The Los Angeles marathon is the best place to people watch ever.
As I wait for the start: To the right of me I see a superhero with a beer belly; to the left, a man with a huge fake blue Afro; up ahead, a girl in a sports bra with writing all over her body from her friends.
The line for the porta-potty is at least 30-deep. I scurry to the parking lot and attempt to find a bush when I am caught by Ralphs security. After much debate and utter confusion, I give up and get in line like everyone else.
As the horn sounds, my pack slowly starts walking to the starting line, crossing about seven minutes later. I start my run going at what I predict is a nice 10-minute-mile pace that I hope to keep up through most of the race. The first mile is a hassle because you have to weave in and out of the crowd while at the same time not use up all your energy.
I hit the one-mile marker and feel confident that I can do this 25 more times. Mile three comes around and my right knee starts to feel small jolts of pain. I pray my body is playing a practical joke on me, and luckily, by the next mile the pain subsides.
As I reach mile five I am feeling pretty good. I am going under 10 minutes a mile and don’t feel any pain.
There are lots of spectators cheering on the sidewalk. For a second I think I am getting some love, but I soon realize they’re cheering for the guy with the blue Afro.
I see ice-cream carts and little children with ice-cream cones on the sidewalk. I envy them. If only I brought a couple dollars with me. I consider trading my watch for a Klondike Bar but quickly think otherwise.
On mile eight, my nose is extremely stuffy. I picked up a cold from my chronically sick roommate a couple days ago and have been eating Airborne like candy ever since.
I try to blow my nose toward the lawn and rinse my hand with water to no avail. I wipe what I can and keep going.
Mile 13 is halftime for me. I decide to go to the bathroom and blow my nose because I’m starting to look like a snotty-nose preschooler.
The break does wonders; I feel great coming out of the bathroom. I take one of many water breaks and grab an orange and some pretzels (I’m a sucker for free food).
My original plan was to not stop, but I also didn’t plan on running with a cold. Besides, I am still on pace to run under five hours, so I have no complaints yet.
During mile 15, I have to take a walking break. My feet are on fire. I put Band-Aids on most of my toes, but I should have done all of them. I feel a huge blister emerging on my right foot, middle toe. I decide to walk a few minutes and then begin running again.
Mile 17 comes up and I see that some of the bicyclists (I call them cheaters) from the Marathon Bike Tour are out cheering on the runners. I smile at them and then run under the fireman hose that is spraying high in the air.
Through mile 20, I feel horrible nipple chafing. I’ve never had this problem before, but then again, I’ve never run 20 miles before.
After much debate, I decide to lose the shirt (note to self: Do more crunches). This feels awesome on my body but my feet still feel horrible so I start walking again.
Miles 21-24 are kind of a blur. I switch off between walking and running while I complain to another guy around my age that we’re not going to finish under five hours.
A little girl with a Trojan shirt on is giving out high fives to the runners. I quickly oblige (and hope she gets my cold).
With the 25-mile marker coming up, I decide I have to run the last 1.2 miles. The cold, the couple hours of sleep the night before (due to the coughing) and the blisters are no excuse for not being able to run a little over a mile. Besides, I don’t want any of my friends to see me walk, not to mention the photo finish would look ridiculous.
This is probably the worst 10 to 15 minutes of my life. If I described how my body felt, my editor would probably punch me in the face. Another month or two of training would come in handy right now but it’s too late for that.
I run (hobble) down the stretch and cross the finish line in 5 hours, 25 minutes. I didn’t meet my goal time, but I also planned on having full function of my nose, feet and nipples. At least I finished and didn’t completely embarrass myself.
Now where is the key to that liquor cabinet?
E-mail Reed at sreed@media.ucla.edu if you think he should stick to writing about sports and quit actually playing them.