Chicago Marathon 10-10-10

Hi Friends,

Leaving for the Chicago Marathon Friday. The actual run is Sunday, 10-10-10.

As usual, my running friends are falling apart and so am I. Two recently discovered small hernias, one smashed her knee on the door and my own left knee is ready for amputation.

All that’s normal. I remember the day before Boston, I couldn’t walk three steps and wished I’d kept the race a secret. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to run. Next day, I forgot the whole crippling incident and had a great marathon.

I’m trying to flush the bad thoughts OUT of my head. What’s bothering me is that a month ago I finished a 19-mile-workout and realized I was pretty comfortable with the distance. Next day, I left town for 10 beautiful days in Oregon. While I was gone, my O.C. running partners shared three long runs, 22 to 24 miles. I promised myself that I’d match the O.C. group with at least two 22-mile runs while in Oregon.

Turns out I like sleeping late on vacation and biking, hiking, eating. So when the rest of the O.C. runners were here learning marathon distance, I ran about two miles.

By the time I got home, the O.C running group was into our “taper” which means low mileage period designed to rest before the 26.2 marathon distance. As Joan Benoit Samuelson writes in Running for Women, “At this stage [taper] any new training cannot help you; it can only hinder your performance.”

I don’t want to think about missed work-outs because it reminds me of the miserable final four marathon miles where lack of preparation turns every single step into torture.

Thank you. Now that I wrote the above complaints and excuses, I’m looking forward to running the famous Chicago Marathon. Love, Carrie

TRAINS, THE CHICAGO WAY

A nonstop flight from California brought my husband Paul, 72 and me, 66, to Chicago O’Hare on Friday, October 8, 2010. The trip brought me closer to 10-10-10 and the famous Chicago Marathon. We collected our luggage and walked across the terminal to the train which streaks through the airport every few minutes to take travelers to their hotels. In Calif, CTA means Calif Teachers Association, but in Chicago it means Chicago Tranisit Authority, transportation all over Chicago for $2.25.

After a 30-minute-trip, we jumped off at Clark and Lake, in downtown Chicago. We pulled suitcases behind us for the two-block-walk to Hotel Allegro where my marathon running friends were staying.

At 5:15 that evening Cal Coast Runners from Orange County, California gathered in the Allegro lobby to catch another train to the EXPO where, as in all races, we show I.D. in order to pick up our numbers and computer chips, the timing devices which attach to a shoelace. The chip matches the runner’s number and records the exact time he/she crosses the start and finish. During the marathon, the runner must cross several check points along the course to be sure nobody takes the CTA to the end for a false finish. Ever hear of Rosie Ruiz?

So, we assembled in the Allegro lobby at 5:15 p.m. to go to the EXPO. Caroline our head coach and motivator, fastest runner, winner of Newport Beach, California’s recent Susan Komen Survivor’s Race took off to catch the 6:00 train, sprinting through the streets of Chicago at her pace. We scrambled after her scooting around well dressed Chicagoans, hoping she’d be stopped by a red light. She wasn’t.

By the time we arrived at the station, Caroline and Catherine, our other coach were nowhere to be seen. Nervous because we didn’t know where to go without them, we fumbled for our fares. I forgot to say that you need exactly $2.25 or the machine keeps your extra money. I’m a champion fumbler so John, a fellow runner bought two tickets and shoved one into my hand. The little band of lost Californians charged on to the platform looking for Caroline and Catherine. There were two trains on the tracks but only one train with its doors open so we agreed, “This must be our train.”

John, Jeanie, JohnO. and I got on. John took charge. He’s a nuclear engineer who works with Caroline, also an nuclear engineer. John asked a young man with a ball cap pulled over his eyebrows, “Does this go to the Expo?”

“EXPO?” the look on the kid’s face told us that not everyone in Chicago spoke Marathonese. “Does the train go to McCormick Place?” John corrected himself. “Yeah” the young guy said as he moved on to find a seat.

“WHEW!” we heaved a collective sigh of relief and sat down on the train--still unsure and on the edge of our seats.

John texted Caroline, “We’re on.”

However, due to doubts that we were headed in the right direction, we asked a rider seated near us. “No” he said, “this train goes out of town.” We four scrambled to exit back to the platform.

John texted Caroline, “We’re off.”

However, a uniformed CTA worker appeared. “Does this train go to McCormick Place?” John asked. The thing is, this was the only train around and we badly wanted it to go to the EXPO so we kept asking until we got the answer we hoped for.

“Yes, first stop,” he said.

