Box Girl (28 page)

I began berating myself, angry that I put myself in this position.
Why hadn't I trained better?
I had no excuse, after all. I had more than enough time, yet I had waited until the last minute. When I finally started to train, I gave it far from my full effort. I didn't even take it seriously. Now I was only a few miles into the race, and I was totally panicked about the task ahead.

Jan and Beth's parents were standing at Mile 3 and Mile 10. Somehow they didn't see me at either stop. “I thought we should call the hospitals,” their mom said after the race. Their dad said, “Nah, I told her, if anything, you were at the bar.” At Mile 3, I would have agreed that either were plausible options: Before I got to that finish line, I was bound to either collapse or quit.

But somehow, by Mile 10, I was still clicking along. I did not feel like I was going to fall over; I did not want to seek shelter in a nearby bar. Along the route, hundreds of locals lined the streets, cheering on the race participants. Bands played, gospel choirs sang, cars honked their horns, children handed out orange slices on their front lawns. Strangers rang cowbells and shouted words of encouragement. “You can do it! You're doing great!” they'd say, a child perched on top of their shoulders, holding a hand-painted poster for Mom. The scene was incredibly moving. I felt like the whole city was giving me a high-five.

Perhaps I got swept up in the momentum of all the roadside support, but mile after mile, I began increasing my speed. I went from running something slower than a ten-minute mile, to nine and a half minutes per mile to something faster than a nine-minute mile. A friend had told me, “At Mile 13 you'll feel great, and by Mile 18 you'll want to curl up in a ball and cry.” (This was a grown man.) As I approached the half-marathon mark—the distance that had at one time rendered me in need of an IV—I was shocked to realize that he was right: at Mile 13, I did feel great. Not fine. Not okay.
Great
.

Twenty-six miles is a long time to reflect on what exactly it is you are doing. Living in Venice, in one of the few walkable communities in LA, I rarely even
drive
twenty-six miles.
There is something pretty remarkable about the fact that the only equipment I am using to travel this distance is a pair of shoes and my body
, I thought. My legs, my lungs, that's it. I started to hit a plateau of sorts, where my legs were turning over comfortably and confidently. To use a running cliché, I hit my stride.

At Mile 16, there was a huge hill, the incline of which stretched for almost three-quarters of a mile. People were peeling over to the side, walking, some stopping to throw up. I pumped my arms and popped up the hill on the balls of my
feet, focusing on the ground in front of me. Somehow, while summiting that hill, I
still
felt great.
How is this even possible?
I thought.
Maybe it's the mini Dixie Cups of Gatorade I've been drinking along the way? Maybe it's the Goo packets? The Advil?
I was at a loss. In what was most certainly a risky move, I decided to speed up on the hill. Save for when I blew by a row of Porta Potties, it was the first time I passed anyone. I picked off one person, then two, then many.

Well that was fun
, I thought as I whizzed past a pack of people.
Suckers
. All of a sudden, I was channeling that inner child who loved beating the Bugle Boys off the kids in my fifth-grade class. In the most unlikely of places, somewhere around mile seventeen, I was remembering what it was that I loved about running in the first place: It was fun. As children, we ran because it was our favorite way to get from one place to the other. It was instinctive, automatic. Have you ever seen a child walk toward a playground? Maybe if he was holding an ice cream cone.
Maybe
. As a kid, running was a reward, something we got to do when we busted out of the confines of our schools, or our homes. (Unfortunately, I think that fun gets hammered out of it around age ten when team sports become more competitive and running is turned into a form of punishment. “If you're late for practice, you have to run five laps,” coaches would bark.) By channeling my Keds-wearing, sockless, fifth-grade self, I enjoyed running the marathon.
This is a race
, I thought. A race is meant to be fun. When children race, whether it's while hopping in a potato sack or with their ankles tied together, it is something to look forward to.

Plus, passing those people felt
good
. Suddenly the competitive spirit I had suppressed for so many years was finding its way to the surface. Who was I kidding? Of course I cared how I did. Of course I wanted to do well. I was
not
just the math teacher from Long Beach doing a marathon just to see if he could finish. I
was
a real runner, damnit.

After the hill, the St. Johns Bridge crossed the Willamette River for most of Mile 17. A bunch of red balloons bobbed in the air forty yards in front of me, tied to the back of a pacesetter. He was surrounded by a large pack of runners trying to stay on target for a four-hour finishing time.
I can't believe I caught the four-hour group
, I thought.
For the first several miles, I was moving about as fast as a toddler crawls. Actually, I think toddlers are faster
. Because I knew there was no way I could complete a marathon in less than four hours, I settled in behind the group and steadied my pace.
Just keep it right here; follow them for the duration
, I thought. But those stupid red balloons were taunting me: “Betcha can't catch me.”
Oh, I betcha I can
. I sped up again, passing the four-hour pace group, and everyone else on the bridge.

