It Keeps You Running

It seemed to me that my wincing, gasping and bleating didn’t matter to the woman killing me. It delighted and inspired my Thai massage therapist to dig deeper into my battered legs with her metal corkscrew hands. She seemed to take pleasure in finding each knot and boring into it as if she were eviscerating the evil mind control pods that had taken residence in my muscles.

“You have knot, here, here and here. Bery many,” she observed.

“Yeah, and they all hu-urrt. A lot.” I strained.

“Did you jogging today?” She asked.

“Sort of. I ran the Marathon.”

“Marathon? You run dit? How long the Marathon?

“26 miles.”

“Oh. Okeh,” and unimpressed, she pounded me even harder with her rolling pin fore arms as I struggled to keep my fleeting grip from letting my consciousness tumble down the cliff.

I imagined her inner dialogue to go something like this:

“Hmmph. Marathon only 26 miles. You prolly run only in shorts and t-shirt. In my country we have to run from airplanes shooting at us while holding two baby and carrying family goat on head. We do this until we get to other time zone and we no cry, we no get massage at end of day. We no have Gatorade station, no fresh cut banana, no cheerleader saying, ‘so proud of you. You keep running.’ We no meet fwends for dinner in Thai Town, we keep running until no more blood in body.”

And that might be the case for some Tamil Tigers or other displaced people in other parts of the world, but on Memorial Day in Los Angeles, I, and thousands of other runners participated in the annual Los Angeles Marathon, with perfect weather – cool and overcast, free of helicopter gunships, apocalyptic marauders and metal clad beasts of battle.

I never considered myself capable of running a marathon and thought that the only way these feet would ever cover 26 miles on their own power would be on a death march to the world’s largest 24 Hour Target Superstore.

My coworker Tammy Coleman challenged me last October when she stood at my desk, slammed down a training schedule and proclaimed, “You are running the marathon and you have 18 weeks to do so.” There must have been the perfect amount of LSD coming out of the AC vent above my desk because I accepted the challenge and immediately began training that night by running 3 painful and boring miles.

I diligently followed the schedule in spite of the changes to the race date and route, and my better judgment. It somehow didn’t matter to me because I had accepted the reality of the marathon in my mind and heart and I sincerely knew that in some future time and space, I had already completed it, and that I was simply allowing my present circumstances to catch up to this fact. Houston, we have nutty space ship talk.

******

The Rundown

Thursday, May 21. After months of training and mental preparation, I feel the onset of a cold and a sense of exhaustion, accompanied by cold sweats in the night. My friend Andrea gives me magic homeopathic grapefruit seed extract pills and we go out for steak and wine on Melrose.

Friday, May 22. Slept in until noon. I enjoy red wine, chocolate cake and almonds for breakfast in front of Family Guy. Sleep the day away.

Saturday, May 23. I hiccup a few tears as I pull into the Convention Center to pick up my bib at the Marathon Expo. I feel the weight of the moment bearing down on me. I check out booths in this wondrous, verklempt state and almost buy a pair of wraparound sunglasses. The marathon is about getting swept away in the current of enthusiasm and by this point I’m extremely prone to buying things that are designed to make any person look magnificently dorky. I examine this specialized mini fanny pack that comes only in patterns and colors suitable for casino carpeting. And all the emotion brings me teetering on the edge of buying a load of bullshit that I’ll regret after the race.

Ethan and I have dinner at Tendergreens in Culver City. Can’t stay long, chilled to the bone and eager to get back into bed. I take a detour via Grand Spa in Koreatown for hot tubs, steam rooms and sleeping on the hot clay floor.

Sunday, May 24. Sleep til noon. Buy new socks. Make my own fanny pack. Friends of Blogitude, Matthew Kennedy and Jen Tracy join Ethan and I for the Carbo Load at Souplantaion. I drive the course after dinner, go to Tammy Coleman’s house to pick up the cookies she and her beau William baked for me, I get a burger at Carl’s Jr. and go to bed.