We reboarded the train and sat down somewhat uncertainly, on the edge of our seats.

“We’re back on,” John texted Caroline.

The train soon slowed for what we thought was the first stop. We jumped up to exit, waiting at the door, four runners over sixty, lined up like anxious school kids on the first day riding the school bus.

The door didn’t open. The train picked up speed. We reentered the car and sat down in loud chatty puzzlement as the train left Chicago at a rapid pace. Tall buildings gave way to brick houses with peaked roofs. We were speeding toward the suburbs. John texted Caroline. “We’re headed for Hoboken.”

We perched on the edge of our seats, wide-eyed.

A lady sat against the bulkhead of the train. Her tightly curled hair crowned a face with two eyes that went off in different directions. She was seriously hump backed. She faced our way and I thought our noisy confusion must have invaded her space so I said,

“Don’t mind us, we’re lost.”

“Where do you want to go?” she asked.

We want to get off at McCormick Place,” we explained. She smiled and later we all agreed, that smile was beautiful. We loved her more when she gave us specific directions. “Get off at the next stop. Catch the inbound Chicago train going the opposite direction and you’ll see McCormick place.”

We thanked her, watched miles of the burbs rush by before we could disembark. Pressed against the door as the train stopped, we bust out together when, this time, it OPENED.

Landing on the platform in the middle of nowhere, we four senior clowns looked longingly at the bench on the other side. A ten foot ditch with an electrified track separated us from the train we desperately wanted to ride back to Chicago.

We’d left our angel in the train, now two more appeared, giggling at our ignorance.

“See that door?” they directed us to an opening which led to a stairway under the tracks. Inside the stairway, the air was dank and pee smelling. We clung closely together as we descended into the catacombs of the CTA transit system. “You think anybody uses this secret passage?” I asked. Happily we climbed up another set of stairs into fresh air and miraculously on the other side of the tracks!

We spotted a little building with two neatly groomed Asian women seated on the bench inside. We asked, “When does the inbound Chicago train come?

They spoke Japanese, “No Englishie,” they told us, smiling sweetly.

We were in the midst of sign language when a train sped up. “Chicago,” it said. We boarded enthusiastically and sat down, all on aisle seats, on the edge of sanity.

A conductor came through to stamp our tickets. John, Jeanie and JohnO held up tickets. Panicked, I ransacked my big travel purse, finally locating my ticket. We gave him the tickets. “These are the wrong tickets,” as he shook his head, rolled his eyes and stamped each one.

I noted that the conductor was handsome in his CTA uniform so I asked him nicely, “Will you please stay here to show us McCormick Place?” but he went on down the line.

We were on our own again. It seemed like hours going out of town, but the train got back into the city rapidly. Eyes glued to the window, we must have looked anxious because an empathetic passenger said, “You’re on the right train.” We settled back into our seats, feeling the seat-backs for the first time.

We looked out. Suddenly, “McCormick Place,” big letters on the brick subway wall. The door opened. We vaulted up from our seats and flew out to find ourselves at the Grand Entrance to the CHICAGO MARATHON EXPO. Honestly, that train back into town couldn’t have left us off at a better place.

John texted Caroline, “We’re here.”

By the way, we got our numbers, shirts, computer chips and overpriced Chicago Marathon Jackets. We hadn’t run the marathon yet, but we earned the jackets by getting to the Expo.

...........................................................

For the rest of our stay, my husband, Paul bought 3-day CTA passes, learned the Chicago map and transit routs. With Paul, I saw the Art Institute, Museum of Contemporary Art, History Museum, Zoo and Conservatory, BILLY ELLIOT, Navy Pier and back to O’Hare Airport We never got lost once. CTA served us very well, once we got the hang of it.

Carrie Luger Slayback came in 6th in the 65-69 age-group in the Chicago Marathon. She is a freelance writer who lives in Newport Beach, California. Recent articles appear in the LA Times, SASEE Magazine.

THE MARATHON 10-10-10

Here’s what the Chicago week-end weather report looked like: Friday: 73, Saturday 75, SUNDAY 85, Monday 76. What kind of bad trick was this? Why was Sunday, the famous marathon date of 10-10-10 the hottest day of the week?

Marathon morning, I know the drill-- alarm sounds, pull on tried-and-true marathon shorts and top, eat an orange, peanutbutterhoney sandwich on Trader Joe’s Complete Protein Bread, milk, hardboiled egg, put on visor, sunglasses, sunscreen, and fanny pack with electrolyte “candy” and zip lock bagged cell phone. Grab water.

