I Outsmarted Charlie Foxtrot

Every couple of years or so I do a marathon. I don’t wow anyone with my finish time, but there are always new accomplishments during training, new things to see when doing an out of town race, and unique aspects to each race that make the effort and exhaustion worthwhile, regardless of my performance outcome.

I’ve done the LA Marathon in 2014, 2015 and 2017. The race bills itself as “Stadium to the Sea” due to the point-to-point course which starts at Dodger Stadium and follows a semi-circle route west and south to the finish line at the Santa Monica Pier. It’s a tough course, but not impossible or frustrating. The difficulty often comes from the conditions: On the day of the 2015 race the high temp was 92. You’re not even supposed to leave the house when it’s 92, more or less run a marathon.

But, it’s the 2014 edition of the race that’s burned into my psyche.

On race morning, the sunrise over the stadium was a bright pink and orange filling the entire horizon. The palms and pines were framed as if they were standing against a green screen. By the 7.30 am start the air was already sliding into the 70s. “I Love LA” played on a loop over the PA system while 19,000 nervous folks shuffled in a single tight pack through the starting corrals then fanned apart as we passed under the starting line banner.

What started as a perfect day immediately turned into a Charlie Foxtrot I never saw coming.

First, before I’d even gone 50 paces beyond the starting line the skirt I had on over my shorts slid down to my knees. I had to stop running before I’d even started to basically get dressed again (TSA comparisons are apt.) Then before taking another step I had to pee. I considered dashing onto an open hillside where a crowd of men had dropped trou and relieved themselves on the spot. In a rare show of dignity, I didn’t.

Nine miles in, around the junction of Santa Monica and Sunset, a painful gurgling in my bowels demanded that I stop at the next porta-potty. There I stood in line for nine minutes with however-many other shmoes who also needed to poop. After getting back on the road and making it challenge-free down the Walk of Fame and through West Hollywood it was about time for another are-you-kidding-me moment.

Somewhere on an empty stretch of freeway somewhere in Century City…

…when my phone, which I was carrying in my bra due to the earlier skirt fuck-up, shorted out from the sweat, killing my GPS app that was tracking my time. I was now in a total time void.

At this point in the story I have to say that despite these tiny disasters that just kept coming I was having a blast. The day was sunny, the scenery was exciting. Most of all, it was the first race of any distance in which I wasn't crumbling under disappointment of things not going perfectly. That felt different, really different. Something about me was changing there on the streets of Hollywood, Westwood and Brentwood.

The crises reached a tipping point at just over 20 miles. A blister on the ball of my foot that I hadn’t noticed instantly became too big and too painful to ignore. I geared down from a jog to a shuffle to a clumsy limp. I felt like I had to make a flash decision: keep going, risk being immobile and in a lot of pain if the blister burst, or stop and leave the race.

Barely thinking it through, I decided not to turn what had so far been a fun — though ridiculous — day into mewling, tear-filled torture. I stepped out of the flow of runner traffic, folded down in the nearest shady, grassy spot, took off my shoes and declared my day to be over. I quit the race.

Now that I had nothing but time…

I casually had the blister tended to at a race medical aid tent. Thanks to the bondage-strength wrap a volunteer med student put around my feet, ankles, and calf for good measure (I guess) I couldn’t really feel my feet after a few minutes, more or less feel a blister. I bounced on my toes a little to test things out. My foot was still injured, but the pain was almost gone.

I fell into a thousand yard stare and heard my inner voice say, “Today’s not the day to stop.” Almost as reflexively as I’d decided to drop out of the race, I decided to get back in, and for the exact same reason: why turn an empowering experience into one full of regret and disappointment? I pushed my swollen, bandaged feet back in my shoes and got on the road, headed to the finish line.

Some of my marathons have been significantly more struggle-filled than others, but I’ve finished them all. At the most difficult moments I’ve blankly pushed ahead long after the enjoyment was gone just to finally sit down, have people bring me free food, and to get the coveted medal and t-shirt, especially one that says “finisher” on it.

Here’s where the marathon-as-allegory comes in.

In my career I’ve stayed in a job past the point of diminishing returns or rewards. I’ve stuck it out for a paycheck. I’ve hung in hoping that the next re-org (or the one after that) would shake things up in a way that would make it worthwhile again. I’ve taken jobs only for the cachet the employer’s name would add to my resume, ignoring that it wasn’t really a fit for me. In each of these cases I was counting on the fact that being miserable just a bit longer would result in the career equivalent of a medal and t-shirt.

Well, it never did. When I’d reached the point where a fun, rewarding job had turned into dread and agitation then there wasn’t much going back. In my personal life I’ve vultured around dead relationships and interests hoping serendipity would turn things around. I’ve gone into relationships and interests just to say I tried, hoping things would somehow become interesting and worthwhile. Those never did.

The 2014 marathon was about embracing a challenge when your gut tells you that really do have what it takes to get over it. In distance running you have to continually assess issues, and catch them while they can still be corrected, even if that means stepping back and getting outside help. It’s also about being honest, brave, and a little risk-taking.

For the first time in a very long time I wasn’t afraid to walk away when I thought it was the best thing to do.

But, I also wasn’t afraid to get back in when I realized that was the best thing to do.

After seven hours (!) on the road I power-hiked along the oceanfront toward the Santa Monica Pier. That ferris wheel had a gold halo around it, beckoning me on. (It probably always has that, but I chose to think it was just for me.) I practically grabbed my finisher’s medal from the volunteer at the finish line. “Gimme that! I deserve this one!”

I’d listened to my instincts, kept a good frame of mind, took some risks, and it paid off. Lesson learned, medal earned.