Monday, May 25, 2009 – Day of Marathon

5:00 AM – Wake up and I think of the song Sister Golden Hair, by America that tells the story of a guy who wakes up, gets dressed up, stares down the barrel of his own future, and then bails out on his wedding. In the days leading up to the Marathon, so many people express their excitement and congratulations about THE BIG DAY, and I can’t help but feel that I may have mistakenly signed up for marriage. I want to go back to bed.

5:15 AM – Still getting dressed. It’s only shorts and a t-shirt, but there seem to be more things to attach, clip, pack, stuff and remember.

6:00 AM – Wake up Ethan, the most committed boyfriend I’ll ever know. After a few last minute pick-ups around the house, we depart. The Acura Bike Tour is already in full swing outside our house. Some people are riding in jeans and Chuck Taylors. Baffling. We play frogger to cross the street where the car is parked, outside the course.

6:35 AM – Arrive in downtown via Chinatown. Ethan gives me one final kiss good-bye as he drops me off at 5th and Grand. I follow the rivulets of people wearing the official Honda white running shirt to the starting line. Tears well up in my eyes and at the same time I imagine that we are all preparing to board the space ship, all called to assemble here and directed by some internal compass receiving directions from John Travolta’s star cruiser.

I arrive at the runner’s corral where they separate well-wishers from runners. I can’t believe that I’m among the “runners”. I think of ways to harness the electricity we are generating. I get choked up at the confluence of race, class, gender, age, sexuality and ability. I take comfort in the accepted lack of fashion sense. We all have ugly running shoes and fanny packs – there is no getting around these.

6:50 AM – Porta Potty Lines. I’m amazed at the natural order of western society. There are two long banks of porta potties, one on each side of 5th street and the people have formed orderly lines, in alternating directions, each governing a band of four porta potties, maintaining a minimum distance of 10 feet from the doors. In other countries, my guess is that people would be standing on top of the porta potties, pissing into the exhaust vents.

6:55 AM – Wheelchairs start. The bell rings and it further electrifies the air.

7:07 AM – Elite Women start. Anticipation builds as all the runners slowly push forward.

7:10 AM – Call from Alfredo Fajardo. Where are you?

7:15 AM – Unite with Alfredo and his friends Eric, John and Sean. The crowd is dense and giddy. Runners start to pack the starting zone.

7:25 AM – Start bell rings for full field run. I Love L.A. blares from loudspeakers and we are on the move. I cry some more. It all seems so surreal.

*****
This is a day of many surprises. I’m surprised at the number of kids under 10 who are running this, I’m surprised at all the different shapes of people I mostly see in passing cars talking on the Bluetooth, but I’m mostly surprised at how many, very many people are having full fledged conversations about their lives while running.

I look at this as the great cattle drive requiring training, dedication and focus, but others use this as catch up time. I guess it makes sense, it’s a lot of miles ahead.

Because I drove the course the night before, I’m thrilled to see it in the daytime, and I have good idea of what to expect. I’m astounded to realize that the most beautiful way to see this city is to run the marathon and I understand the desire completely. You see things you’ll never see in a car or bus. I have driven most of these roads and neighborhoods before, but never have I seen the buildings, signs, trashcans, bus stops, donut stores, used car lots, tailors, check cashing places with such crisp detail. And the entire time we were showered with love from strangers who, just the night before might kick my ass or try to scam me on craigslist, but today are eager to help each of us along on our journey.

Even those with hardened hearts would be humbled as I am by the experience of travelling through this city in this way.

It’s all so effortless really.

Mile 9 – IT Band Friction, left leg. The Iliotibial band is a set of tough fibers connecting all the muscles in your leg from the hip to da Butt to the knee. For me on this day, this means an inability to bend my left knee and an excruciating pain with each step.

Thank god I knew nothing about this syndrome on race day. Research on the intergoogle many days later suggest that if this ever happens, you must STOP RUNNING RIGHT AWAY and go home.

