By Andrea Scarpino
West Coast Bureau Chief POTB
The hills. Dear god. Hill after hill, steep and long. Head down. Forward lean.
Water stations. My stomach starts to cramp. I try the carbohydrate water, swish the sweet yellow drink around my mouth, hope for the best.
David Paterson, a runner, the first African American Governor of New York, and legally blind. My stomach on fire and the hills burning my legs, I think about Paterson running with a guide, as well as guiding others as they run. Sometimes we follow. Sometimes we lead.
The tattoo I will get after the race. My dad, how he always told me to “run like hell” if anything bad happened. How I’m taking his advice literally. The sky. Ocean mist clearing from the streets as the sun rises. The ocean visible when we finally reach the top of a hill, start running to the sea.
Lunch, all the food I’m going to eat, cheesecake, ice cream. Barack Obama. Health care. My stride. My breath. My feet. Zac running next to me. The man banging a tinny drum on the sidelines. Answers to trivia questions posted along the route. The sun. Sunscreen. I count backwards from ten. Three miles left. The sun is beginning to break through the mist. A man passes me talking on the phone to his friend. I count backwards in French.
One mile left. We’re walking, Zac and I, my stomach cramps slowing us both down. A woman on the sidelines makes eye contact. “You can do it,” she says. “Finish strong.” What cheesy advice. And yet, I begin to run again. The Finish Line. I count each breath, count as each foot strikes the ground. I pick up my pace, run over the sensors on the ground. Relief. I can feel my legs shake. Water. Water, now.
Andrea Scarpino lives in Los Angeles and is a poet and activist running for a better world. You can visit her at: www.andreascarpino.com
Planet of the Blind 