Chasing the Pug
Los Angeles Marathon
March 19, 2006
Prologue: Long Road to the Start
I was in line at the porta-potties when the starting gun went off for 25,000 aspiring marathoners. There were still five people ahead of me in the line, and I was not about to cede my place just to hurry up and run across the start line. I had a long day's work ahead of me, and I wasn't about to start it with a full bladder. Things would get uncomfortable enough later on, and besides, the clock wouldn't start on me until the timing chip on my shoe crossed the mat at the line. I stood in the morning chill at the base of the downtown skyscrapers and engaged in the "Well, how did I get here?" moment of soul-searching so common before a major endurance event.
About five years ago, I went to Huntington Beach in Orange County to run only my second 5k and, more eventfully, to join my best girlfriend Michelle in cheering on her long-time boyfriend Russ in his first marathon. It was a glorious beach town day, springlike in January, and the atmosphere was buoyant and inspiring. I vowed then that I would work up to the 10k distance that year, then do a half-marathon the next year, and a marathon before I turned 40. Later that year, I got distracted by triathlon, with its multiple disciplines and logistical challenges, but the idea of a marathon always lurked at the back of my mind. Thinking about maybe doing an Ironman in the near future, too, I felt like I had to establish in my own mind that I could actually run - or at least locomote - for 26.2 miles.
So in November, after a few weeks off from the somewhat scaled-down rigors of my 2005 triathlon season, I set out for my first training run. I would train through the winter, with my sights on the Napa marathon on March 5th. I was pretty full of apprehension about the whole endeavor. I was still heavier than I had ever been since I started training for any competitive event. I was worried about my joints, my feet, my back. How could they hold up to the mileage, the pounding, the dedication to running without the respite of other sports?
To minimize the risk of an overuse injury, I adopted, then adapted, a training plan from runnersworld.com that called for running only 3-4 days per week. More recovery time would give everything a chance to heal up before I took it back out on the road. My first week, I did 17 miles, with a long Sunday run of six. Even with the tri training, it felt like a lot. And I was slow. Very slow. On some long runs I'd see people walking pugs or dachshunds or Chihuahuas up ahead, and it would take me a really long time to catch them. But eventually I did.
It wasn't too long before I abandoned Napa as my target race. I'd have to run 12 minute miles to make their mandatory cutoff time of five and a half hours, and I could tell I wasn't going to be able to hold that kind of pace. Napa's website threatened that Law Enforcement Officers would come out on the course and take my race number away after the 5:30 mark. With all the effort I was going to put into training, I didn't want the sheriff's deputy out there ripping my number from my shirt and leaving big unsightly holes. I wanted to see that finish line with all its banners and the big time clock, no matter how big a number was on that clock.
So then I picked the LA marathon. It was a little less convenient, and a lot more urban, but it also offered advantages. It would be large and festive, with bands, cheerleaders, live TV coverage, and all kinds of excitement. There would be thousands of walkers so I wouldn't be last. I would see the diverse neighborhoods of the great city of Los Angeles at a sightseeing pace, and we'd get a nice little weekend trip out of it. There was no cut-off time. And the date of March 19 gave me an extra couple of weeks of wiggle room in my training plan. I scheduled a couple more long runs into my training plan just for extra confidence.
As it turned out, I'd need every day of those two weeks of wiggle. As is my wont, I got sick in late December and missed a couple of weeks of training, then I had my eyes lasered in January and missed another few days. (I had the kind of laser surgery that takes a lot longer to heal than LASIK, but I didn't think it'd take that long.) So there was a period in there where I really wasn't sure I'd have time to put in enough miles. I figured that if one of my long runs caused any kind of lasting pain, enough to have to skip another long run, I'd have to pass on the marathon project for this year and just make sure to lose weight before trying again.
To my surprise, I felt just fine after every single long run. A little achy, maybe, a little stiff, but nothing that lasted more than a day or so. And so three weeks before the race, I did my longest session, an 18-miler, and settled into the comfortable business of tapering off my mileage, resting up, getting massages and making sure to eat plenty of carbohydrates - never really a problem, I admit. As the final week of preparation ticked on, I was feeling great, full of beans and a little nervous energy, well-rested, no sore spots. And then Thursday morning I woke up with a cold. I tried to deny it for a couple of hours, but by mid-morning I was undeniably getting sick. My throat was scratchy and raw, and I had that light-headed, disoriented feeling. My nose wasn't congested, yet, but I could tell it would be.
To my surprise, I felt philosophical about the whole thing. I dosed myself heavily with zinc lozenges and AirBorne, drank tons of herbal tea with honey and lemon, and figured I would do what I could on the day. By Thursday night the congestion was well in place, and on Friday I was in the throes of a cold, but it wasn't a bad one. I didn't feel the horrible dragginess and exhaustion of a really stinking cold, and more importantly, the bug showed no signs of migrating to my chest. I had no fever, just a stuffy, sniffly nose.
Pre-Race Prep Tim and I flew down on Saturday morning, not too early, and headed straight for the L.A. Convention Center to get the race packet. It was a gnarly zoo of traffic trying to get through downtown and into the center's garages. We hit the absolute peak moment of people trying to get in, and the competition for parking spaces was fierce and chaotic, very L.A. Also very L.A. was the sight that greeted us as we entered the expo hall: about a dozen shiny new cars and SUVs mounted on pedestals. Only in SoCal would a marathon expo feature cars. I guess Honda/Acura was a huge sponsor of the race, so that kind of explained it, but still... Anyhow, we navigated the packet pick-up lines with practiced ease (it's just like a triathlon!), and after a little shopping for extra marathon memorabilia, we were back on the road, looking for lunch.
