June 1 was the one-year anniversary of the one and only marathon I will ever run. Here is the blog I wrote shortly thereafter. Allow me to begin with a quote from Jean Baudrillard: “Decidedly, joggers are the true Latter-Day Saints and the protagonists of an easy-does-it Apocalypse. Nothing evokes the end of the world more than a man running straight ahead on a beach, swathed in the sounds of his walkman, cocooned in the solitary sacrifices of his energy, indifferent even to catastrophes since he expects destruction to come only as the fruits of his own efforts, from exhausting the energy of a body that has in his own eyes become useless. Primitives, when in despair, would commit suicide by swimming out to sea until they could swim no longer. The jogger commits suicide by running up and down the beach. His eyes are wild, saliva drips from his mouth. Do not stop him. He will either hit you or simply carry on dancing around in front of you like a man possessed” (America, p. 38)
You'll never understand why after reading this, but I agreed to run the "Rock 'n' Roll" marathon in San Diego on June 1. Those who are familiar with my lifestyle and habits were rightfully incredulous. Nonetheless, I trained for this thing for a solid four months along with Pizza Fusion's "team in training." This involved getting up every (OK, most) Saturday morning before dawn to run progressively longer distances (16 miles, 18 miles, 20 miles, etc.) along Delray Beach. I've done a little long distance running before and in the course of training discovered that I'm actually pretty good at it. So let me qualify everything that follows by saying that I have nothing against jogging per se and will continue to incorporate it into my exercise routine.
So it's the morning of the race. My buddy Mike and I get up at an unholy hour and he starts driving me to the starting line in Balboa Park. But as we're approaching the site, the streets turn into a parking lot of cars and buses. "To hell with this," I tell Mike at one point, "let's just turn around and go back to sleep," but the traffic is so bad we can't turn around either. Joggers are hopping out of their rides and walking uphill to the site, and so I finally decide to do the same. I tell Mike I'll call him for a ride when it's all over.
I know it sounds too ridiculous to be true, but as I arrive at my position I find myself surrounded by Elvis impersonators (this is the "Rock 'n' Roll" marathon, after all) who are evidently going to run 26.2 miles in pompadours and polyester. I am grumpy but there is an air of anticipation and excitement around me. We begin running as U2's "Beautiful Day" is playing over the loudspeakers. The first 10 miles seemed to fly by. We ran through downtown San Diego, then up the 163 freeway and I was feeling pretty good. I paced myself, stopped to eat a cliff bar, and drank plenty of water and "accelerade" being doled out along the way. Alas, this would not turn out to be a "beautiful day," after all.
At various points of the race there were people grouped along the sidelines cheering on the runners. Some were holding signs with a particular individual's name, but most seemed to be cheering indiscriminately for all the runners. You'd pass by these total strangers and they'd cry out, "Way To Go!" or "Looking Good!" or "Don't Stop!" And then there were these squads of cheerleaders from various high schools and middle schools who would be doing coordinated cheers as you passed by them. Well, at some point the onset of fatigue turned my mood from merely grumpy to intensely foul, hateful, and potentially violent. I began to loathe the sight of these people cheering me on and felt immense relief in their absence, only to feel my blood begin to boil once again at the first sound of their cries of enthusiasm and encouragement.
I think it was around the 16th mile that my mind started playing tricks on me and I began to periodically experience something like hallucinations. Technically I was still "running" because my arms were swinging back and forth, but I was getting really frustrated because I couldn't pass a bunch of people who were walking alongside me. Then in the distance I heard another one of those damn spirit squads. "Less than 10 miles to go! Let's go runners! We know you can do it!" Then the vision came to me. I saw myself horizontally extending my left arm and systematically clotheslining every single one of those cheerleaders. I imagine how each and every one of their necks feel against my forearm. Onlookers cry out aghast: "Stop that man!" Teary-eyed witnesses are interviewed for the local news: "Those girls just wanted to show their spirit. What makes someone want to do something so evil?"
OK, so I didn't do it, but things got worse from there. The marathon was planned to finish at what in my mind is the most un-rock 'n' roll of all possible places, the Marine Corps depot. At some point I had taken my number off my chest because the safety pins holding it on were making my nipples bleed. But as we approach the Marine Corps depot I hear "Sir, I need to see your number, Sir!" Now I am really pissed because I have to stop "running" at mile 26, when the only thing keeping me going is sheer inertia and I feel as if my legs may collapse underneath me if they stop moving. Fortunately I have tucked the number inside my fanny pack (yes, I have resorted to purchasing and using a fanny pack) and I take out and wave it right in the face of this Marine. I'm almost never this courageous or confrontational. "Sir! It's just regulations! Sir!" The words "fascist jarhead babykiller" are flashing in neon inside my brain, but I restrain myself and continue "running." Only .2 miles to go now. There are now bleachers full of people cheering as I head to the finish line. My mind is repeatedly chanting the word "Peace." I want nothing more than to be free from my own anger and see this training ground for murderous imperialism transformed into a schoolyard for pagan homosexual children.
I finish with a time of 5 hours and 15 minutes. A medical volunteer asks me if I'm OK. Some girl gives me a medal. I sit on the asphalt on the brink of tears. People around me are hugging and telling each other they "did it." Another medical volunteer comes over and "encourages" me to stand and walk to keep the blood flowing or whatever. There's a photo booth but I do not want to know what I look like at this moment, so I walk around it.
I wish I could say this was the end, but I still need to catch a ride from Mike, and because we are at the Marine Corps depot there is no access for automobiles. So I have to walk to a place where he can pick me up. As I'm walking the place is guarded by all these Marines who are telling people not to walk on the grass and such, and some of them are holding these huge machine guns that look like toys. I hallucinate again and imagine I am at Guantanamo Bay. All the people around me are walking in a daze like zombies. My vision goes blurry and for a second I think we are all torture victims.
I finally make it out of the Marine depot and call to arrange for Mike to pick me up in front of a gas station. I make a point of sitting on the grass in front of a sign indicating $4.57 for regular unleaded. Mission accomplished. There are a few runners around me trying to hail a cab. And--I would swear to God if I believed in him/her/it--an Elvis impersonator walks by with a 12 pack of beer in hand. Mike picks me up and laughs his ass off as I struggle to stand and walk using my non-bendable knees. I immediately instruct him to remind me never to do anything like this again.
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