirious.
Mile 20: As I nervously anticipate hitting the infamous “20-mile wall,” I seem to be OK, despite my throbbing feet, which are so hot that they feel as if they are about to explode out of my Asics. Maybe I can do this.
Eat your heart out, Kurt Angle.
Mile 21: My enthusiasm is short-lived, as my legs start to cramp. I devour a couple of orange slices, guzzle Gatorade and swallow the last of my ibuprofen stash. I peer down the beginning of the 5-mile stretch in Brentwood that will take us into Santa Monica. I’ve run this same route dozens of times after work. “Same as any other day,” I try to convince myself.
Mile 22: I laugh as my thoughts drift about coming home from an all-night party at 6 a.m. seven years ago and encountering blocked-off streets for the marathon, feeling like a lab rat trying to navigate a maze. I can’t imagine that I felt any more incoherent than I do now.
Mile 23: Firefighters shoot blasts of cold water in the air, which feels incredible as I run past. I’ve got my second ninth wind (and most likely, my last) as I remember those words that bruised my ego so many months ago: “Like that’ll ever happen!” It repeats in my mind as I pass countless runners doubled over on the side of the road. “It will happen.” At this point, I’m starting to believe.
Mile 25: The Pacific looks amazing. I feel like running straight into the ocean. Countless people chant “One more mile!” as my tired, agonizing feet carry on as if on auto pilot. In the distance, I can see a huge banner, but it seems worlds away. I run toward it, but the banner doesn’t seem to be getting any closer. Sweat is stinging my eyes as I gaze through my clouded contact lenses at the beautiful word slowly coming into focus: FINISH.
Finish: I made it. I made it! Time: 5 hours: 22 minutes, 23 seconds. I haven’t felt this proud since cheating to win a battle royal at the Earl Bell Community Center in Jonesboro, Ark. A volunteer puts a finisher’s medal around my neck. I stagger, nearly losing my balance as I look around for Hayley; I feel like Rocky Balboa searching for Adrian. I’m beaten, broken…I feel like I’ve taken 100 stiff powerbombs in a row from Sid Vicious. Another person hands me a complimentary package of bagels, which I’m tempted to break open right there on the spot. I borrow a fellow runner’s telephone to call my wife. Traffic and road closures have prevented Hayley from arriving at the finish line. Unable to think of a better solution, I ask her to meet me at a pizza joint two miles away, despite the fact that the thought of walking another 10 yards seems overwhelming. With my medal dangling around my neck, I limp badly down the street–casual observers probably suspect I’ve just finished the Special Olympics. I feel myself smiling as I think of all the possible combinations of pizza toppings I will soon be enjoying. I believe I’ve earned it.
Epilogue: I learned a lot about myself; specifically, I loathe crowds.
I trained hard for that day...and I downed a lot of Donuts. Little Chocolate Donuts. They taste good and they've got the sugar I need to keep me going. Donuts have been on my training table since I was a kid.
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