Monsoon Marathon

This is me, Mile 16, shot by Erika Quinn, who then jumped in and ran the last 10 miles with me and saved my life!!!!

I finished. I did a marathon. My time was slow, I was so wet I weighed about 800 pounds, and I started crying when I crossed the finish line--combined with some strange emotional asthma attack. But who cares? I finished and I will never do another. I am checking that off my bucket list. Done! I am wearing my marathon medal right now as I type. I think I will wear it all day...even if I go grocery shopping.

The day was insane, from the minute the clock ticked over to 12:01 a.m..

Jonathan returned from a day of writers guild negotiations, and two crazy birthday parties at 12:30 a.m.. At 1:30 a.m. Benji came into our room, stood beside me in the dark and said, "Theo is crying, Mommy."

I went in and Theo was crying in his bed, saying his belly hurt. He is tough, so I knew he hurt.

At 2 a.m. he vomited up three servings of my carbo-load dinner--that is acres of spaghetti, all over his room. I was scared to touch it, because I was so worried I was going to catch a virus in the night.

We cleaned him up, put him to bed by the toilet, and went back to sleep. At 5 a.m. I got up and put on my marathon clothes. J rose with me and drove me to Dodger Stadium in the dark. There was a traffic jam at 5:45 a.m.. He dropped me off and there I was, standing in the chilly pre-dawn darkness with thousands--all of us trying to go to the bathroom one last time!!! J handed me some pepto bismal and I took it. My nerves were out of control.

A woman beside me who had run so many marathons she would not even reveal the number (at least 10, because she rattled off a bunch) said she had decided to run on Thursday to raise money for the Red Cross in Tokyo. How cool. Apparently a bunch of Japanese people were supposed to run a marathon in Japan last week, but with the tsunami, they did not get to run, so Honda, who sponsored the marathon, paid for more than 100 Japanese runners to come to LA to run. They must have thought the tsunami followed them to California when they ran through that deluge. I hope it did not trigger panic again--it was so much rain and cold.

The woman told me to go out slow, and stay conservative until mile 20. Then if I felt strong, go.

The race started late. Then, right as they shot off the gun, the rain started to fall. Big huge drops. Some people shed their Hefty trash bags, so we were running and tripping over them. I kept on my sweatshirt and my big, blue poncho, fished from my ancient bag of backpacking stuff. It was so big you can put a backpack underneath it. It could also function as a sail. We ran down through downtown, China Town, Little Tokyo. It was starting to rain harder, but all of us believed it would end soon. We were happy, and full of energy. There were supposed to be bands and entertainment all along the course, but I think the big bands were afraid they would be electrocuted--so a lot less than was promised. Still, the people who were out to play for us were so amazing it brought tears to my eyes.

On Olvera Street a mini Mariachi band played, all squeezed under a tiny tent. At the top of the hill by Disney Hall a huge band of Kodo drummers slammed out their magnificent rhythms. In the middle of Little Tokyo a strange eccentric man set up his own stage with weird instruments and contraptions and pipes--and played the pipe and the drums and the organ in the rain--belting out "You are my sunshine!"

And the people. They were amazing. The support from all these Angelenos. Of course there were the official volunteers--who were amazing. But there were also all the other people. At Senora de Los Angeles--basically the church for the poor down on Skid Row, people you knew were homeless or barely not, stood and handed us all water. I was so moved.

In Echo Park Latino women chopped up a gazillion oranges as fast as they could, put them in big cooking pans, and stood in the middle of the street handing them out. It felt like pure love.

In Silverlake Jill and Dave and Vivian and Violet came out and cheered me on. Energy!

At Mile 8 I stopped to go to the bathroom. The men went anywhere, on walls, on Dorothy Chandler pavillion, in highway underpasses--but women had to stop, and you had to wait a long time. It was raining harder and harder. When I got out of the bathroom--my enforced 15 minute break--I saw two guys who had started next to me. They were running a mile, then walking for a minute, my exact training schedule. So I latched onto them and we ran.