Hotel elevator door opened, crammed with runners. I squeezed in. Floated down to the lobby to meet my pace group: Catherine, Elizabeth, and Jill. We met at 6:00 a.m. to make it to the start by 7:00 for the 7:30 gun. No nervousness on my part. Marathons don’t register on my Nervous Scale, but driving the freeway does. [weird]

We walked through early morning Chicago to the the runner’s village, stood in line for the port-o-pottie and made our way to the gob of tens of thousands of people prepared to run. The gun went off while we were in line for the pottie but a fellow runner told us to relax. It’d be half hour before we saw the starting line as we shared the course with 38,000 other runners.

That came true. We left the potties, walked to our corral and waited, waited, waited. Meantime the sun got brighter and hotter. An official prevented us from joining the river of runners inching toward the start. She held a flimsy little rope across our path. Runners took a look at the barrier and jumped over. The official gave up, dropped the rope and we started out----WALKING. Evil portends. I never suspected my finish would book-end my start.

Anyway, we walked because we were stuck in a dense crowd. What was supposed to be a 7:30 start turned into past 8:00. The sun looked down, mocking us.

We finally crossed the start. I had my Garmin timing watch on. Caroline warned us the Garmin would go crazy due to tall buildings blocking the satellite message. Mine read l.56 miles when I pressed “start.” Should have read one mile at the end of the first mile.

The crowd thinned a little as we continued past the start and Catherine took off. Her goal was 10 minute mile, dropping to 9:40 and then keeping pace for the first half. Due to Garmin malfunction, we had no idea what our pace was, but we followed Catherine as she snaked through the crowd. Near mile two, I almost went down catching my shoe in a pothole. From then on, I kept my eyes glued to the pavement. An otherwise perfectly maintained city, there were many deep ruts in the roads of Chicago. Elizabeth, Catherine and I ran together for the first half.

We all had water lasting the first ten miles, so we sipped as we ran. We did stop for vile disgusting Gatoraide to keep our electrolytes up. We took cups of cool water to dump over our steamy heads.

During marathons in San Francisco and New York, I saw breathtaking views of Golden Gate Bridge or the N.Y. skyline. In Chicago, I saw the street nicks, potholes, and cement irregularities during the marathon. Chicago is a stunningly beautiful city. In the days that followed the marathon, I fell in love with the city skyline.

As in other marathons, I lost Catherine and Elizabeth at the half. I continued to drink water and Gatoraide and even stuck some Shot Blocks (Electrolyte candy) in my mouth. It was hot. Lee Ann, one of our running group took a photo of the thermostat at the high school, it read 96.

I didn’t think the heat bothered me. I became weary but that’s what happens to me around mile 18. I began to feel the hint of leg cramps around mile 20. “NO,” I told the cramps, “Don’t you dare!” I ran on, pleased I’d banished the cramps with my strong will.

Then overwhelming cramps grabbed my calf muscle, and quads. I’d been mad at runners who blocked me by stopping mid course. “Can’t you move to the side?” I snarled under my breath. Cramps stopped me dead, mid course. People dodged around me. OUCH, OUCH, OUCH, I said. A paramedic cut across the course and came to my side. “I can call an ambulance,” he said. “I’M NOT INJURED, I HAVE A LEG CRAMP!” I told him in a tone that made him retreat to the sidelines leaving me to suffer on my own.

A lovely lady runner stopped beside me.

”Stretch and massage those muscles.” she ordered me.

“Go on,” I said, “don’t wreck your time.”

“My time isn’t important, now stretch,” she answered sharply.

I did and she went on. I don’t have any idea what she looked like. I was doubled over, stretching and rubbing for the whole conversation.

I tried to run again but was almost blown off the track with fierce cramping of all my leg muscles. I walked. I could walk without cramps. I picked up my legs to run again but again paralyzing cramps seized my legs. I gave up, completely demoralized. I walked in. Yeah, I tried to run a few more times but no act of will could control the cramping.

For the first time in my marathon-running-life, I walked all the way through the chute and past the finish. I didn’t even want their corny finisher’s medal.

My finish time was my slowest at 5:03:06 and I got 6th place in my age-group.

I like the LA Marathon, I like the Orange County Marathon, I love the San Francisco, New York and double love the Boston Marathon. I don’t like the Chicago Marathon.

When I got home to my computer, I looked up leg cramps on the internet. As suggested, I took in the water and electrolytes. I have never thought of salt tablets, another antidote to cramps. With the heat, maybe the salt tablets would have made a difference. Potassium may be important. I eat a banana almost every day at home but I did not have one on the day of the marathon. Next time I will.

