Last week, 23 miles was run by my little legs. Or rather, by various parts of my body alternately. More on that shortly. But know: 23 miles is a long way.
Of course last Saturday was the only day of the week that was as hot as it was. Luckily, we did run along the coast for the most part, so 90 degrees became 85 or some such. But know: 85 is hot.
It was billed by AIDS Project LA as our 'Celebration Run,' the final long distance run of our training, before the actual marathon itself. (I could think of better ways to celebrate, but no one would listen.) But there was much comraderie as all of the training groups from different locations around LA were collapsed into this one run, with lots of family and friends in attendence to volunteer for themed water stops; etc. A highlight before we began was a recent letter that was read aloud, from one of APLA's clients, who was diagnosed with AIDS in 1985 and given months to live, and who is now self-sufficient and healthy enough to no longer qualify for most of their services-- thanking the organization and detailing the myriad ways it "saved [his] life," even when he resented his circumstance and resisted assistance. This presenced us again to why were there, and know: 100+ watery eyes is a lot of water.
But following that, after much fanfare and pep talk from coaches in funny handmade superhero costumes ('Captain Awesome;' etc.), off we went! We began an hour late, which we knew we'd pay for later, as it got hotter later into the day. But it was a good run for me; I've been working on strengthening my quads to alleviate some of the strain on my bad knee, eating and sleeping properly, and being sure to hydrate myself adequately all week: I'd been a good bunny. Subsequently, it was a good run for me ... until about mile 11.5, when the course veered away from the beach, into Santa Monica, and suddenly a cluster of about 12 of us in my pace group found ourselves along a narrow passageway closed in by bushes and trees and there was a cracked sidewalk going up and down and up and down and sideways-- what do you know-- I suddenly go flying forward into the air toward the runner ahead of me, and as I come down I try to avoid her by propelling myself to the left with the next leg coming down, and wham! into a stone wall before seeing the ground come up toward me. When I open my eyes (apparently a good 45 seconds later), there are 12 people staring down at me with expressions varying from concern to fright to bemused puzzlement. ("Oh, that's horrible!" "So sad..." "Is she okay?" "How did that happen?" "She must have flown 5 feet..." "Whew, that could have been me..."). My arm is pinned at a strange angle beneath me with a hand limply hanging in the air, and I'm acutely aware that my shoulder screams at me when I try and move it. Someone calls in to one of the coaches, who must have had several errands to run before arriving, because several other training groups travel by in the meantime, craning their necks and slowing down to check out the damage, and query if there's anything they can do. I try and joke that unless they have a time machine, no, but no one hears me over the thick buzz of pity all around.
As my shock began to wear off, my pace group very sweetly circled round to obscure the view: "This isn't a sideshow!" (And yet, oh how it was. The bearded lady was just splayed out on concrete.) I tried to move, but felt some pain, and wanted to be sure not to make anything worse, so I stopped. The others thought this meant I couldn't move at all, and the diagnoses began raining down as two coaches arrived in a truck: "...broken arm..." "...broken hand..." "...broken shoulder..." "...look at her knee..." "...how long have we been here?..." I began to realize, given how I landed, that drama school-- where I'd once torn all of the ligaments up my hand and arm in a fall during rehearsal-- had finally proved useful! I'd been taught to fall properly and instinctually had absorbed my body into my lowered forearm when ricocheting off the wall onto the ground. My shoulder had been jammed a bit, taking all my massive muscular weight, hohoho, and my incidentals were a bit scraped up, but all was well. I began to tell them I was fine, really, and began to move, until I suddenly was dizzy and informed that I'd also slammed my head into said wall. Oh.
My group was permitted to now continue their run, and with nostalgic and regretful tips of their caps, away they went. The coaches insisted I not continue, thinking I might have dislocated my shoulder, and made a move to call an ambulance, since I also couldn't yet stand and for the moment it hurt to breathe deeply-- but I was overcome with a streak of stubborness I've not felt since the IRS told me I owed them money. Lots of money. As I watched the dots of runners recede up a hill into disappearance, I thought, "Hell to the no!" We debated back and forth as I got up and dusted off, and with no medical degrees between us, I won. Straight out of an episode on Lifetime, I said, "Please let me know my own body." I bid one of them hold my arm while I popped my shoulder back where it felt it should be. With a mix of adolescent pride, embarrassment and competitive angst, I charged up the hill, and annoyance was sifted into the batter when the coaches insisted I at least only walk to the top as they accompanied me for another half mile up the hill, making sure I didn't drop on their watch. But there was no time for warmth and caring: I had a 1/2 hour to make up! I was given directions for the remainder of the course, and advice should various scenarios arise, and began to lope ahead.
In retrospect, in many ways it was not my finest hour. This was still supposed to just be a training run, taken easy, nothing crazy. But I was out of control, myopic, taken over by some strange, irrational sense of mission I've not felt in a long time, like ... George W. in Iraq. I'm not sure what I was so determined to do as I was doing it, but I was up to something. Something foolish, no doubt. My body hurt in various places, and it felt ungodly hot, but I pushed and pushed and grunted at myself, all the time thinking, "Hmm, I really shouldn't be doing this, should I?" I ran and ran, and as I caught up to the last pace group, they looked at me as if I was a ghost. But they cheered me on. I passed them and caught my pace group, who'd begun to spread out (an inevitability as folks begin to flag and settle into just making it to the next mile marker)-- and who were, needless to say, surprised to see me. ("You go, girl!" "You're my hero!") But I even left them behind, and kept up my speed. Why? I don't know, but I had plenty of time to consider my various personal psychoses and hang-ups, and you can make money betting I did.
What seemed like years later, when I thrust myself across the finish line (and had a cute copper medal courtesy of APLA draped around my neck), I realized that that had just been my Marathon. I don't know what I'll have left for the 'actual' event in Florence, but I'd squeezed every last bit of juice I could out of this body on Saturday, and the catalyst for it all was thinking I couldn't and that it was all over, even for just a little while, as I lay there resigned on the ground with lots of eyes on me only hours before. And I thought about that letter from the fellow living with AIDS... his body has alternately failed him ongoingly and within the resolve of a community, he makes it across measure after measure. We come to know ourselves via the company we keep, I realized as I lay there in a pool of ice being high-fived more than once, cheering everyone else in as they finished.
My new favorite thing is to thank everyone, all of the time, for everything. In this case, I will thank you for your attention to the matter of our little odyssey here. There's no forest where there is no one to see the trees, no? And of course, to those of you who've contributed financially: I am now only $150 shy of the $3800 I committed to raising for APLA. (Thanks to those of you who attended my raffle event in Long Beach last week!) Tax deductible donations can still be made to
http://www.aidsmarathon.com/participant.asp?runner=LA-4492&Year=2006&EventCode=FL06, or go to
www.aidsmarathon.com, click on 'Sponsor A Runner,' the 'Los Angeles,' and enter my runner #4492.
We do 8 and 10 milers from here on out, until the marathon itself at the end of November. We no longer consider these 'long' distances. Many of APLA's former clients know what such a shift is like. Without the grace of one another, none of us would.
Grazie!
Danielle D.
