L.A. Marathon

I really don't have time to be writing because my thesis is due Friday, but I simply must document this day while it is still fresh, and I am still shivering. Sorry if it's kind of rambling, but I wanted to remember it.

My brother Paul ran the L.A. marathon today.

He's generally casual, not very emotional, and definitely wouldn't ask me to go support him as a side-liner, cheering and waving a sign. But, he's still my little brother, and whether or not he's a tough guy who didn't break a sweat during the run, I still wanted to be there, so we went.

Today the forecast was rain.

I don't mind the rain, especially California rain that falls in happy raindrops, which slither and skitter gently down my windshield in the spring time. In fact, it's pleasant.

I had rain boots, thick jeans, three shirts, a wool sweater, a wool headband/ear warmer, and a teacher-y rain parka (the khaki ones that you would find at Banana Republic). Patrick was dressed about as warm. We strapped our bikes to the back of the car, and despite the torrential downpour when we left, were more than optimistic about our game-day attire, the 1 mile park and trek to mile 18 (where Paul generally cramps), and then parking and biking about five miles to the Santa Monica pier for the finish line. HA! That is all I can say to my silly self in retrospect. Even if we had both worn North Face Himalayan Suits we would have been unprepared.

Flash flood warnings, steady winds of 25 MPH with gusts of up to 40MPH, and appx. 2 inches of rainfall should have been an indication that we were about to embark on a bit more of an adventure than we had estimated.

To fast forward beyond mile 19, which was wet (I had still maintained the selfless perspective that while I was wet, and cold, that the runners were equally wet and cold, but they had just run 19 miles), I was chipper as we walked along Santa Monica Blvd. splashing through puddles, and humming as I hid beneath an umbrella for protection.

He said that he had fun running!

We drove from Westwood, through downpours toward the Santa Monica Pier finish line, circling for parking, and praying as we did that our next leg of the journey, on bikes, without hoods or an umbrella (since my dad had taken our extra one) would be manageable, and that the rain would slow...

It actually did, somewhat, and we set about on our bikes toward the pier on flooded streets, packed with L.A. drivers, which equalled a near war zone. At the first close call I slammed on my breaks, only to find that the effort did nothing, for all traction was gone, and I jammed my feet to the ground (rainboots also lack traction) and barely missed a collision. Whew. Although I went slowly, it happened again, but the next time, and the next, I was also fighting to see through a downpour of rain that soaked me through to the first layer of my clothes, and the closer we moved to the water, the stronger, and gustier thewind came, coupled with sheets of water. Needless to say that while I shivered uncontrollably, I could not see, or stop. "Get off the bicycle," you may say. I would have, but at that point all sense leaves, because the car was too far away, and the finish-line was just ahead. So we maneuvered the crowd a bit more, and joined the collective screams and cries from bystanders as the wind came, soaking everyone and reaching through every clothing article with its chill.

We finally caught up with my parents and found umbrellas, which were a bit of a comfort, but already soaked to the bone, and hopeless for where to find some warmth, they did little as we stood for 15 minutes watching, waiting, shivering (by this time convulsing), repeat!

Finally Paul came, and my misery abated (I'm glad that we have that built in response for people who we care about) because I handed him my umbrella as he shook, wrapped in silver, but with a pained expression on his face. He had few words, but getting warm, a promised feature of the "friends and family" area three blocks away moved us forward. Him limping, me toting my bike, and the other three trying to find each other and move our direction soon.

Along the way he managed something about this being a bucket list item that he can check OFF. We laughed, this was good, while we shivered, and avoided crowds of crying, scowling, in-pain people.

Our rendez vous point was sooner than expected because my parents caught up with us --deciding that Patrick and my dad would walk the bikes to the truck, which Paul had parked at 4:30 am near the finish line, and my mom, Paul, and I would seek out the promised warmth.

Well, the plan was fine, until we discovered that the heat was from three city-busses, parked, and running their heaters for runners only! They deserved it more than I did, so Paul went in while I jumped up and down, holding my sopping jeans in place as I did. That lasted about a minute because the wind blew, and a light post just next to my mom and I blew over in the wind, and the other tents, television screens, and palm trees shuddered, nearly looking like everything was about to collapse onto the muddy, sloshy fairgrounds. The spooky, misery intensified at that point because there were firemen, police officers, and medical volunteers mapping the entire area, trying to rescue hundreds with hypothermia, but without any shelter or heat.

Insert 40 more minutes (outside) while Paul waited in line to get his belongings, and then while we stood, trying to get instructions to Patrick and my dad who were locked-in by traffic about 3 miles away. Walking toward them might have been an option, except that Paul's friend had been treated for hypothermia, and was now, once again blue, wrapped in sopping blankets; his legs were absolutely stiff, and the rest of us were starting to cramp after three hours in the cold and rain. Nick said, between chattering teeth, "This is the closest to a concentration camp that I can imagine."

Eventually, because of the traffic, we moved up about three blocks, waded through calf-deep water, three times, and my dad cut off a policeman who was closing the road that we were on to rescue us; we piled on top of each other in the truck cab, inched our way back to our car, down the 405, and ended the excursion, still soaked, but with a huge pizza.

Awesome job, guys!

Their times were 3:30, and 4:06.