Other runners complain of leg cramps. I’ve never had them before and I hope that I never have them again.

.....................

That evening I spoke to the father of one of my former students, Nick Arciniaga, a world class runner. Nick hoped to break 2:10. He came in at 2:18. He did qualify for the Olympic Trials but he and his teammates could not make their times in Chicago. I spoke to a young man from Chile who came with 14 other Chilean runners. Like me, he had leg cramps and was almost half hour off his time. My pace group, Catherine and Elizabeth, well trained runners, came in half hour after me. In our Orange County group, only our head coach, Caroline made her time of 3:33. Nice to have a champion in our midst. We’ll all be back on the trail Saturday analyzing Chicago, and you bet there’ll be talk of our next marathon.

ADDENDUM: I came in sixth in my age group, 65-69 year-old females. Well, last week I found the record of my age group. Here’s the galling thing: I was in THIRD PLACE by an average of seven minutes all the way to a 35K or twenty-one miles. That must have been where the leg cramps started. I lost so much time, I dropped to sixth place. Curses!

Carol, Jill, Marie with me on the end holding award

Running Diary Feb 7, 2010, CALIFORNIA-- Surf City Half Marathon on Super Bowl Sunday”

I think it’s silly when people make a big fuss, congratulating me on second place in the Surf City Half Marathon. On the other hand, it disappoints me when friends act as if it’s nothing--”yeah, you placed again” and change the subject. Both congratulations for placing and ignoring what I did miss the point.

I want my friends to enjoy the sensations I felt and catch the significance of what I achieved at 66-years-old running my guts out.

We’d had a cold rain storm (by Californian standards) the night before the half marathon. When Carol (48 yrs. old) picked me up at 5:15 a.m. on race day, THREE HOURS EALRY, I shivered running from my house to her car even though I had on two sweatshirts and rain poncho. Due to Carol’s expert-New York-driver impatience, Marie (52 yrs. old), Carol and I flew down Pacific Coast Highway. We skidded through the U-turn at Beach Blvd and reached Carol’s goal and the reason for the early arrival. We got a good spot in the parking lot.

Once parked, Carol and Marie put their seats back and I curled up in the back seat. We slept under beach towels making quick bundled up trips to the beachside public toilets. We awoke at about 7:00 for a 7:45 start. Marie had the nerve to tell me I snored and tooted in my sleep. So, what do you expect when you maroon a runner in your BMW hatchback 3 hours before her race? And I don’t believe Marie anyway. Snoring and farting in bed are what my husband does. I do not.

About forty minutes pre-race, we opened the car doors to bright sun. The big sweat shirt and poncho stayed in the car. We walked over to the typical squashed-body-to body start. I usually run with Marie, but she was still recovering from her hamstring injury so she planned to run with our new running friend, Jill.

I’d run this race on my own. The gun sounded and I took off. I am not a technical runner but I had a goal for Surf City. Last October 11, I finished the Long Beach Half Marathon at 1:59:38, 9:08 pace. I wanted to do it again. I had looked up a 1:59 pace and found I’d have to run around a nine minute mile. Impossible. I train at 10:30 and my so called speedwork last Wednesday had been 9:30 for a puny three miles. I felt spent at the end of the three miles, winded ready to walk. I had not been doing many long runs during the week due to rain and out-of-town guests. All these excuses explain why I could not run thirteen nine-minute-miles.

Here is what I did.

1. Broke the race into segments as always, the first three miles seeming the longest in this half marathon.
2. I drank in the beauty of California after a rain. WE NEED RAIN. I love rain. I ran down Pacific Coast Highway looking to the south at playful whitecaps waving at me from a bright blue sea and to the north at miles of snow-dressed San Gabriel Mountains. In California, the snow melts quickly at lower elevations so being outdoors to view the snow all the way down to the foot of the mountains is a unique piece of good luck. What a distance runner wants is distraction. My head turned from side to side as I inhaled the fresh, slightly moist ocean air and reveled in the views.

