Monday, October 10, 2005

Portland Marathon 2005




Saturday morning I went downtown to pick up my race packet, runners bib, timing chip, souvenir program, pamphlets, race brochures, pill samples, crispy soy snacks, commemorative poster and maybe a singlet on sale at the Sports Expo.

Meanwhile, my curly haired friend Stephen is always on the make and called me during downtown traffic navigation at which I am a champ to ask where to take his hottie date for dinner on a brokeguy budget. I hummed, and thought and tried to parallel park while running through a list of north side restaurants I found tasteful and putout worthy.... and would you fucking believe it???

I mean, I am on a one way street and pull up to a one way, meaning left turn only and on the right corner the guy is pulling out and leaving his parking spot so I put on my right turn signal (a direction I cannot turn into unless I intended to park) and hit reverse opining the virtues of fusion cuisine when some asshole in a Mercedes, back window busted out covered with cardboard, slips into my spot whilst making eyecontact with my yelling self.

I whipped my car around the corner into a parking spot fortuitously fifteen feet away. I jumped out of my car and ran ten feet up the street YOU ARE A F*CKING *SSHOLE, YOU STUPID D*CK, F*CK YOU while he stiffleggedspeedywalked off in his hulking Bluto frame. (Ahem. I am not proud of my dirty mouth and don't set myself up as an example for young ladies or gentlemen who I presume don't read my blog anyway) I forgot entirely the live phone call in my hand. Am I ever ashamed?

And while Stephen was amused and demanding to know what precipitated the sudden litany of crude expression I could only think how great we tend towards moral-centricity in our friendships or I would never have friends.

Anyway, an hour and a half later I walked back to my car to find a parking ticket and a note taped to handle of my car door. Oh the beauty and the irony, but the grossness of his sexual offer I wont repeat. If I hadn't been so intent on perming his hair with my foul language I would not have forgot to pay for parking. Forgot I did.

HI SEXY SORRY I STOLD YOUR PARKING SPOT - MAYBE I CAN BUY DINNER AND (bleep)UR (bleep) CALL ME

The culmination of events was satisfyingly entertaining to me. I went home to rest my running legs.



The YOU ROCK is post-marathon cardstock from Sam who is ghostlike and legendary.



Of course, the night before I didn't sleep a wink. Maybe for ten minutes. I was so excited I felt sick. In the morning we held hands and got wove into the phenomenal crowd till the tide took the runners from the spectators. That's me with the stupid grin saying goodbye.

I don't even know what to say. I mean, you cant cry while you run because it redirects your primary respiratory priorities. I really don't know what to say.

NEVER AGAIN. NEVERNEVERNEVER AGAIN. I think was the first thing I said outloud when I crossed the finish line. And being prone to revisionism am certain I meant to say NEVER AGAIN WITHOUT PROPER-ER TRAINING. NEVER AGAIN WITHOUT DOUBLE THE TRAINING MILEAGE. NEVER AGAIN WITHOUT THREE TIMES THE HILL WORKOUTS.




Completing a marathon is an accomplishment, spiritually, physically, emotionally, and intellectually. Like learning to swallow your pounding-heart pride when you get swooshed by fat grannies who have been running for 25 years but look like they couldn't even knit for 26.2 minutes.

And putting one foot in front of the other 79472164 gazillion more times after you have realized the most painful and unfufilling thing you could possibly do is put your foot down one more time.

Floating in and out of physical awareness, numb and unnumb, feeling every single screaming, reeling cell...

...numb, unnumb actually differentiating which cells don't hurt to find the last positive spin on the experience THIS ISN'T SO BAD, MY BELLYBUTTON FEELS FINE, THE SKIN ON MY ELBOWS FEELS FRESH AND MY EARLOBES AREN'T THE LEAST BIT TIRED




Somehow I pulled a little more magic out and kicked it to the finish line with a 173 heartrate, once it was in my sights. I am such a novice. Marathon Number 3 is gonna be so kick ass.

I gotta say though, not one single blister, no black toenails that consequently wont be falling off in three months, the weather was perfectly cool and overcast, no significant chaffing except for my collar bone, no puking (like that gurgling treehugging weakkneed dude at mile 23) and no death on my part. I improved last years pace time by :59 seconds a mile, and finished 25:36 faster, knee stuff and all.

This morning I woke up considering a dream theory that I could map a catchy tune out of my DNA code. Maybe a little pick-me-up ditty when I feel vaporous and without presence, a theme song for the dark moments on the marathon course. It would only be 46 notes right? Something easy to memorize, with magical restorative properties. Musical juju.
How much does it cost to get your DNA mapped?

Then I realized my legs were 103 years old and I thought I might have to use my elbows to make it to the bathroom. I stayed home from classes and iced each leg joint 63 times apiece. My legs were only 52 years old by sundown. Things are looking up.

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