Born to Run - Once

Some years ago, I mentioned to my neighbor, Benson Hedges, that I’d always wanted to run a marathon. I was new in town. So he lied to me. “There’s a municipal code requiring residents to run three road races a year,” he said. There are exemptions for the disabled, he explained, but noncompliance means risking a tax lien.

I’m no rube. I only ran in two 5Ks and a 10-miler before realizing Benson Hedges was blowing smoke in my face. After the Mission Beach 10-miler, I’d asked Benson if he’d fulfilled his yearly running requirement. He was chewing on an Italian hoagie, washing it down with a Corona (Tequiza had not yet been invented). “Yeah,” he burped, “when I chased down the ice cream truck this morning to get an Italian ice.”

I stopped running right after that. Sad to say, I no longer fit into size 30 Gap khakis. I don’t really fit into size 32 Gap khakis, either, thank you. My workouts dwindled. Soon, the only exercise I was getting was during Dateline NBC —I’d get up and dance to Gap “Khaki-a-Go-Go” commercials. OKAY! I don’t fit into size 33 pants, either. HAPPY?

Then they went and invented the Rock ’n’ Roll Marathon. Hey, I thought, my inner voice barely audible over the crunching of party mix, I listen to rock-and-roll music. I’ve seen every VH-1 Behind the Music biography. Even the Leif Garrett one. And I’ve been to Marathon—that island in the Florida Keys. Heck (crunch, crunch) ... I may be overqualified.

I trained for six whole weeks. I bought cushion insoles. Switched from Budweiser to Bud Light. The night before the race, I “carbed up” (meaning I consumed enough linguine to sate Marlon Brando).

On race day I was ready. A small city of us (about 18,000) massed at the Balboa Park starting line. The gun went off. People clapped and cheered. Six runners dressed as the Village People began singing “YMCA.” Five minutes later, the pack actually started moving.

Three things struck me during the first 2 miles: the camaraderie; the street-side rock bands; the massive display of public urination. After the starting gun went off, so did bladders. Men—and women—watered bushes, shrubs, walls and most any opaque object lining the Sixth Avenue side of the park.

Let’s zip ahead. Since I’d run 10 miles before, mile 11 was a turning point. Interestingly, as I neared mile marker 11, a guy named Philip Taurus was entering the Naval Training Center, rounding the bend after mile 26 and crossing the finish line. That crazy Kenyan could have lapped me.

At mile 14, I was still confident (meanwhile, Taurus was doing press interviews and, I heard, one-arm pushups). Then I looked down. Two bulbous circles of blood had formed on the chest area of my T-shirt. My nipples were bleeding, rubbed raw by my Oh, Behave! tee. I shagged it and plodded on.

At mile 17, sorry to say, I walked a spell. A woman who looked like my mother passed me. Two women who looked like my grandmother jogged by. After the guy using a walker and pulling an oxygen tank rattled past—and then Oprah Winfrey—I went back to running.

A marathon, I found out, is awash in free stuff. Along the way I was offered orange slices; an energy-boosting paste called Gu; Jolly Rancher hard candy; and sports bars made of oatmeal, honey and cheetah feces. Oh, and business cards from chiropractors. To wash it all down (yes, I accidentally ate a chiropractor’s card), there was water, beer (no, really) and “sports drink,” which tasted like strawberry-flavored sweat. Nothing clears cheetah droppings from the palate like fruit-flavored sweat.

Five hours after starting, I crossed the finish line. My ankles, knees and hamstrings immediately decided to boycott further operations. I couldn’t blame them. I was driven home. Limping toward my house, I caught sight of Benson Hedges. He was wearing an I’m with Stupid T-shirt.

My emotions spilled out. “I did it,” I cried out. “I have conquered the course! Mind has triumphed over matter!”

He looked at me. Taking a drag from his Cuban Cohiba, he said, “That’s great. Hey, while you were gone, Jewel was in the neighborhood. She was giving free backrubs. Some publicity thing. Anyway, see ya.”

I wobbled inside. Behind the Music was showing on VH-1. The Cher one was on, followed by the Meatloaf bio and then the Iggy Pop story. This, I realized, would be my future—and final—definition of a rock-and-roll marathon.

I’ll still get up for the “Khaki Soul” ads, though.

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