Marathon> Check!

Packed like sardines in the food processing line, aka death, not even a pep talk from Pete Carroll could prepare me for what lay ahead.

Nothing the former coach of the USC football team and new coach of NFL's Seattle Seahawks, could say would particularly motivate me, I must admit, but perhaps some stirring words would help propel me the 26.2 arduous miles that still lay before me and my imminent demise.

I tried to remain loose despite being surrounded on all sides by runners lined up for the start of the 2010 LA Marathon: the race labeled "Stadium to the Sea." As our start time of 7:24 a.m. came and went, and the PA announced that we would be delayed by 20, then 30, then 45 minutes, all I could do was thank my friend's lucky potatoes, which were boiled, salted and waiting in a Ziplock baggy, that I wasn't stuck in the parking lot outhouse line.

Having taken care of me, um, business much earlier, I felt nimble and not at all nervous about the approaching gun. That was until the PA also announced that there would be no gun but a simple call of "Runners ready? Go!"

You mean not even Michael Buffer tape delayed? What a buzz kill.

But still, I must admit, as the delay grew, I did start to feel a bit anxious. I felt claustrophobic, pent in. I tried to stay loose, even as the aforementioned potty crew tried to cram their way into the runners stalls, pulling down a side fence in the process.

Finally, after the Star Spangled Banner by a former American Idol castoff and the starts of the wheelchair, crank and elite women's group, it was go-time. My friend Yorba and Clare, the latter whom we most randomly bumped into while trying to get as close as we could to the 4-hour pace group, started off well enough, making the requisite loop around Dodger Stadium before descending Chavez Ravine for downtown. After Clare left us in the dust (she truly is qualified, unlike me, for the 4-hour pace) and after ascending two decent-sized hills, Yorba and I made are way into Echo Park and Silverlake, miles six and seven the race, and at a 9:35 pace. Never mind the stupid signs proclaiming, "Only 19 miles to go! You can do it"

My reply? Use your imagination.

As we made our way onto Hollywood Blvd. two miles later, I still felt OK, but I could not deny I was becoming tired. Not that I felt I started too fast, but I felt the need to conserve energy, unsure of just how warm it might get as we still had five miles of pavement pounding to go before I could turn the corner into Beverly Hills, and I'd have fewer miles still ahead of me that what was already behind. I wish I could also describe to you the sights of Hollywood, not that I haven't seen them a thousand times, but I was merely trying to hold my legs together, keep my breathing pace correct and make it to the next water station.

Then, my true turning point occurred at about mile 16. Any runner with a health odometer knows what I'm talking about. It's when the bear jumps on your back and digs his claws into your side. But, as I ran along Wilshire Blvd. through Beverly Hills, at least I think it was Wilshire, out of the corner of my right eye I saw a body flash before me, and diagonally at that from right to left. Like a bird, like a plane, but definitely not Superman, a fellow runner fell before me onto the pavement, arms and legs flailing. As if in shock of what was transpiring, my legs kept pumping until my mind alerted to the rest of my body that I better stop lest I trample the poor guy. Instantly, I felt twinges in both hamstrings as I fell forward, arms outstretched.

Luckily for me and unluckily for the other guy, I landed on top of him with full force. He emitted a muffled "Ughhhhhh." Except for a nice raspberry road rash on his arms, from what I could see, the guy said he was OK. I didn't stop for an explanation of what happened. I got up and continued. One stride, two strides, three, and then I knew I was in trouble.

My legs hurt, undeniably. Not just my hamstrings, but my quads and, to my horror, my right Achilles. When I began training for the Seattle Rock 'n Roll Marathon last summer, the same Achilles tendon hurt for the better part of a month before I finally got over it. I chalked up the injury to one of those things that happens to runners. I hadn't felt a twinge there since, but now it was back. And it hurt.

For the next four miles, as I left Beverly Hills for Century City and then West Los Angeles, I'll admit, I wanted to quit. "Screw this," I told myself. "What if I'm really hurt bad? This is NOT worth it."

I walked. I jogged. I felt sorry for myself. Then it happened.

As I was negotiating one of the many hills along Santa Monica Blvd. that taunted and haunted many of us as we entered the leg, I heard someone laughing. The man sounded jovial, like Santa Claus. "Coming through on the white stripe!" the man yelled to those of us ahead of him. I turned to my right and saw an older gentleman with a full white beard pushing himself along in his wheelchair, taking full advantage of the downgrade. But what most struck me were the blue jeans, and green T-shirt he was wearing.

Now that I think about it, I don't remember seeing him wearing a runner's bib, and his race attire was definitely interesting. He could have been one of the many people who jump into the field without registering. But at that moment, I knew I had to finish. I had two legs that worked, although at that point just barely.

Then something else happened: Los Angeles firefighters were opening up water hydrants every mile or so and showering the racers. That also served to somewhat revive me.

Making my way to the Veteran's Administration building was tough, and so was making that last hill into Brentwood. But I did it. My time suffered, as I now found myself a full two miles off the 4-hour pace. But I was going to finish dammit.

And I did, in 4:35:11 and in 6,056th place out of the 13,233 men running! As for next time? Well I'm not so sure I want to put my body through this pain again anytime too soon, especially as I can barely walk. Maybe a 10K is more my speed, or even a half marathon. But I proved to myself that I can do it. And that's all I can really ask of myself.