1. I looked at my Garmin pace watch at random times during the race to see times of 8:47, 8:30, 9:10. I seemed to be going pretty fast.
2. I pretended I was Nick Arciniaga, my former fourth grade student, now an elite runner. I’m a retired teacher and Nick’s dad keeps in touch, sending me video of his races. I’ve noticed Nick stands straight, chest slightly inflated, head up, face relaxed, arms swinging by sides. Nick looks like somebody who knows he can. Can what? Do anything. So, I unhunched my shoulders, got my eyes off the pavement and hung my face muscles loosely. I couldn’t manage Nick’s look of the conqueror but apparently the rest of the strategy worked. A petite young woman with a brown pony tail and the defined cheekbones of a runner pulled up beside me. “Nice form,” she said. This was mile 11 and I replied, mystified, “I’m not tired.” “You don’t look tired,” she said. Then I told her, “I don’t want to talk about it,” and laughed. I believe she understood. I was afraid to focus on my UNusual lack of fatigue for fear that old familiar dead-legged feeling would overcome me.

I appreciated the miles melting away between mile ten and twelve. By mile thirteen I DID get tired, finally spotting the balloon arch with relief. Only it was a lie. The arch remained anchored at the start. The finish was still a block ahead. I wasn’t the only runner who found that arrangement cruel.

I went though the slot to a time of 2:04. I was disappointed with the time but then, I’d felt good, I had not walked much at water-stops, didn’t do the runner’s shuffle. I felt some degree of self-satisfaction even if I hadn’t made my time, and besides I am always thrilled to be DONE RUNNING and ready to eat something, everything in sight. I got my surf-board-shaped medal, made my way past four-foot-tall barriers of water bottles, volunteers handing out space blankets and the chiropractic massage tents. I should mention, I stopped my watch at 1:59, but discounted it. My Garmin miles had not even lined up with the official mile markers.

I found the results tent where young men used scotch tape to hang posters listing runners results. They taped up the 1:50 to 1:59 results and I looked to see who made the goal I’d missed. There was my name. Carrie Slayback at 1:59:14, a personal best for me. I got 2nd place behind a women I would like to meet. She came in at 1:39. Her time is remarkable in the 65-69 female age group.

I met my group of friends. Carol finished at 1:33, making a 4th place, just missing her chance at a plaque. Jill had the dry heaves and Marie stayed behind with her. They gathered around my plaque with its little surfboard glued to the face and took a photo. All there congratulations were beside the point. At my advanced age, I place every time.

The plaque, the second place meant less to me than the fact that I’d felt like a runner, not an old-lady-jogger. I’m not that fast. My competitor who got first place IS. That didn’t matter to me either, the magic word is “personal best.”

At 5:30 am Tuesday morning I met my long-time running partner, Ken, a former baseball coach and avid sports fan. I looked forward to telling him the story of my half marathon. He was more interested in relating how my race closed Pacific Coast Highway so he and his wife, returning home from a party in Long Beach, were forced to take a 45 minutes detour. He glossed over the most important sports event of Superbowl Sunday: On a perfectly beautiful day in Huntington Beach, California, Carrie Luger Slayback, at sixy-six years-old, clocked a personal best in the Surf City Half Marathon.

After Surf City with my "Second Place Surf Board Plaque"

Running Diary Feb 7, 2010, CALIFORNIA-- Surf City Half Marathon on Super Bowl Sunday”

I think it’s silly when people make a big fuss, congratulating me on second place in the Surf City Half Marathon. On the other hand, it disappoints me when friends act as if it’s nothing--”yeah, you placed again” and change the subject. Both congratulations for placing and ignoring what I did miss the point.

I want my friends to enjoy the sensations I felt and catch the significance of what I achieved.

We’d had a cold rain storm (by Californian standards) the night before the half marathon. When Carol (48 yrs. old) picked me up at 5:15 a.m. on race day, THREE HOURS EALRY, I shivered running from my house to her car in spite of my two sweatshirts and rain poncho. Due to Carol’s expert-New York-driver impatience, Marie (52 yrs. old), Carol and I flew down Pacific Coast Highway. We skidded through the U-turn at Beach Blvd and reached Carol’s goal and the reason for the early arrival. We got a good spot in the parking lot.

Once parked, Carol and Marie put their seats back and I curled up in the back seat. We slept under beach towels making quick bundled up trips to the beachside public toilets. We awoke at about 7:00 for a 7:45 start. Marie had the nerve to tell me I snored and tooted in my sleep. So, what do you expect when you maroon a runner in your BMW hatchback 3 hours before her race? And I don’t believe Marie anyway. Snoring and farting in bed are what my husband does. I do not.

About forty minutes pre-race, we opened the car doors to bright sun. The big sweat shirt and poncho stayed in the car. We walked over to the typical squashed-body-to body start. I usually run with Marie, but she was still recovering from her hamstring injury so she planned to run with our new running friend, Jill.

