Erin Go Run

When I lived in Solana Beach with a friend from college, we occasionally made our drunken way to a local bar that is not fit for the area, let me tell you. The ol’ “Surf and Saddle” brings out people from the wood works. On any given night, you could run into any slew of people. One night you might talk to a man that had just been released from prison for almost killing his sister’s ex-boyfriend, whereas on another night you will run into the freshly graduated (or drop-outs) from the nearby community college that live off of their winnings at the weekly goldfish racing.

One night in particular, Jimme and I had ventured our way to the Surf and Saddle for a nice cocktail or three. After almost being accosted by the ex-prisonmate and a group of college punks that don’t know the first clue about being alive on this Earth (ugh, seriously) one man seated at the bar had been eyeing our conversations immensely. Once Jimme and I got a moment to ourselves, his mid-life-crisis-lets-see-if-I-still-got-it radar began to go off. Beginning with the small talk “are you girls here alone” and “what are pretty girls like you doing in a bar like this” he found a way to begin talking more personally with Jimme. As she continued pounding her drink and fake laughing at his old-fashioned jokes while he gently caressed her leg and hand uncomfortably and awkwardly, I continued to look like I was meant to be at the bar alone. I did the usual; checked my phone every ten seconds for a possible text or call, watched TV intensely, tried to observe the bartenders to see which one would make my next drink stronger.

Long story short, this guy Larry turned out to be a “horse buyer” from Florida. He was here for the summer, watching the horses and buying them. His trick is that he buys the youngin’s (horses, I mean) and then sells them several years later when they are at their racing prime. He kept talking about this and that with Jimme and I, which seemed like a very unrealistic profession for his image (and name), but as long as he was buying our drinks, he could have been the King of Tibet and I would have stilled smiled and nodded.

He then proceeded to invite us to the track (us, only cause he knew I was Jimme’s wingman) to watch the horses practice. I, in my beginnings of a drunken stupor, began raving about my dream to do a time trial around the track. The Del Mar track is approximately one mile long, which, to a runner, is a fantasy. He promised me that he would get me on the track to do that, and insisted that Jimme get his number to make the arrangements… hmmm… suspicious at all? Naaaahhhhhh! He kept talking up his expertise about the turf, the horses, etc.etc. as I drifted off into runner’s dreamland and pictured my record braking mile on the Del Mar track making the news.

Needless to say, the summer went by and the text messages got creepier and creepier from Larry. He not only texted Jimme when he was in the shower thinking of her, but he also made sure to call and leave a message on her phone and then quickly call into her work to ask why she didn’t pick up. Eventually she avoided all contact, which led him to the last message we would hear from Larry stating how inconsiderate and rude it is to just blow someone off. He left back home at the end of the season and we never heard from Larry again.

As for the track, I insisted that Jimme return at least one of his calls, so to have a chance at the time trial. I thought better of myself and of, well, nothing much else. I would have protected Jimme from running off with “Larry the Horse Guy” just as long as I had gotten to run around that track. But alas, I will have to keep dreaming. But wait; its opening day…. Wonder who is at the Surf and Saddle?

Mile 26   split: 7:42   marathon time: 3:20:31

This last mile, while you think it would go quickly, actually somewhat drags on. The finish is at the recruiting depot, but you have to run through it first..ugh. And not only that, but you are weaving through its mini streets while, again, torturing your legs and making you ruin a smooth stride. Excited to finish to really see if this time was real, I saw a girl ahead of me looking of the same age division as I, and contemplated passing her. With ¾ of a mile left, I could have passed her, but who knows what kind of kick she could have produced at the end to still beat me. I thought about my options, but finally said, E, just finish… run your own race, and have the time of your life.

Mile 26.2   split: 1:21  marathon time: 3:22:05

Running past the finish line crowd, my last bit of cockiness came out as I wondered if co-worker/ friend George was there to greet us (Gaia was also running the race today). Annnnd for the cockiness: he might not even be here yet. I went on to cross the finish line in my fastest time to date…

…and that, ladies and gentlemen, was the San Diego Rock and Roll Marathon from the perspective of this slightly awkward and slightly cocky runner.

Mile 23   split: 7:45   marathon time: 2:57:28

Still running with Cass, she kept trying to motivate me/ coach me. It was frustrating at points because she obviously didn’t understand my fatigue, but I love that she was helping me. There wasn’t much happening throughout this mile, except that I kept telling myself that I only had a measly little 5K left to run (and you all only have one more post to read about this danged marathon).

Mile 24   split: 7:37   marathon time: 3:05:06

You all know as well as I that when I have the opportunity to brag about a performance or myself, I am surely going to take it. Like I mentioned before, we had personalized bibs, so as I ran by the crowds, they were able to cheer for us by name. Running with Cass (and as you can see by the split time, quite impressively), spectators would cheer me on, and congratulate me on my performance: “Wow, Erin! You look so strong!” “Erin, you look great! Almost there!” “You are looking amazing!” I could keep going, but I will spare you.