Mile 10 – Heather Huber and her dog Coco. Heather tells me it’s my IT Band and suggests some stretches. I feel like walking up Crenshaw and taking a cab home. She and Coco run with me for half a mile until we meet Lynn and Arnie Sperling on the course, holding a sign bearing my name.

South Central is perhaps my new favorite part of the city – it’s beautiful.

Mile 13 – Venice Boulevard. Back north of the 10 Freeway. People of all cultural backgrounds are out in full force. Jesus loving Koreans with signs proclaiming such dole out cut oranges and water. An association of Hindu families forms a gauntlet of water bearers. A youth organization stands in order of ascending height, with hands out for high-fives.

Mile 14 – Fairfax Avenue. My turf, my people, my street, my training ground. I just love every minute of it, even though I’m in hell and the four ibuprofen have zero effect on the pain that is ever worsening.

Mile 15 – La Cienega and Lynn and Arnie Sperling. A women’s group running ahead of me recognizes them from Crenshaw and turns to cheer me on.

I round the corner onto Pico and I see Tammy Coleman and her boyfriend William screaming loudly at me and for me.

A few blocks later I see Ethan and somehow Lynn and Arnie are with him. Ethan has arranged for a middle school cheer squad to greet with a very loud, very personalized cheer. They hi-five me as I crash to the ground. Ethan refills my nutrition packs, gives me a fresh bottle of water, new socks and sunglasses. A little boy standing over me, watches the whole transaction, intently observes me unfold my last packet of ibuprofen. I stop, look up and say hi. He is transfixed, smiles at me.

Ethan, Lynn and Arnie help me up and Ethan runs alongside me until mile 18.

He runs with me, pacing me, supporting me, giving me all that I need and more to take each step. I ask him to let me know if I’m about to run into anything or anyone as I’m running with my eyes closed.

This guy has officially broken all records for the model boyfriend.

Mile 18 – Fairfax Avenue. As Ethan and I approach Sixth Street I see a woman screaming hysterically, jumping frantically and pointing at me. I can’t focus my gaze, still intent on dragging my leg with me. It’s Rachel Drews and she is with a gang of people holding a large banner bearing my name in a style reminiscent of rabid football fans who paint their faces with accompanying signs reading John 3:16. In the blur, I recognize Jen Tracy, Matthew Kennedy, Jeanne, Jill, Fathia, and Sue and some small dogs. Rachel takes over for Ethan and runs with me until Mile 19.

Mile 20 – Hancock Park. Alfredo Fajardo and Eric Merz who were way ahead of me by Mile 10 come from behind. It’s a team reunion. We take a tiger balm break.
I see A at the corner of Rossmore and 6th, but the pain in my knee and now my hip interferes with my face recognition software. A joins me for one mile.

Mile 21 – Ben and Kate. To be joined on the route by Blogitude Staff is a sweet surprise and a welcome gift. Ben, Kate, A and I trot along for a while until A ducks out and catches the bus to downtown for the Finish. Ben is running in dark jeans, Kate also in street clothes, but slightly more athletic. I’ve come a long way, but the pain in my leg is worsening and my mind can’t shut it out.

Ben decides to stop running gets in the Prius to the finish, but Kate, swept up by marathon fever continues on, helping me to keep my running/walking pace by counting steps to keep me focused. This allows me to close my eyes and trudge forward.

Mile 23 – Koreatown. Olympic and Harvard. Kate is still running with me, cell phone in hand. I ask her if she’d ever consider running the marathon and her answer is a resounding YES. We enjoy the various bands playing along the route – the Guatemalans, the Taiko drummers, the hippies, the cover bands.

Lynn and Arnie appear again as if for the first time. Ridiculous. I’m shocked at their ability to scramble around town so swiftly. They must have access to a worm hole.

Kate separates after Mile 25, at Olympic and Flower.

