my first marathon

Yesterday, I participated in my first marathon. It wasn't even a marathon really. The Nike Run Hit Remix is more an organized phalanx of runners on a course dotted with stages mounted by forgotten but still beloved bands. Vanilla Ice, Young MC, Digital Underground. The headliner this year is De La Soul. A marketing opportunity disguised as charity. Nike affords Nike the precious opportunity to expose 10,000 people to Nike shoes and accessories. I paid $30 for this opportunity to be exposed to.

In training for this 5 mile run, 4.5 miles of which I walked, I had been waking up earlier than normal to save myself from zombie-esque behavior come 8:30am Sunday morning. I had to "train" in order to get out of bed. You can see how my moxie was tested.

Friday, I rose at 7am to go for a jog/walk. There is a very beautiful and affluent neighborhood just north of my apartment. On my side, there is an Irish pub, an LSAT prep school, a chiropractor. On the other side, a golf course, avenues blossoming with million dollar homes, Parisian inspired street lamps. Between the two, along the major thoroughfare, the divide is marked by a very discomforting freeway overpass. Some may find the freeway itself to be the greatest convenient nuisance. Its noise and soot tumbling onto the adjacent houses. For me, it is most treacherous to navigate the sidewalk plotted under the overpass; a sidewalk speckled with pidgeon droppings and littered with worn shopping bags. There is a once maroon couch that probably emits foul scents were I to approach it. Amidst tall strands of yellowing grass, there are empty beer bottles sleeping next to jagged styrofoam cups. And in a rusting van, parked almost always next to the same sidewalk on this particular side of the street, lives a man whom I can only assume is a drug dealer.

I label him a drug dealer because this morning, for the first time, I saw him outside of his van. He is tanned in a disregarded way. Long hair, moustache, scrawny and prematurely aged. As I ran past, he leans into its dark, cavernous interior while a woman dressed in discount clothing, sheepishly acknowledged my presence. It was an overly plain smile. One forced out of nervous lips that would not denote an illegal transaction. It inspired me to push myself farther because I was scared. It gave me speed and I ran home as fast as I could.

On Saturday, I didn't rise as early but, I did venture out of my parents' home and headed towards my old high school approximately 2 miles away. The scenery is peaceful in the town of Walnut and the drug dealers are few. As I made my way back to senior year, I passed the football field and the track that encircles it. There on the grass, was an industrious young man. He was alone, wearing a football jersey. "Special Team" I called him in my mind. He stood in front of the goal posts with a few footballs on the ground, one placed gently in its tee and ready for his leg to send it flying. I watched him take a carefully counted number of steps back. I watched him run a few calculated steps and kick the ball for the extra point. It was something he trained for, as I trained to run. He was disciplined. He was an expert. I wanted to ask him to teach me how to do it. But, I think there are laws against such "lessons." Especially after hours on a high school campus. Nonetheless, his solitary practice left an impression on me. In my endeavors, there is only one person who can help me become better at me and my thang. And yes, this person is of legal age for drinking, voting and viewing pornography.

I finished the race. Something I didn't think I would or could do. Though my body aches, I am proud to wear my medal of non-specific metal because it is a token of overcoming my own fears, physical and mental. I have a broken heart but no broken bones. I didn't break any records; I simply ran until I couldn't run any more. Then I walked. Then I forced myself to run a few minutes more. It is how any hardship is endured. One step at a time. My coach being me.