November 26th, 2007
It seemed like a good idea at the time: sign up for the Seattle Half Marathon and have a “fitness goal” to work towards. Get a gang of friends together. It’ll be like a party.
The weeks slide by and the gang of friends are winnowed down. A little plantar fasciitis here, no time there… you know how it goes. But race day dawns (or would at some point after the airhorn sounded) and my little gang of two is poised at the start line. (Hi, Vicky!)
I’ve never been to an event like this, but the Seattle Marathon seems remarkably well-run for such a large number of participants. We shiver our way through the crowds: Some, grimly-focused jogging and stretching in shorts in sub-freezing predawn, others bundled and festive with inflatable snakes wrapped around unathletic midsections. Despite the cold, it looks like it was going to be a fine day. Someone told me last year it snowed and sleeted the whole day. This morning stars glitter through early fog and a full moon hangs on the horizon.
START LINE: An obligatory, melismatic rendering of the national anthem, the bubbly announcer reminding us we were running for charity. (A complete crock, btw. I found out later less than 1% goes to charity - only additional donations made by participants above the entrance fee.) And off we shuffle.
MILE TWO: First water/Gatorade station. Grab some water. Feeling good. Runners toss cups and gu packets on the ground. This is something I didn’t know, though I guess it shouldn’t be surprising. Crews of volunteer sweepers struggle mightily to keep up with the drifting debris along the race course.
MILE THREE: Heading up the ramp onto I-90. Right hip flexor starts to twinge. This is not a good sign. In the tunnel I shed my jacket and tuck it into my fanny-pack waist strap where it will flap in the breeze for the next 10 miles.
MILE FOUR: First abandoned sweatshirt sighting. Another thing I hadn’t anticipated - the volume of clothing simply tossed aside along the route. The sweatshirt is crumpled on a fence railing not one block from a soup kitchen line. Does someone gather up the clothing and donate it? Later, I saw one race volunteer drop a pair of sweatpants into a trash bag along with Gatorade cups and orange peels.
MILE FIVE: A hill? Who allowed that into the race? I did all my training on the Sammamish River Trail, a flat easy lope past mallards, municipal art, a brewery AND a winery. If there are going to be hills, the least they can do is make them all downhill.
MILE SIX: Almost halfway now. Hip’s OK for the moment. There aren’t exactly crowds thronged along the roadway to cheer us on, but there are little clots of supporters with noisemakers and silly hats. It’s an invigorating surprise every time. I feel like I owe it to my fans to move my keister a little faster. We smile and wave like we’re in a parade.
MILE SEVEN: Live music! A little bluegrass combo is camped around an outdoor space heater. There’s been music here and there, but mostly spewing out of boom boxes. Still, any music seems to lighten the feet (which are depressingly leaden with six miles to go).
MILE EIGHT: Trudging now, but Vicky’s setting the pace - and she’s a tough taskmaster! Time to pull out my free sample energy bar. No sooner do I polish that off, than another Gatorade station appears around the bend. Right after that, volunteers are handing out free banana and orange pieces and quarter peanut butter sandwiches. I believe that qualifies as lunch. I grab a banana. The ground is littered with peels, but nobody slips. I look for a trash bag but in the end, my banana peel goes in the gutter along with the rest.
MILE NINE: Vicky pulls out her cell and calls her husband Tom to let him know it’s about time to get in the car. He’s our ride home and it would be nice to see a familiar face at the finish line. She forgets to ask him to bring ibuprofin, an omission we’ll regret.
MILE TEN: The first full marathon runners start passing by. A fine, fine sight!
MILE ELEVEN: Wall? Oh, that wall. I’ve heard people talk about hitting the wall but I’d never actually experienced it before. I can see the Space Needle, our destination, and it looks so far away, it might as well be on Mars. But there are more people along the sides of the road, so one foot goes in front of the other. Endlessly.
THE LAST MILE: At last! The end looms. Or it seems like it ought to. In fact, if I don’t see some serious looming soon, someone’s going to hear about it. We speed up, wanting nothing more than for it to be over. My right leg aches from hip to toe. I am so going to pay for this. But at last the stadium does indeed loom. And very welcome looming, indeed!
THE FINISH LINE: Suddenly, the last 13.1 miles are a distant memory. We made it! I am handed a finisher’s medal and someone wraps a space blanket around my shoulders. Inside the recovery area, a band plays oldies and vendors pass out drinks and snacks. For a price you can have a massage or acupuncture. We pass. We’re supposed to keep moving but suddenly, despite mental euphoria, my feet are distinctly crabby and uncooperative. Tom parked a mile away. He claims it’s for our benefit - to keep moving, cool down. I think he just wanted the free street parking.
AFTERMATH: We retire to Vicky’s hot tub while the menfolk cook up a hearty late lunch. Ahhh!
zzzzzzzzzz…
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. It’s silly. It’s juvenile. It’s dated. But it’s still one of the funniest movies ever made. (”Joey, do you like movies about gladiators?”)
It’s November. The end of the year is on the horizon, the wheel of days grinding into the station. I’m here to wave goodbye to my grandmother. If you had asked me to imagine what sitting by her bed at this time would be like, I would never have guessed how much laughter would be involved. We’ve looked at pictures, cracked jokes, teased, been teased and touched as much as possible. I couldn’t have predicted how precious the feel of her skin would be. Here is an olive well-cured by time and love, lemony crisp in the air. Delectable!