I’d run this race on my own. The gun sounded and I took off. I am not a technical runner but I had a goal for Surf City. Last October 11, I finished the Long Beach Half Marathon at 1:59:38, 9:08 pace. I wanted to do it again. I had looked up a 1:59 pace and found I’d have to run around a nine minute mile. Impossible. I train at 10:30 and my so called speedwork last Wednesday had been 9:30. That was for only three miles. I felt spent at the end of the three miles, winded ready to walk. I had not been doing many long runs during the week due to rain and out-of-town guests. All these excuses explaining why I could not run thirteen nine-minute-miles.

Here is what I did:

1. Broke the race into segments as always, the first three miles seeming the longest in this half marathon.
2. I drank in the beauty of California after a rain. WE NEED RAIN. I love rain. I ran down Pacific Coast Highway looking to the south at playful whitecaps waving at me from a bright blue sea and to the north at miles of snow-dressed San Gabriel Mountains. In California, the snow melts quickly at lower elevations so being outdoors to view the snow all the way down near the foot of the mountains is a unique piece of good luck. What a distance runner wants is distraction. My head turned from side to side as I inhaled the fresh, slightly moist ocean air and reveled in the views.
3. I looked at my Garmin pace watch at random times during the race to see times of 8:47, 8:30, 9:10. I seemed to be going pretty fast.
4. I pretended I was Nick Arciniaga, my former fourth grade student, now an elite runner. I’m a retired teacher and Nick’s dad keeps in touch, sending me video of his races. I’ve noticed Nick stands straight, chest slightly inflated, head up, face relaxed, arms swinging by sides. Nick looks like somebody who knows he can. Can what? Do anything. So, I unhunched my shoulders, got my eyes off the pavement and hung my face muscles loosely. I couldn’t manage Nick’s look of the conqueror but apparently the rest of the strategy worked. A petite young woman with a brown pony tail and the defined cheekbones of a runner pulled up beside me. “Nice form,” she said. This was mile 11 and I replied, mystified, “I’m not tired.” “You don’t look tired,” she replied. Then I told her, “I don’t want to talk about it,” and laughed. I believe she understood. I was afraid to focus on my UNusual lack of fatigue for fear that old familiar dead-legged feeling would overcome me.

I appreciated the miles melting away between mile ten and twelve. By mile thirteen I DID get tired, finally spotting the balloon arch with relief. Only it was a lie. The arch remained anchored at the start. The finish was still a block ahead. I wasn’t the only runner who found that arrangement cruel.

I went though the slot to a time of 2:04. I was disappointed with the time but then, I’d felt good, I had not walked much at water-stops, didn’t do the runner’s shuffle. I felt some degree of self-satisfaction even if I hadn’t made my time, and besides I am always thrilled to be DONE RUNNING and ready to eat something, everything in sight. I got my surf-board-shaped medal, made my way past four-foot-tall barriers of water bottles, volunteers handing out space blankets and the chiropractic massage tents. I should mention, I stopped my watch at 1:59, but discounted it. My Garmin miles had not even lined up with the official mile markers.

I found the results tent where young men used scotch tape to hang posters listing runners results. They taped up the 1:50 to 1:59 results and I looked to see who made the goal I’d missed. There was my name. Carrie Slayback at 1:59:14, a personal best for me. I got 2nd place behind a women I would like to meet. She came in at 1:39. Her time is remarkable in the 65-69 female age group.

LONG BEACH HALF MARATHON MESS

So what does it mean to be 65 years old? I pay NO attention, I mean I pay no attention until I get a reminder such as, “You’re too old to keep up.” Example: I pay NO attention to my age as long as I beat my 52-year-old running partner, Marie in practice runs and races.

In 2008, we both qualify for Boston. We run together for the first 13 miles but then, I take off and didn’t see Marie until that night at Legal Seafood. Yeah, I come in before Marie, but I brush aside the congratulations. Winning is INSIGNIFICANT to me as long as I win.

This September, Carol, 47, our unofficial coach and Marie’s housemate, puts Marie on a slam-bang training program. Marie gets a new short haircut, loses 10 pounds and leaves me in the dust in every single practice run.

THAT is when I begin to notice with painful clarity that, yeah, I’m a senior citizen, thirteen years older than my running partner who is way stronger than I am. A nagging sadness enters my consciousness,

“Maybe I can’t train with you any more,” I tell Marie.

Still, Marie, Carol and I sign up for the Long Beach Half Marathon on October 11, 2009. We drive together to the Long Beach Convention Center for the Expo, an event held prior to every race where runners pick up the numbers we pin on our shirts and the computer chips we attach to a shoelace to record our times.