Mile 25   split: 7:41   marathon time: 3:12:48

Earlier in the race, when I began to believe for myself that I might actually have a great race, there was a man that had written all over his upper torso “3:20 Follow Me to Boston.” Back then, I was doubtful that I would have this kind of race. And he ended up speeding (not literally) off ahead, which made things seem realistic at the time that 3:20 would be but a dream for me. But alas, as I was running alone again here in mile 25, I approached this man who was struggling a bit. While I didn’t have the courage to pump him up and motivate him to finish up with me, I whispered under my breath, here we go, 3:20, let’s do this.

Mile 20    split: 7:46   marathon time: 2:34:19

If you read back in my blog a few miles (mile 2, to be exact), you’ll read about two gentlemen that I happened to be running alongside who made claims on their brilliant marathon strategy, the race starts at mile 20… As I approached this mile, I thought of those two and, of course, in my cockiness blurted in my head, Mile 20, huh? Where are you now!? I never really got a good look at who they were or what they were even wearing, so I wouldn’t have known if they were in fact beginning to race, stopped and walking, or where they were in relation to me (for all I know they could have been right next to me). Although I got a good whiff of their sweat back at mile 2, it wasn’t enough to determine which of these fools running with me now were really them. For their own sake, I hope they were able to live up to their strategy.

Mile 21   split: 7:42   marathon time: 2:42:01

Anyone that has run the San Diego Rock and Roll Marathon before very well knows that miles 21 through about 24 are possibly the worst; not physically, but mentally. Not only are there NO fans (except the bums and seagulls that sleep in the filth we call the San Diego River), but there is no shade and at one point you can see the runners that are about a mile in front of you and two miles in front of you at the same time (more on that later). I was approaching this mile with the best of intentions; to get through it. Right before the 21 mile marker, you have to weave through some pitiful plywood boards that have idiotic symbols on it that are supposed to replicate “Yay! Keep running, idiots, doing great, even though you are crazy!” in “Egyptian” as if you are in a maze at Coney Island. You are so pissed off by this, more so than your legs for being tortured so, that you almost want to take the water from the “pharaohs” and throw it back in their face.

But to my surprise, these stupid boards were like the winning door, that once I passed them, there was none other than my very own Cass!!! Thinking she was just cheering again, I ran by her to give her a high five; but instead of reciprocating, she began to run with me. She ended up running with me until mile 25, helping me through the worst parts of the race. She kept saying how well I was doing and how strong I looked. I just kept thanking her for running and for being with me through the tough part… I haven’t seen her in ages, and wished that this was just another practice that we got to spend chit chatting, but I think she knew that I was on record pace, so she just ran alongside of me… helped me through.

Mile 22   split: 7:41   marathon time: 2:49:43

Like I said before, the worst part of the race is when you can see the people 1 and 2 miles ahead of you; lucky bastards, almost done…. As you turn from Sea World Drive onto Friars, you get the privilege of rocking out to one of the bands, but then you get the unfortunate task of having to see the hundreds of people turning back onto Sea World drive (to the Mile 23 marker). What does this mean? That you have to pointlessly run down Friars, possibly the most boring and scary road in all of San Diego, for half of a mile and then make a sharp U-turn (which also makes your legs burn like a bladder infection). This isn’t even the worst part. Just when you are about to make the U-turn, you look up to the band to rock out a little bit more, but instead get pissed at the sight of runners already on the Pacific Coast Highway, approaching Mile 24…. Damn you all, and your running talent. Turning around, you huff and puff past the next water station and then right before you turn off of the wretched Friars road, you look left and kind of chuckle at the runners just entering into the Hell you were in, but quickly sympathize and move on.   

Mile 17    split: 7:34   marathon time: 2:11:15

My inner monologue: Oh mile 17. How I hated you last year. Why it was just upon these very streets that I experienced my weakest moments. Calf pain, dragging my fat ass across the bridge, only to smell the reek of Mission Bay and my race. It was a sad time last year, but my how I have grown. So miserable, so lonely, so little confidence. What a year it has been though. (I continue pinpointing random low moments within the last year). I am grateful for my time right now, Thank you, God. You were there with me always, helping me grow and learn, and suffer. Keep me strong, help me to get through this….

… this is where I saw Alicia last year. In my sad state. Thank goodness that isn’t me anymore. Those pictures were so horrible. 

Mile 18    split: 7:42   marathon time: 2:18:58

From the sidelines (I found out afterwards that they were yelling this at runners behind me):

“You are losing to a drunk girl!”

Mile 19    split: 7:34   marathon time: 2:26:32

A few paces down the PB/Crown Point stretch is none other than my very own Lil B, his friend Millie, and an ex teammate Steve.  I ran by in excitement, ready to high five everyone (“high Five”) and shout “record time, guys! Record time!” Steve joined me for a few paces, but that was short lived as I had been holding some pee in for approximately 19 miles. I took a 20 second timeout at the port-o-potty, but not without debating whether to keep my time running or not… of course, I stopped it since I wanted to get my “true running time.” Turns out I not only had the race of my life, but also the pee of my life too; 20 seconds (I figured that out from the discrepancy between my chip time and watch time).