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.

Carbon

The chemical reaction wafted the fruits of its labor high above the mingling crowd. It was the usual eclectics gathered for a birthday party on the aftermath of a seasonably frigid day in the City of Angels. It had rained hard the night before, and earlier in the day was its blustery hangover.
But just as the wind had been responsible for the bone-chilling cold it now revealed twinkling stars on a black velvet backdrop of space punctuated by the last remnants of orphaned storm clouds, which stood out like dingy and weather-beaten, three-dimensional cotton balls.
Three well-timed aspirins washed down by a cold imported beer could not have provided better relief.
Perhaps aided by alcohol, the weather had now teased away the thick coats that had once been generously applied. Then there was the warmth in the form of friendly conversation, and of course the heat from the cigarettes.
Dozens of lips pursed in huddled masses parting occasionally to respond with wine-fueled chatter. One group discussed what they had heard earlier that day on NPR Radio, while others touched on such subjects of sex, drugs and the feasibility of the city's rapid transit service.

A party in L.A., especially among artists, teachers and other vagabonds, is never complete without guests named Marlboro and Camel. They seemingly come as naturally to such gatherings as, in this particular case, Lohr and Coppola. While one tastes much better than the other, they both leave their stain.
Inside, the iPod inside shuffled in odd dissonance as the small, two-bedroom apartment choked under the weight of mingling guests attacking the kitchen in search of a buzz. From between a handle-bar mustachioed, red-haired man who looked of another century and artsy-looking women in high heel pumps discussing pop music scooted a 2-year-old girl holding in her small hands a grip of tin foil. You could just tell where it was headed.
Note to self: teeth and metal don't mix. Elsewhere around the room revelers obliviously guzzled from red plastic cups and dined on hummus and chocolate birthday cake.
I stood out like a sore thumb. In my right hand I clenched a glass goblet. I noticed several others looking at me sorely, as they seemed to say to themselves, "And exactly who do you think you are?"
But then there was the smoker's lounge outside. Smokers don't really care who you are or what you have in your hand, thought it would be a lot cooler if in that hand is perched a cigarette. This is a persecuted lot, after all, and if you're willing to brave the smoky elements if for nothing else smoky conversation then the more the merrier. Something about smoking in a social setting lends itself to certain sense of camaraderie. It's an inclusive activity from at least the angle that it gives one something to do, as if drinking weren't enough.

It's a funny thing about the brain is how very exactingly self-destructive it can be. A common phrase uttered when someone does something particularly dumb is often, "Use your head." But the human brain with its ability to reason and choose is a tricky organ. Research shows a correlation between alcohol and nicotine cravings. And smokers will congregate as if they are immigrants in a new land. They rely on each other for some odd form of moral support.
But most smokers at any party or bar are rarely real smokers. They're what my peers in 4th grade called "posers." They allow themselves to succumb to that brain chemical that, when introduced to alcohol seizes the body and tells it "I just gotta get me some." After all, my dad has smoked since he was 15, as if my attendance is validated by my genealogy.
So outside they file, either with their own packs or ready to bum a cig or two. And you can always tell the real smokers from the fake by who has a lighter, who doesn't and who instead has a matchbook.
But, still, they smoke. Who wants to live forever, anyway? Not I, as I puff away. Carbon is a main ingredient in our bodies, no? It's every where, the air we breath out, food for the trees.
This thought process of course lasts for a whole three cigarettes before my head begins to spin and I feel like I am going to vomit.
Oh the buzz.
A party is just a party, after all, incomplete without gregarious puffs from cigarettes washed down by liberal amounts of alcohol.