We enter the doors of the Expo to find at least half of the twenty-thousand runners shoved together in front of the tables full of cardboard boxes holding our numbers. I give my name and age to a young volunteer with a conservative 007 part in his brown hair and he hands me a paper “bib,” with my number i.d. for Sunday’s run.

I turn from the table, just in time. The crowd is closing Carol and Marie from sight. I scurry over and trail after, while Carol scoots from booth to booth trying on caps. Every cap sits stubbornly on top of her head, resisting all efforts to pull down. She’s 5’3,” petite with a head size in proportion. Are all other runners pin-heads? Finally, one white ball cap slides over her forehead . She buys it and steers me to the booth with the meridian dots.

“I don’t believe in this meridian baloney,” I tell the muscular young guy in the booth. Ignoring my negativity, he orders, “Stand on one foot, stick your arm out.” I obey. He touches one meaty hand to my outstretched arm. I tip over. He slides a meridian bracelet on my wrist. “Now stand on one foot.” This time I am steady as a fence post against his hefty push. I pay him $20.00 cash and leave with a “Meridian Pack,” six shiny foil discs I can’t wait to stick on the backs of my watches.

The meridians don’t work for dinner. My husband and I eat out because the house painters who were supposed to finish in a week are going on three. Mother’s Kitchen, a never-fail provider of high quality pre race carbs, fails. After a forty minute wait, my quinoa arrives gathered in frozen lumps beneath my curried lentils. “Please put this back in the micro for a few minutes,” I ask my tattooed waiter.

Out to the parking lot, we jump into my trusty ’98 Toyota 4-Runner. I strain to turn the key. No matter how much we rock the steering wheel, the ignition stays frozen. Two hours and a $200.00 ignition later, we drive home.

It’s 10:00 p.m. by the time I set out my singlet and running shoes. I attach my chip to my shoe, “Vanessa Gomez,” it reads, “27-years-old.” I focus on the number printed on the bib, “11439, not my 12439. Under the number, Vanessa requested her nickname, “P-NUT,” be printed. At 5’2” I could be P-NUT, but I am NOT.

I dodge stepladders and drop cloths on my way to the computer. I find a contact number for the Long Beach Marathon. A female voice recording says “I will be checking my messages Tuesday, GOOD BYE.” That’s two days after the race.

I email Carol and Marie, I got the BIB and CHIP of some 27-yr-old.”

I tell myself, “I’ll be there plenty early to fix the problem.” We plan to meet at 5:00 a.m. at the Von’s parking lot in Irvine and drive on together.

I climb the stairs to the loft over the garage where we sleep until we get the house back from the painters. I set the alarm for 4:00 a.m., hop in bed but wake in a panic and look at the clock. I see 5:00 a.m. My brain refocuses to understand it is 11:25 p.m., I got the big and little hand reversed. I reset the alarm a bit earlier.

When the alarm goes off, it really IS 5:00 a.m. I must’ve reset it wrong. I call Carol and Marie.

“Go on without me,” I tell them.

As I pull on my socks, my cell chimes,” We’re on the freeway, comin’ to get you.”

Minutes later, they pull up and I jump in. Carol must have driven at 95 mph to my house, a speed she continues along the 405 and 710, zipping into the last space in the lot by the Long Beach Convention Center.

We all jump out of Carol’s car and I look for someone to exchange my number. The only “official” ANYWHERE” is a DJ, hired to play ear-splitting music at the start. We give up the search and take our places at the end of a long line for the port-o-potties.

I pin on Vanessa’s number, resigned to impersonate a 27-year-old “P-NUT.”

The starting gun goes off. We’re still in line. We rush our business in the paperless port-o-potties and scramble to the start. We take off minutes after the “gun” but our chip will record our true times. Even starting late, we dodge, hop and nudge the dense crowd of other runners.

At mile 2, runners spread out. We settle into a 9:40 pace under cool grey skies, my favorite running weather. The course winds around Shoreline Drive, through Marine Stadium, giving us airy views of ocean and one long stretch of beach.

I keep up with Marie, even leading a surge when I spot a senior female runner ahead. Could she be in my 65-69-year-old age group? I pull out reserves I never knew I had with the sight of grey hair, saggy chin or blue veins.

Along the course, I steer clear of the crowd, nervous that a big hand will reach out and grab my spandex, an accusing voice booming, “You’re not P-NUT!”

Carol finishes ahead of us and encourages Marie to finish fast. With supreme effort, I huff and puff a few paces behind.

