“Choose your tribe.” The director of my department at CSU Monterey
Bay called our program the House of Storytelling. In my freshman year, he said
no matter what medium you tell your story, you need people. We create stories and we tell them to each
other generation after generation, and the people we surround ourselves with
are the inspirations for those stories.
There’s two ways to tell this story, and my oral history
will be entirely different than the events played out here.
This story is about the St. Patrick’s Day 2013 LA Marathon.
It’s about a Team in Training participant who had raised over $1700 for the
Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. Those of you reading this know her. You know her
training season was frustrated with a hip injury. You know her longest training run before the
race was 12 miles. You know she had zero expectations, but to finish the race. She wanted the LLS/TNT 26.2 pin. She was
excited, but sort of resigned, and managing expectations –hoping for the best,
preparing for the worst, whatever that may be.
She really did believe if you show up, be present, and do your best –
everything will work out exactly the way it is meant to be.
The LA Marathon startline is as unique as the city itself. Randy Newman proclaiming his love for LA
while runners chant , “I love it! I love it! I love it!” Van and Lisa were at my side, and I was
heading down the hill into my hometown downtown.
The following is a recap of the next four hours, thirty one
minutes, and twenty six seconds. There was pain early on and my race day became
about just putting one foot in front of the other. I stopped noticing the mile marker arches. I rarely looked down at my Garmin. You can look at the course map, and see where
I went, but I was mostly walking, running easy when it felt good. There were hills, and then there stopped
being hills. My hip hurt for a little
while, and then it stopped. Somewhere in there, my love affair with Team in
Training reignited – again and again. There was Van the Man and Super Mario.
There was Coach Kiley, then Coach Greg (Where did he come from?? I really want
to know!) the TNT cheer station, an excellent photo op, Virginia Garner, then
Coach Chris, then Coach Christie, each of them letting me know what I could
expect over the next mile or so.
Somewhere in there I cut a blister into the bottom of my
foot. There was pain in every step. I slowed down. I finally pulled over to
take a look at it and got it covered up. That helped. Covering it up, I mean.
Looking at it messed with me. With each
painful step, I could visualize what was going on underneath me. Next time, the medic tent will be dealing
with my blisters, so I don’t have to see them. I kept going, every once in a
while hitting it wrong would make me wince, but we were still doing this. Soon enough, I found some real trouble. I had been rolling over my foot to stay off
the blister, and my calf started fatiguing.
I walked to the side of the road, set my toes against the curb, and
leaned into my calf. I winced, and
groaned, and I flipped off city property; the no parking sign I had leaned
against. The blister was over my toes and the ball of my foot. I couldn’t
stretch my calf without affecting the blister.
So the innocent street sign got the bird, and I kept going. Van and Mario were close enough behind me to see the interaction. Van came
up on my side and asked what was going on.
I told him what had just happened, he looked really concerned and said,
“Oh. You’re screwed.” What? Seriously Van?
My most respected marathon buddy? That’s the best you’ve got to give me?
I’m screwed? He put his hand on my shoulder and said, just keep going till you
can’t go anymore. That’s the way these things go.
And so one foot went in front of the other. I focused on my
posture and my form. I felt my calf go from fatigue to all out anger. It was slowly giving up on me. It couldn't take the stress of the altered gate, so I leaned into the blisters.
I found a bike rack, and pushed into my calf. I felt the
blister pop, and a hot searing pain flooded up through my foot, but my calf
found relief. I leaned in, holding on to a bike rack in
Hollywood for minutes, crying in pain for one part of my body and relief for
the other. I noticed the bike rack was
soft, and found my first piece of guerilla knitting. Before I was a marathoner,
I was a knitter. I had heard about guerilla knitters. They make cozies and
jackets to cover public space. Just to bring beauty. I don’t know where I was, I don’t know what
mile I was in, but there was beauty, and connection. Thank you guerilla knitter. On I went.
I pushed outward. Noticing the people around me, and
observing my surroundings. A non-profit
that provided activities and recreation for people with disabilities had seven
disabled athlete on the course, each with their own pacer. I know a few of them through my work, and saw
one of their athletes on the course. I
came up and introduced myself, recognizing I was completely out of context for
him. I told him I worked for Kate, and he lit up. He grabbed my hand and we both talked about
how we were doing. He said he was having fun. I told him I was too. We walked together a while, hand in hand, his
pacer on the other side asking me who I was – and how I knew him. His pacer
decided it was time for them to run for a little while, and so I suggested he
might want to let go. He did not let go,
and began running. FAST. I released his
grip and cheered for him as I watched him zig and zag up the course, his pacer
turning and waving as she went to catch up with a man who was running with
unharnessed freedom. It was beautiful.
The interaction, the
unexpected propulsion and the joy of watching a friend of a friend until he was
out of sight picked me up for a little
ways more until once again, my calf seized up on me. I sat on the curb and massaged it. I couldn't stretch it. I wasn't going to lean into
the blister again unless I absolutely had to. Massage was helping, but I had to
get up. I willed myself and kept going. I listened to music. I talked to other
marathoners. I distracted myself from
the pain. Until I couldn't do it.
I pulled out my phone and called Coach Kiley. “I need help.”
He asked if I needed a ride, and I said I just needed someone else in my
head. Kiley asked if I was in pain, I
said yes – quickly and vehemently. He said to just keep putting one foot in
front of the other. Coach Pete was
behind me and would be catching up soon.
He told me I was doing great and to just keep doing what I was doing. So
– Clive Davies, you’ll be pleased to know, I trodded on resolutely. I trodded
on, and kept looking over my shoulder looking for Coach Pete.