Final Stretch - It’s a long final uphill stretch to the finish. My leg is just killing me and I’m crying from joy and pain. The spectators are densely gathered along both sides of Flower Street. The screaming causes me to bawl while I bear down and attempt to have some semblance of good form. I hear my name from the crowd. I later find out it’s Ben. I keep on and under my own power, under the power of the crowd, or perhaps some invisible tether from John Travolta in the space ship, I am carried to the finish line. By the time I cross the finish line, it seems so obvious at this point, I don’t know what I’m feeling.

Two paramedics greet me immediately and help me to realize that I’m too wobbly to stand on my own. They put me in a wheel chair and wheel me to the medal area. A woman puts a medal on me and several people whom I don’t know cheer raucously.

This is when it hits me and I clasp my hands together in gratitude and joy, completely speechless.

They want to keep me longer, but I convince the paramedics that I can walk and they let me out of the chair.

Post Finish Line. Ethan, Heather Huber, her dog Coco, her boyfriend Dan, Ben, Kate and A await in the friends and family area. Before I walk out to meet them, I waddle through the lovingly arranged relief stations for water and clif bars. I stop to recognize how infinitely wealthy I am, how I could not live this beautiful life without the support and love of family and friends. I stood humbled by the entire experience and in many ways – ways I cannot name, I have crossed a great divide. And there is nothing like the feeling of having friends there through the process and waiting on the other side.

*****

For your listening pleasure The Doobie Brothers.

The Garden of Earthish Delights

It's spring in LA so Kate and I have started a garden. We have this really sweet porch that wraps around our apartment so we got some containers, soil, plants and started growing food. Lettuces, zucchini, peppers, cucumbers, tomatoes, herbs, pumpkins, and more. I built this chicken coop sort of cage around the area of the garden to keep vermin out. I also set up a barrel to collect the gray water from our washing machine after we filter it through another barrel and I’ll go through that process when the drought hits this summer.

So our garden was off to a good start. Lots of things stretching out and growing in their pots and then one day I noticed something disturbing. It looked like something ate a few of our lettuces.



Kind of strange and I knew something got into the cage. Two nights later more lettuces were eaten and some cucumber leaves. Two nights later. All the cucumber leaves and some zucchini leaves. So we had a rat. It could squeeze right through the chicken wire holes so we were defenseless. We had the exterminator come and he confirmed this by noticing some droppings and left a few rat traps. Two nights later all the zucchini was eaten, all the pepper plants, and some of the pumpkin leaves. Now I was getting pissed. We’d put red pepper around the plants and that obviously did nothing except give the rat some flavor to go with our food. A war was on: man vs rat.

I’ve been a vegetarian for over 10 years and I hardly kill anything that I’m conscious of and I routinely try to save the lives of bees, spiders, and worms. But, this was totally different. This fucking rat was eating all our food. Food we’d bought and spent time procuring and if that rat thought he could walk all over us and eat our food because, we were passive vegetarians he was dead wrong.

I had to defend our garden and I felt this passion and stress to do so. I felt a hunter instinct well up inside me and I procured more weapons: rat traps, poison pellets, and sealing off entry into the garden. This didn’t work for the first few nights I assume because, by this point only the trees were left and I would cover the pumpkin every night and bring the other plants inside. All the empty pots became death traps for the rat. Poison pellets piled in the middle, traps along the edges, and every morning Kate would wake up and look out the window to see if we caught anything.

Then one morning I hear her scream a little and I just laid back and smiled. We’d done it. We’d killed the fucking rat. I saw that he’d eaten a last meal of peanut butter and buried him in the trash can outside. This did lead me to an interesting understanding of how I had to kill so that I could eat and I may have to do it again. This may sound ironic to most people and maybe I'm not entitled to call myself a vegetarian anymore but, I don't care. I observed a long time ago that the cycle of life involves life, growth, death, and decay and I understand my role in that process and I have a choice not to include meat in my diet so I don't. Hopefully I won't have to kill any more intruders and I'm making sure the cage is rat-proof so I don't have to.