I know this sounds deranged—I must have been
really
dehydrated and totally delirious, like a lost backpacker in Death Valley who hallucinates a river, but in addition to being very hydrated, I felt absolutely, euphorically, amazing. So amazing that the marathon felt
easy
. Too easy. Again I berated myself.
Maybe I am actually good at running marathons
, I thought.
Why had I so underestimated myself?

Racing through Mile 18, I was overcome by the realization that I had barely trained, and yet, running a marathon felt easy. I was angry at this half-heartedness that had followed me through my life, that had plagued my college career. I thought back to my cousin's valedictorian speech, bemoaning the “what might have beens.”
Why didn't I train harder? Maybe I could have been competitive? Maybe I could have qualified for Boston? Why do I always do this? Why do I give up before I know where I could really go with something? Maybe I shouldn't have quit the team? Maybe, who knows, maybe I could have been an elite marathoner, like so many of my former teammates? What if? What if? Goddamnit what if?

I grabbed a cup of water off a table at Mile 19, took a small sip, and tossed the cup behind me.
I wonder if my brother ever tallies the what-ifs
, I thought, steadying into my stride. He was something of a golf prodigy as a child, winning tournaments all over the country. He went on to play for the University of North Carolina, where he had a mediocre collegiate career. Now he watches as many of the guys he used to beat as a junior—Trevor Immelman, Bubba Watson, Lucas Glover—win The Masters and the U.S. Open. I am sure he must sometimes wonder
what if
. What if he had trained harder in college? What if he had given it his all? Could he, too, be winning major tournaments?
I should ask him about this next week
, I thought. But I never did. I knew he'd just give me some sarcastic response. That's another thing he and I have in common: We use humor as a defense mechanism.

I targeted the next pack of people in front of me. The what-ifs weren't relevant now. Beating myself up over my lack of training wasn't going to do any good at this point. There was nothing left to do but run as fast as I could. As I passed the twenty-mile marker, I focused on how many people I could pass in six miles.

I focused on lengthening my stride, using the reserves I had leftover from my very conservative start. I quickened my pace and continued to pass people—as many as I could catch—for the rest of the race. Someone from the sideline yelled, “Great pace, green!”—I was wearing green—“Way to finish strong!” I wanted to yell back, “You know what, I feel fucking strong!” He was flanked by children, though, so I gave him a double thumbs-up instead.

Even if it was from a stranger, I enjoyed this acknowledgement. As it turned out, I liked knowing that someone was watching.
Why hadn't I told more people I was running the marathon? Why hadn't I made my parents come watch?
But I knew why: In the event I failed, there'd be no one there to
witness. I had fooled everyone—even myself—into believing I wasn't going to try. That I didn't really care. But somewhere along that twenty-six-mile journey I realized: I did care. Of course I cared. I will always care.

With less than a mile to go, I pumped my arms and got up on my toes, which, in runner speak, means I ran really fast. I rounded the last corner, where there was actually a fat lady singing—nice touch, Portland—and blew through the final stretch like it was my own personal Olympics. On the other side of the finish line, race participants were in various forms of crumpled. Those still standing walked like they were drunk. I know I sound like a mental person, but I could have kept running. It was just like that day in fifth grade, when I wished I had run faster and beaten everyone by even more.

There's a framed picture of me running across the bridge during the marathon, and people will look at it and say, “Are you smiling? You're such a dork, I can't believe you smiled when you saw the cameraman.” But I didn't see the cameraman. I was just smiling.
¹⁰

10
In an ironic twist, in June of 2012, I was on the cover of
Runner's World
. Not as a runner, but as a “fitness model.”

I Love You!

A very drunk man with a very thick accent somehow wiggles
himself behind the concierge desk, trips toward the box, and bangs on the glass with both fists, bellowing, “I love youuuuuuuu!”

The concierge grabs him gently by the bicep and says, “Sir, she cannot interact with the hotel guests. Please move away from the box.” I can't help but feel sorry for the guy. The man steps back and almost falls over, then stumbles, one leg crossing in front of the other, toward the elevators.

Diorama

I just tossed my head back, slapped my thigh (which is bare,
so it hurt), and let loose a wild deluge of laughter, swishing blonde strands across my back. I'm on the phone with Heather, and she's pretty funny, but not
that
funny. Lately, I've been catching myself indulging in such theatrics while I'm in the box.