Around the corner there was a Leukemia and Lymphoma Society
/Elevation Fitness tent. I didn’t know anyone there, but I took in their
cheers. One of their partners came up
along side and asked how my race was. I was honest, and she encouraged
me to come over to their tent and they started patching me up. Massage,
stretching, rolling and my calf finally got what it had been looking for for
miles. Ken flexed my foot without affecting my toes, and worked on me for about
five minutes. It was the first time in hours I felt good physically. Relieved, I got off the table and they
thanked me for doing what I was doing before I had the chance to thank
them. When someone tells you they have a
loved one who has survived one of these horrific diseases and its because of
you – that’s almost too much to take in.
We hugged, and I took off again. I called Kiley to let him know I was
doing better. He said Coach Pete should still be catching up soon.
I kept going forward, and then the police started rolling
down the street announcing all runners must move to the sidewalk. The roads would be opening soon. I laughed that they referred to us as runners
at that point. But, suddenly the streets
were clear and we were a long line heading toward Santa Monica. There was some
jockeying for space, some passing, and the people I was around were just
trudging. I tried to make conversation – I had just been fixed. I was ready to go! Let’s go, people! We’re on the sidewalk, but this can still be
a race! That was until I had to start
maneuvering slopes in driveways and curbs and intersections. That impressive work on my calf lasted less
than a mile. It was the first time I had
looked at my Garmin. 15.3 miles and I was on the sidewalk. I had less control
over the people I was around. 16. Make
it to 16. I was half hoping the “make it to 16, then make it to 17” trick would
keep me plugging forward. I turned the
corner on to Burton. I was in Beverly Hills, and as I saw the 16 mile arch
right as it was being deflated. Tables were being broken down. Volunteers who
had been out there for hours were going home.
I stepped on to the grass and started crying. Big, heaving
tears. On the sidewalk grass of Beverly
Hills, after four hours and thirty one minutes, I stopped. I realized quickly enough, I was taking away
from other participants’ experience as person after person asked me if I was
ok. I pulled myself together, pulled out my phone and called Coach Kiley.
Voicemail. Coach Pete. He’s behind me, right?
I never put Pete’s number in my phone.
Coach Christie was next. I dialed, and it rang more times than I thought
it should. Please. Pick up. And there she was. “Missi, are you OK?” I told her I was done, but I didn't know what
to do. She told me she’d take care of
it, to hang tight, but not to walk anymore.
So, I found public utility housing and leaned up against it,
watching everyone who had been behind me pass.
I found out I was to wait for Coach Pete. I cheered and celebrated every
single participant who passed me who was doing something I wasn't able to
do. Then there was Coach Pete with the
now-second-to-last Team in Training Participant. He sent her on, and went to
work about setting up the logistics of getting me from Beverly Hills to Santa
Monica.
While we waited, we had time to talk. I told him about my day, and all the
good. The ARC marathoners, the guerilla
knitting, the Elevation Fitness guys, how wonderful Van and Mario had been, seeing
Virginia, Liam, Nat, Sam, Gail, Barb, Neelam and everyone else at the cheer
station. My short jog with Christie. How
well the hills had gone, the startline… I decided in that moment, I get to
choose how I tell this story.
The play
by play is documented here, but the pain, the suffering; those aren’t the
memories I am going to take from the St. Patrick’s Day 2013 LA Marathon. I am going to take all the good, accept that
it wasn’t my day, know that I gave everything I had in spite of it, and try
again next year.
Whitney and Pete got me back to Santa Monica where I still
had to walk a little further to get to the TNT check out tent. Coach Dave got me a chair as quickly as he
could, and Erica handed me my Team in Training. 26.2 pin – and I was crying again. Maggie (our Chapter’s Campaign Director)
introduced herself, and consoled me for a race not finished, and comforted me
in how awful right now must feel. I took off my sunglasses and looked up at
her. I’m not sure what I said exactly, but she was wrong. That moment was not
awful. It was amazing. I was staring at my TNT event pin feeling like
I didn't deserve it. She asked me how much I had fund raised. I told
her close to $2000 (My end of season total was $1730 – thank you, each and
every one of you who donated). She asked
me how many miles I had completed this season. I told her I didn't know. She asked if it was more than 26.2. Of course
it was. She smiled and reassured me.
In that moment it became more than choosing good or
suffering. A race finished or quit. I didn't have to choose how I was going to tell my story. Today was all about Team in Training. It was about funds raised for an excellent
mission. It was about selfless people. Participants and support staff alike. It was about four months of memories. It was
about honoring Amir and Mari and Ale. It was about celebrating Virginia and
Tyler and it was about friendship. It
was about a friend who can say “You’re screwed, ” with all the love in the
world. It’s about a friend who will sit with you and wait for a ride. It’s
about friends who take phone calls. Its about friends who cheer each other on.
And mourn with each other. We’re
coaches, and mentors, and captains and participants and campaign managers.
Titles are important to lay out responsibility for seeing out really important tasks,
but at the end of the training season, and the event, no matter how it turns
out, we’re friends. Thank you so much, to all of you, my friends. Thank you to
all my friends and family who aren't Team in Training too, because through your
support and donations, you are a part of us.
The only thing I set out to do four months ago was do good
things, have fun, and earn my 26.2 TNT pin. I didn't go home with an LA
Marathon medal, but my goal was accomplished, and I am in the midst of a tribe,
so wonderful, it’s an overwhelming blessing that I get to tell this story. Saying thank you doesn't feel big enough.
LA Marathon, I will see you again in 2014.
