Scenes from the LA Marathon

By Andrea Scarpino

 

Start: Wheelchair racers are first across the starting line, then hand crank racers, elite women, elite men. Then the rest of us. Zac and I set our watches, begin a slow jog as the crowd pushes forward. As far as I can see, people run ahead of me, people run behind. The sound of tennis shoes on pavement, breath, spectators cheering on the sidelines.

Mile 2: Male runners pour into the bushes along the route, and a woman, too, stands next to a tree, moves aside her running shorts.

Mile 3: A long, steep uphill climb. I keep my head down, focus on breathing in and out to the count of three. Runners around us are stopping to walk. I’m slowing down. Then I hear taiko drums, look up. Long arms arc through the air with each drum beat, an echoing booming sound. I can’t tell my own heart from the beat of the drums. I run to the rhythm all around.

Mile 8: A group of onlookers hold a sign: “Let’s Create a Department of Peace.” When I raise my arms and cheer for them, they jump up and down, cheer back at me.

Mile 13: We’re minutes ahead of our goal pace. A woman behind us talks on the phone as she runs. Okay, I love you too. I’ve got to go. I love you. Yeah, I’ve got to go. Two barefoot runners, runners who look to be in their 70’s, runners who look to be 9 or 10. A group of Elvis impersonators pass us dressed in white jumpsuits, pushing a boom box playing Elvis songs. Thank you very much, one keeps saying as the crowd on the sidelines cheers.

Mile 15: I start to slow down, get a cramp in my side. We walk a few minutes but when we begin again, the cramp comes back. I get frustrated, tears well up in my eyes. We’re ahead of our goal pace, but I panic, begin to think I’m not going to finish after all. I’m trying to breathe into my cramp but it just keeps coming back.

Mile 16: A woman on the sideline hands out ice cubes in a square tray. I take two, eat one right away, hold the other in my hand.

Mile 17: Brentwood, a fancy French restaurant with patrons eating breakfast at outside tables, talking on their phones. I see women with designer handbags, men with Italian leather shoes. No one waves, no one even looks up to smile. This infuriates me. You could at least wave, I shout to the diners, We’re running over here. A few heads turn, someone screams a little bit. Then to Zac, Jesus Christ, rich people don’t know how to cheer. He looks at me and laughs, says, I’m glad to see you’re back.

Mile 18: I’m not having any fun, I say to Zac. What can we do to change that? Our yoga teacher always says in class, If you’re not having fun, change something. I’ve been so serious about failing, so upset the past couple of miles as my time slows, my side cramp returns. But this is only running, nothing to get so upset about. Zac starts to tell me knock knock jokes that don’t really have a punch line. I start to smile, to laugh.

Mile 20: Drag queens hula hoop on the sidelines, scream and wave and keep their hula hoops racing around their waists.

Mile 22: We’re finally at the last hill, finally entering our neighborhood, the section of the race Zac and I run every week. The cute clothing store, the coffee shop, the store with expensive yoga pants. Home turf at last.

Mile 24: The best sign of the race: “26.2 miles. Because 26.3 would be crazy.” Zac has us walk one minute for every four minutes we run. This is the only thing keeping me going. I count every breath until he says Thirty seconds left and then I start counting down from thirty.

Mile 25: Cheer alley. Team after team of high school cheerleaders line the sidelines, jump up and down with pom poms flying. Some stand on each other, others kick their legs high.

Mile 26: We only have two blocks left to run. The finish line up ahead, throngs of people on each side of the route. We can still finish strong if we kick it right now, Zac says. And we do. My legs speed up when I ask them to.

Finish: We cross the finish line and I grab for Zac’s hand. Someone gives me a bottle of water, a bag of bagels, someone wraps my shoulders in a heat blanket. I see an older woman with medals lined all the way up one arm. I walk straight to her. What a beautiful smile, she says as she puts the medal around my neck. Thank you, I say. I can’t stop saying Thank you.

Andrea Scarpino is the west coast Bureau Chief of POTB. You can visit her at:

www.andreascarpino.com