Daily Trojan USC.edu

Issue date: 3/5/08 Section: Opinion

Media Credit: Matteo Marjoram | Daily Trojan

I wanted to document my experience running the Los Angeles Marathon as I ran it because I thought that would lend a unique and very realistic perspective into the mind of someone dumb enough to run 26.2 miles. At the request of my editors, all expletives have been omitted. All times are guesses that get progressively less educated.

4:15 a.m. Wake up for the third time to go to the bathroom. As I stumble out of my bed, I think longingly of adult diapers and bed pans.

4:40 a.m. Wake up five minutes before both of my alarms were supposed to go off. Turn off alarms. This means my roommate will not stab me when I come back - if I come back.

5:15 a.m. Start jogging across campus with running partner toward the USC marathon team bus, which will leave from the Lyon Center at 5:30.

5:50 a.m. Bus leaves.

7:15 a.m. While stretching in preparation for the 8:15 start, teammates ask why the name on my racing bib is hand written instead of computer printed. I tell them the race organizers messed up my bib. I prefer not to reveal that a hilarious incident during registration resulted in my bib saying, in bold letters, "NIPPLES."

8:15 a.m. We are poised about 500 yards from the starting line, stuck between 25,000 other runners. A man with a microphone is telling us we need to accept Jesus, cleverly making his message relevant to the day by saying one person dies during every marathon, so we should accept Jesus now - in case that's us.

8:30 a.m. I cross the starting line. The course almost immediately goes uphill. There are already people walking. I feel bad for these people.

8:39 a.m. Mile one. This is strangely uninspiring.

9:29 a.m. Somewhere near mile seven, the course meanders through a nice residential area. People are lounging outside their homes, offering water and orange slices. One family has made a tailgate out of it, enjoying chilled champagne and what appears to be a cheese platter. I hate them.

9:37 a.m. Around mile eight, I start noticing that I am being passed by 9 year olds. "Students Run L.A." is a program that trains students from Los Angeles elementary, middle and high schools to run in the marathon and destroy the egos of other people running it.

9:55 a.m. At mile 10, I see my friends cheering me on. I revel in the fact that the people near me do not have as many personal supporters as I do. I am popular.

10:30 a.m. Mile 13. I have made it halfway. I am on the north side of the Coliseum, and, incidentally, very close to my apartment. I am tired, and consider running to the apartment. But then I wouldn't get a medal. I see more of my friends cheering for me, and I keep going.

10:32 a.m. An official marathon photographer appears. This is a key moment. I straighten my shoulders, lengthen my stride and pump my arms sharply. I keep my expression intense and serious. Later, I will buy a poster-size version of this photo and have it mounted in a gilded frame.

10:33 a.m. Relax limbs and go back to looking like roadkill.

10:45 a.m. I have to pee. I recall hearing stories of runners who don't stop to pee during races, instead letting it run down their legs. For the first time, this seems like a rational, even obvious, idea. I realize a relieved bladder, however, does not outweigh the costs of wet shoes - and an extreme loss of dignity. Not for the last time, I wish I had a pair of adult diapers.

11:08 a.m. Mile 18. Only eight more miles.

11:09 a.m. Eight more miles?

11: 25 a.m. Some kind person, or possibly a gang member, has opened a fire hydrant to refresh the athletes. I frolic through the spray, only realizing afterwards that I have compromised the piece of paper that I taped over "NIPPLES." Luckily, the paper stays in place.

12:05 p.m. Mile 24 is the most distressing mile of the race. It is penultimate to the penultimate mile, and in an exercise of mental masochism, I create a mental list of everything I would rather be doing than running. That list includes advanced calculus, brick-laying and having my wisdom teeth removed.

12:20 p.m. I triumphantly limp to the finish line, such as my cramping limbs will allow. The glory. The sense of victory. I look like I'm having a seizure.

8:00 p.m. I'm lying in my bed doing my best to look like a physically battered, but spiritually hopeful survivor of a natural disaster. I have to pee. Where are my adult diapers?



- Laura Reeve is a sophomore majoring in communication. Her column, "Folk Laur," runs Wednesdays.

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