As I cross the line, I look at the official clock. It reads 2:04. I punch my Garmin pace watch at 1:59 but do not believe the time. Marie reminds me,

“We were at the port-o-potties when the gun went off.”

“Maybe 2:02,” I say, “I’ve been so slow in practice runs, no way I broke two hours.”

To myself, I chant, “THANK YOU, THANK YOU THANK YOU.” I thank the universe that I completed 13.1 miles and no longer have to work my stubby legs.

Carol goes for coffee. Marie and I spot a guy with a plastic I.D. hanging from a lanyard. We ask where the official runner’s tent is. He points across a grassy field,

“See that white tent, ask there.”

We elbow droves of other runners who wait in the grass for the free massage or chiropractic eval. I’m inside the white tent. Tables hold stacks of notices for future races. Shiny-faced young people greet us, longing to sell us a trip to the Hindustani Marathon but they look blankly at me when I tell them I’m not P-NUT. One sales rep sends me next door to the red, white and blue tent. There, I see stacks of medals in the shape of the State of California ready to be given out to winning runners. Nobody’s in charge but one volunteer tells us, “ Go to the finish,”

“Thanks,” I say, “that’s where we started.”

Finally we end-up at a tent with a long table full of lap tops, opened toward faceless humans seated on folding chairs. I spot a lone person standing. She’s late twenty’s wearing a heavy sweat shirt and navy ball cap pulled over her eyebrows. If the computer line-up looks like robots, the sandy-haired young woman appears grim. I smile.

“Hi,” I say brightly, fingering the number pinned to my shirt, “ a volunteer at the Expo yesterday gave me the wrong number. I should be lllllll but he gave me lllll It’s Vanessa Gomez’ number and she’s 27. I’m in the 65-69 age-group.”

The blue cap turns slightly my way, looks at me tensely and says, “YOU took the wrong number,” then turns back to face the plastic backs of the lap tops.

Now, this is the wrong way to talk to a nice little old lady.

I TAP Blue Ball Cap on the shoulder in a way she can feel the tap, not an assault, a wake-up.

“No, I didn’t TAKE a wrong number. Your volunteer GAVE me a wrong number,” I project my voice into her right ear.

She tips one shoulder toward me, shoves a clipboard my way, and turns her back. The lined chart asks the number I got and the number I should have. Nobody else has signed it. I am the only runner in 20,000 with a problem.

I am convinced she handed me the clipboard to shut me up. She will never look at it after she gets rid of me.

I collar her,

“I usually place,” I say with emphasis, “unless you fix YOUR mistake, YOU will have to redo all your awards in the 65-69 female age group.”

Then I turn to Marie, my loyal friend, an ex-nun and say, ‘Piss Ass,” describing the nasty young woman whose slit eyes, once again, have turned away. I borrowed that term from my dad’s WWII Army Air Core vocabulary. I’ve never used it before, but then, I never had the appropriate moment.

My calm sweet-tempered friend agrees. She takes the clip board from me, prints my name under my number and Vanessa Gomez under the other number and we leave.

I console myself with with tender crusted pizza and the privilege of introducing my son Ben to Marie and Carol. Ben joins us at the pizza parlor as his studio apartment is on the race course. We make the pizza disappear as Ben dredges up every unflattering story of my mothering techniques he can remember, thus evaporating any shred of respect my friends may have had for me.

Carol and Marie drop me off home in the early afternoon. The after-race glow is worth the pain of the all-out-effort. I’d been “back-of-pack” in the practices, yet I kept up with Marie during the race. She won. I lost but the joy of racing vanquished feelings of being old and out of contention. My time wasn’t great, but I expected that.

My husband and I wax our cars, go to dinner. It’s 9:00 p.m. by the time I get upstairs to the computer. Two messages appear in the email, one from Carol’s blackberry and one from Marie’s. Vanessa’s number comes first, then my name, 1st place with a time of 1:59.

I’d broken 2 hours, something I’d only done once before in my 30 years of running. I take back the name I called Blue Ball Cap and think,

“My speed must have come from the disc aligning my meridians.”

Epilogue

The Long Beach Marathon never sent me my California shaped medal. I continue to train with Carol and Marie. We ran the New York Marathon last November. I came in 10th in my age group. I look forward to the passing of four short years when I’ll be in the 70+ age-group. Maybe Marie will run circles around me by then but I plan to pick up more first place ribbons, speeding up to pass ALL 70+ year old ladies in sight. In the meantime, Carol, Marie and I will run Chicago in October, 2010.