In Hollywood my beloved husband came out and handed me oranges and ran down Hollywood Blvd. It was starting to rain harder and harder. By now, mile 10, it was getting to be a joke. The rain went between really hard, and torrential. When people threw their cups down after drinking, they would slide into the water and rush along the edge of the road like they were on a river. Just running down Sunset you had to cross pools of water it was so deep it felt like you were fjording a stream in the wilderness. Every drop of us, down to the deepest layer, was wet. My phone wouldn't work--or only intermittently--because it was raining so hard. And J said the entire marathon web site crashed, as millions logged on to try to check the course, and the location of loved ones.

But Erika Quinn, the amazing Erika, jumped in at Mile 16 and ran with us. Now we were four. My running buddies--Rick and Brian (don't know their last names) and Erika. We ran on. She infused us with new energy. She had done a marathon before--but also stayed up til 2 in the morning singing karaoke at a party I had skipped.

On and on and on. My newly forged running buddies said that if we could just make it through the VA hospital grounds at Mile 20 we would be home free. But that place, they said, is the equivalent of LA's heartbreak hill. Just long, slow, uphill, right when you are most exhausted. And it was. We took an extra long walk break there, after the final uphill. On the grounds were what looked like a bunch of semi-deranged vets in camouflage, mostly helping out. But one, who looked especially fierce, saw us, and yelled. "No walking on VA grounds. You gonna walk, get off my property." He was so serious, and so intent, that we started laughing and began to run again.

At Mile 21 I started popping Cliff shots--these weird gummy bear like cubes that are packed with caffeine and who knows what. They are a dangerous, radioactive looking blue. But they did the trick. Erika was supposed to leave (her husband was waiting, trapped in a car in the rain, with three kids five and under) but she was worried J would not make it to the end, so she kept running with us.

At Mile 23 miracle of miracles, Jonathan found me, just as he had promised, without phone or tracking device, and ran the final three with me. Rick ran ahead to beat his time, and Brian, our steady pacer through the whole race hung right behind. We were so close. I knew I would make it. I could feel it. The wind was getting stronger and stronger and stronger.

There was no Mile 25. No marker. No water. And so, for the last two miles, everyone yelled out, "One more mile." But they said it for so long, I began to think I was hallucinating. I was going to be trapped in Mile 25 forever. No matter how far I ran, people were still yelling, "One more mile!" Brian disappeared. Jonathan disappeared. I was alone, and people were still saying, "One more mile!" One guy said, "800 meters!" I could have kissed him. But then the next people were all yelling "One more mile."

The Gods were laughing at me. I was going to die at Mile 25. Worse yet, the rain got harder, and the wind was like a hurricane on the final straightaway.

I finished. I just started crying and had some weird asthmatic attack. All my people were gone. But I did it.

Even now, almost 24 hours later, I cannot believe it.

I guess these were the most insane conditions for any LA marathon ever. It really was like running a marathon through a hurricane. It has never rained this hard for this long. Jonathan said that when he and Benji drove over the Sepulveda pass to Santa Monica it was raining so hard they could not see, and the two of them just starting laughing at the absurdity of it. I ran through that!

I came home. I could not take a cold bath to freeze the lactic acid out of my legs. I was too chilled. J made a fire. I took a shower. I crawled into bed with my sick child, and I lay there, as the rain poured down, and Jonathan cooked barley soup downstairs. I have never smelled anything so delicious in my life. I smelled each ingredient as it went in--mushrooms, garlic, sherry.

I do not know the names of my running companions--but it turned out that the three of us were on KTLA's marathon broadcast. (The boys saw me at home and Benji waved at the television!) By slowing the frame down on Tivo, I was able to get Brian's number--22755. Maybe I can search him down like a detective. Or maybe they can find me through my op-ed piece in the LA Times.

I never saw Gonzalo. I pray he finished well, and that someone he knows sees the story about him and tells him to read it.

As for me. I am basking in my accomplishment. I have never done anything that feels so complete. Usually, when I accomplish some goal, I think, "I want to do that again." Or, "I could have done better." Or, " Next time..." But this time I feel like I did my very best, and I am done. I am moving forward to the next thing. But I regard it as one of my great accomplishments. I NEVER feel like that.

My feet are blistered, I have chafing blisters all over my torso from wet clothing, my body is sore, and I have stuck temporary heating pads on my ankles and knees to relieve pain, but I am proud!

I ran LA's first monsoon marathon!