Preparing for the Surf City Marathon is a nightmare of weekly treadmill runs with a long dark run on the weekend serving as an exclamation point. Weekend training is on trails in hungry beast land and I am a nervous Nelly imagining myself a running sack of meat. My dog provides little security as her vision is poor and she is often ferociously barking at a dark stick or stray trail sign. When not protecting master she runs close behind me, frequently glancing backwards to check for carnivorous animals. At the end of the run we are exhausted, more from the anxiety than the pace.
Pace! How I'd love to run fast and quick but the speed is not coming. Oh inside on the treadmill, with no hills, no wind, perfect temperature and Fleetwood Mac's Tusk blaring on the i-pod I can keep a 9 minute mile going for a few hours. But outside without the digital task master I slow to the pace of a rum-soaked afternoon. The hay is not going in the barn very quickly.
The rum reference must be wish fulfillment as I've been on the wagon since Christmas. Drinking one of the ubiquitous micro brews that magically appear in my hand, I hear that one of these liquid bread loaves holds 800 calories. Sweet Mother of Mary! I can't run a four hour marathon storing five pounds of pumpernickel under my belt. Beer is thus shunned and subsequently eight pounds drop like a bad habit. The disappeared belly jelly leaves me at 157 and I'm practically collegiate again.
The air is warm when we touch down in LAX and the traffic is pushing eighty on the 405, a speed that gets you a $300 ticket in Oregon but here gets you to Orange County in half an hour. Settling in at Grandma's for a few days of lasagna and tacos, the spring like nights and sunny days leave me giddy with anticipation as the clock tick-tocks into Super Bowl Sunday. I get up at 3:30 to drink coffee and eat a cream cheesed bagel, dawdle and putter in the living room a bit and at 5 am drive down Beach Boulevard. Traffic is nonexistent until a few miles to the beach when I suddenly find myself surrounded by cars. My speculation that there would be plenty of parking as the half marathoners start later did not consider the carnival atmosphere surrounding this event. It takes an hour to maneuver my car into a parking space two miles from the start. I half jog half quick walk through a parking lot of tailgaters quaffing coffee and bacon and show up as the Star Spangled Banner is being sung at the start line.
A shiver runs up my spine. There is nothing quite like the start of a marathon! The announcer counts down from ten and a small toy air horn bleats into the sky. Many of us laugh at the sound, a reminder after the solemnity of our National Anthem and the bombastic pronouncements of the host not to take ourselves too seriously.
The first few miles of the course are north on the Pacific Coast Highway which is closed to traffic this morning. Incredibly we have four wide lanes of ocean boulevard all to ourselves! After two miles we cut inland and run up a small hill to Central Park. The course winds through the greenery and I remember taking my kids here ten years ago, when we lived nearby. They were tiny little kids then and I would pull them in a little red wagon crammed with blankets and stuffed animals around and around the park. I feel a little sentimental for long ago days. A brass band is winding up a number in front of the library and I feel their final sweet melancholy note hit me in the pit of my stomach. Ah this life!
We head back to PCH and pass a number of bands and cheering spectators. The aid stations are clogged with fresh faced teenagers eagerly handing out water, Vitalyte and advice such as 'run as fast as you can!'. We've gone 6 miles and have 20 to go; if I ran as fast as I could, I'd burn out before mile 7. At mile marker 9 there is a small band banging on Asian drums, with one drum making a shimmery off-kilter shaking sound that I have never heard before but immediately am drawn to. The sound is hypnotic, made even more so by the whup-whup of an overhead helicopter, and I am transported into an exotic state by this cultural melting pot, this mish-mash of Asian and Beach cuisine, this Californian wormhole linking past and future and East with West. The endorphins are kicking in too and I feel light and fast and ready to burn up the road. I check my watch and see I am at pace of 9:30 miles which is on track for a 4:10 finish. I can live with that!
The next 3 miles are relatively uneventful as we run north on a flat straight section of the PCH. There is a turnaround at the end of this section and we run 3 miles back down the PCH. Catalina is clearly visible 20 miles across the ocean and a guy tells me he's run the Catalina Marathon 7 times. Cool forested island trails sound inviting compared to this hot asphalt. The sun beats down and it is hot. PCH is becoming more crowded as the half-marathoners are catching up, the leaders blazing past in a blur of shorts and singlets led by bicyclists shouting that we need to move to the right. A guy in a clown costume with a bullhorn is running around, exhorting us along and another guy is shouting into a camera something about jealousy. Surf music is pumping out of loudspeakers and at mile 15 I am listening to the Beach Boys singing about the misery unfolding on the Sloop John B., the gorgeous baritone sax bass line of the song anchoring their high harmonies:
Sheriff John Stone, why don't you leave me alone
I feel so broke up, I want to go home
At mile 16 the course turns onto a paved beach path and we run north for 4 miles. The scene is glorious; sun shining and waves breaking big, the surf pounding the sand a quarter mile away. I have a short burst of energy at mile 18 and feel like I am walking on air. By mile 19 though I am back to earth and starting the slow shuffle. A group of guys tailgating are handing out beer shots and bacon. The drinks change as the day wears on but bacon will always remain! A few runners pop back some shots and I am sorely tempted. But I fear if I do I will start walking. Walking sounds so appealing with my aching right ankle and burning feet. Soldier on I think, only 6 miles to go. The thing is, 6 miles sounds like forever and the thought of walking crosses my mind again and again. I push it away by counting steps: 1,2,3,4 - 1,2,3,4. And this helps a little. In a blur I see mile marker 24 and think just two more miles. The course merges back onto PCH and now we are with the half-marathoners again. After a short while I see mile marker 26 and I start running faster, like a desert horse smelling water. I cross the finish line and am done - thankfully!
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My time is 4:37, good for the 1495th place out of 2437.
Average Pace Times
6 miles: Average Pace 9:30 minutes per mile
12.2 miles: 9:42 minutes per mile
20.9 miles: 10:06 minutes per mile
Finish: 10:36 minutes per mile
Swag included a most excellent medal, the best one yet, and a slightly effeminate long sleeved technical shirt. In summary the best marathon experience yet - no rain, great weather, friendly spectators. These big marathons are a party, though the 2 mile walk back to the car is excruciating. I will do this one again!
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| Best Medal Yet |
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| Expo Day |
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