So far all the plants are doing fine and making a comeback. We’ve got some squash sprouted and we’ll get some more plants this weekend to make up for our loses. I’ll report back later when the garden is back in action. . .In the pics below you can see some of the carnage. Things got worse after these pics were taken.

Little India

The LA Blogitude miniseries “Enclaves” continues with its latest installment: Little India. Between my 7 mile run and a funeral-themed party at the local artist colony last Saturday, I headed out to Artesia with the crew to do a little trading of sweets, silks and spices. While a bit of a drive, it sure beat hopping a 20 hour flight.

First stop: Rajdhani vegetarian restaurant.

After braving a treacherous parking structure, we put our names in at the restaurant and gazed out across the piece of Middle Asia that had found its way to Pioneer Blvd.

Our table was ready and immediately after taking a seat we were told to “mind your legs!” as waitstaff moved our table four inches south. We had nice place settings, but they didn’t last. As soon as the table was moved we were told to “put your fork and napkin aside!”

We quickly obliged – and good thing, because the food was coming fast. Within minutes dishes were filled.

And it kept coming. Soon, we had more than we knew what to do with.

Waitstaff kept coming around to ask us if we wanted more. So we ate more.

Once they realized our tummies couldn’t hold much more, we received little bowls of water. The same woman who moved our table told us not to drink it because it was for washing out hands. Thanks mom!

And then we had dessert (left to right): dijonaise, mashed carrots and guacamole. No dummy, it’s actually lemon pudding, carrot pudding (gajar halwa) and green pudding (something halwa).

Next we were off to the clothing shops so Ben could find an outfit. But first we stopped into an appliance shop where everything had voltage numbers written in Sharpie on the box.

Back at dress shopping, I was mesmerized by the beauty of the fabrics and stayed out of the fray as Ben, Yirko and Kate charmed, finagled and haggled with various tailors. On shop 5, we found the one. A blue tunic with gold beads priced far below the others we’d seen and a much fit better fit too – but there’s always a catch and this time the sleeves were too small. There was a sewing machine on a stool in the back of the shop. Yirko suggested we ask if the sleeves could be extended with additional gold fabric.

“Hmmm,” the shopowner said looking thoughtful. “Fabric, threads, labor….that will cost more.”
“How much?” someone asked. We paused, afraid of the answer.
“15 dollars,” she said. It was a deal. Ben paid his deposit and we left happy.

What we really needed was a second dessert, so we went to Standard Sweet and Snack where we ate several forms of milk and sugar (burfi, peda, ladoo):

Before leaving, we sampled vegetarian pizza samosas and browsed a market where I saw cardamom in a bag, and Kate and Yirko went in on a $9 crate of mangos. Yirko also bought the tiniest can of Coke I’ve ever seen for his mom for Mother’s Day and I got a bar of cinnamon soap.

Next stop: Little Saigon.

Marty and Elayne

Last night I checked in on an LA favorite: Marty and Elayne at the Dresden Room. Verdict: these two geriatric lounge lizards have still got it. Trading lead vocal duties, rotating Marty on drums and Elayne on keyboards, they also had a more youthful backup on stand-up bass and a few others who joined them to contribute saxophone and lead vocals on several songs.

In addition to songbook standards, handled with care by their guest vocalists, they also covered some more contemporary fare. Well, comparatively contemporary. Favorites of the set were Elayne’s restyled renditions of Piano Man and Stayin’ Alive, the latter of which wrapped up with a haunted mansion-style synthesizer solo. This old lady, with what can only be a surgically induced permagrin , rocked multiple sets of keys like a prog star, all while wearing a shiny black glittered butterfly sleeved dress. Then she played a little tap dance-y transition tune between songs. The music only stopped for her to sip from a silver thermos. God love ‘em.

The duo, a few years back

(photo courtesy their web site)