This we found at the bar of Kendall's Brasserie up by the whole music complex on Bunker Hill, near the Disney Concert Hall, which is signature Frank Gehry with all its metallic curving chunks and swooping surfaces. The food at Kendall's was great but I had such a congested head I couldn't eat that much. Not sure why that is, but it's true. Checked into the Biltmore, a grande dame hotel from the 1920's, with elaborate carved ceilings, lavish fountains, and alas, tiny rooms with microscopic bathrooms and very poor feng shui. Sigh. The price we pay for Old Hollywood glamour. I busied myself organizing little piles of marathon clothing, fuel, salves and unguents, and instructional materials. Then I lay down on the bed to watch March Madness. Then I got up and rearranged the room furniture so I wouldn't have to watch TV sideways. Then I got some ice and fixed another bottle of Cytomax. Finally I settled into some serious lounging. Then I realized we had no water left that was fit to drink (L.A. tap water, ick) so we walked over to the Rite-Aid for a gallon of water, some saline nasal spray, cough drops, Vicks inhaler, and snax for Tim.
More lounging, more basketball, and a trip downstairs for the "carbo boost" dinner at the hotel restaurant. They weren't clear on the concept of carbs, though, and presented me with a huge slab of grilled salmon and a tiny scoop of couscous with vegetables. I couldn't eat the couscous because of all the almost-raw onions in it (they make my mouth weird for over a day), so I ate bread and some of Tim's rice.
I took a solid dose of Nyquil and was out like a light by 10 pm, setting the alarm for 6:26. I have a thing about not setting my alarm (or the microwave) for round numbers. I don't know why. It's a thing. As it happened, I woke up at 5:45 with a completely clogged nose, so I took a hot shower to try and ease it. A huge drink of Endurox and the smearing of Vaseline over practically my entire body took up much of my pre-race prep time. Some stretching, re-pinning my race number, checking my fuel belt, mixing my first bottle of Cytomax and putting ice in it. Tim slept through much of this ritual but eventually popped out of bed looking cheerful and got ready to walk down to the start with me.
The organizers had us walk around a huge long loop to get to the start line - I guess they were trying to control the crowds, but I was a little ticked to be wasting precious joules or whatever of energy that I would need later. I kissed Tim and strode off up Flower Street, under the banner that would mark the finish line later, much later for me. As I walked, I realized that it would be a good idea to empty the ol' bladder. The first set of porta-johns had a line of epic proportions, so I skipped it, analyzing the surrounding office buildings for friendly bushes just in case. In the end I settled for the second set of turquoise temples of personal hygiene, and there I stood when the huge roar went up and the marathon officially started.
And She's Off!
It was 8:31 when I stepped across the starting mat, full of anticipation and fear and nasal secretions. I spotted Tim after a few strides and passed off my long-sleeve shirt, stopping for another kiss on the way. The crowd around us cheered. It was a good start.
The first couple of miles were a gentle downward glide down Figueroa, past the Convention Center and Staples Center, past the huge troupe of thundering taiko drummers, past families and friends with bright yellow signs reading "GO Alicia!" or "GO Ernesto!" One read "GO People!" I felt encouraged. There were huge lines of kids from some group or school, wearing matching shirts and cheering madly. I jogged over to high-five as many of them as I could. Soon my right hand stung from scores of little palms slapping it, but it was a good sting.
Just after mile 1, I saw someone on a stretcher, being tended to by paramedics. "Geez," I thought to myself, it's pretty early to be collapsing. Maybe he broke his ankle or something." I vowed to watch where I put my feet, and jogged on. I had started way back of the pack, so I was actually passing some people. Almost all of them were walkers, but not all. Lots of messages on the backs of shirts. "My Voice Counts!" "For my husband Darrell" and "If found, please return to finish line." Tons of kids, some of them no older than 12, running (and walking) with a program called Students Run LA. "In It for the Long Run - 26.2 miles" their shirts announced. I was impressed. I was also amazed by the paraphernalia some people carried slung on their shoulders, or even around their necks - fanny packs with narrow, uncomfortable belts, iPod holders on strings. One guy even had his extra stuff in his marathon expo plastic bag. Me, I'm all about preparing to be as comfortable as possible. My fuel belt was wide, padded, lined with mesh to minimize sweating, relatively streamlined, no jiggling or bouncing or chafing there.
For the first four miles I was running a little ahead of my target pace, but I was OK with that because we were going slightly downhill the whole way. I felt strong and relaxed, though my heart rate monitor showed my average beats per minute were up higher than I anticipated for this pace. I put it down to a mix of the cold bug and the adrenaline pouring into my system.
We cruised past USC and the Memorial Coliseum, Exposition Park, and along Martin Luther King, Jr. Boulevard. I couldn't help remembering Chris Rock's line about how Dr. King stood for non-violence, but in any city in the U.S., if you were on MLK Blvd., there was some violence going down nearby. On this sunny Sunday morning, though, MLK was non-violent and in places actively supportive of the motley crew of plodders, trotters, walkers and waddlers who made up the rear echelon of the marathon. More zigs and zags, and mile 6 appeared. A quarter of the way, almost! My time was still respectable, by my standards, and I was comfortable, enjoying the cheers and encouragement of the bystanders. "Go Jayne! You're looking strong!" (When we signed up for the marathon, we could enter our name or nickname, which was then printed on the race bib above the number.) A woman stood on the median, offering orange slices out of a tub. The oranges were sour but extremely juicy.