My alarm goes off and for once in my goddamn life I don’t hit
snooze. The motel room is dark, and I unroll my yoga mat, kneeling below the
chipped ceiling mirror. The carpet smells of ointment and cigarette smoke and
the broken mini fridge buzzes next to the T.V. that has three amateur porn
channels and this is where I’ve chosen to spend my last moments before running
a marathon.
I stretch. I’d planned on relaxing, but I’m already calm. I
knew this was coming: The day last spring my sister-in-law mentioned the Long
Beach Half Marathon. ‘I want to do it, but I’m running the full. I’m only doing
this once.’ The vacations I packed running shoes for, the mornings with
sunscreen dripping into my eyes, the nights on Sunset with a motorcycle crew
beside me chanting ‘Get it girl! Get it!’
The blogs, the books, the breathing.
My mom calls.
It’s time to go.
In the car, my mom and her best friend feed me bananas and
ibuprofen. ‘That’s all you’re going to have is a banana? Come here. Let me pin
your number on. Have another banana.’ My mom is forever trying to get me to eat
more breakfast and do some variation on letting her braid my hair.
The streets are blocked off. They drive me as far as they
can.
I walk to the start line alone.
The sun is up. The harbor is damp. A woman with meaty belt finishes the national
anthem on a P.A.
The road ripples with strangers. All of us are numbered. I’m
4080. I find myself a little pocket to
stand in.
An air horn blares. The first wave goes. Then the second. My
stomach drops. Third wave. Wait. Shit. But – the horn wails. My wave starts.
Crossing the start line is passing a border. Now I’m really
here. I’m really doing this. I kick off with Jay-Z’s Run This Town. Shut up. It’s my marathon and I’ll be cliché if I
want to. The weather is perfect.
Handmade signs tell me I’m awesome. My legs are children on their first recess
after a week of rainy days.
I’m addicted to the
thrill. It’s a dangerous love affair.
I had planned to take a shot of tequila before my first time
doing stand up. I drove off anonymously into the night and arrived at an art
gallery that sold only tea. Signed up, crossed the street, and drank a forty
alone in my car. When it was my turn, all I could see was bright light in my
eyes. My knees knocked. I squeezed out my jokes through throat spasms. In the
black beyond the lights, people laughed. Whoa. I can do this.
Whoa. I can do this.
I round out mile six near the Queen Mary. More strangers.
More banners. Even the guy with the Romney sign is rooting for me. Today, they’re
all on my side. My boyfriend waits by himself in the sand. When I see him, I
run faster. He kisses me but won’t let me stop. ‘Keep running!’
I do. Six and a half miles. That’s a half of a half
marathon. Three and a half to ten and then just sixteen after that. Just
sixteen. Just sixteen? Plus three.
So, nineteen. I become aware of the tape holding my big toenail on. (Sorry
boys, I’m taken.) This tape won’t stop rubbing.
Keep running.
I always knew I’d struggle in my twenties. I even looked
forward to it. I’d wait tables and substitute teach. I’d have other starving
artist friends to practice improv and drink Two Buck Chuck with. I’d live in a
shithole and blow too much money on headshots. I would also have a pilot read
by a big production company and lose sleep before the meeting where a barefoot
Buddhist executive would tell me I wasn’t edgy enough. I’d buy new shoes for a
meeting with a cable channel who would tell me that women could either be funny
or pretty and wonder if they were calling me ugly or unfunny. I’d sell an idea
that would give me enough money to finally quit my day jobs and tell all of my
friends and family about it before learning that the economy had tanked and the
deal had been aborted. I’d hang up from learning said news, and look into the
eyes of one of my students who didn’t mean to make me cry when she asked, ‘Ms.
Barker, will you be a substitute teacher forever?’ Jesus Christ. How much
longer was this going to last?
Nine miles.
I’m at nine miles. A little sore, but this is what I signed
up for. Last mile of the single digits. Nine miles is nothing. I eat nine miles
for breakfast. This isn’t my normal nine miles, though. I’m running a marathon
right now. I said I’d do this and here I am. The beach. Look at the beach.
Powerade. These wonderful people keep giving us Powerade. Thank you. I said I’d
do this and here I am. Thank you. Keep running. Ahead, they’ve made a real song
and dance out of the ten-mile marker. A big ass inflatable ‘0’ we’ll run
through. Double digit time, brought to you by Cliff Bar. So clo--
Fuck.
Ouch.
Goddammit.
No.
My right knee.
It’s a sharp, searing pain. Keep running.
I hobble, deflated, through the inflatable ‘0.’ This isn’t
how this was supposed to happen. I have so much further to go. Keep running. I
falter like a gunned down animal. Why. Why. Why.
I stretch on the side of the path. People pass me.
So many people have passed me. She got that job? He’s
doing late night? I know jealousy isn’t healthy, but neither is a cold, and I
get those sometimes too. The race is long, and only against yourself and you
lose yourself when people won’t stop passing you.
Why?!
I have to finish. I’m already ten miles deep. It’s not
broken. You can do this. I run-limp, focused on the pain that shoots up and
down my leg. I’ve lost my rhythm. At least I’m moving forward. A woman holds up
a sign:
Someday you will not
be able to do this. Today is not that day.
I was not a good chair aerobics teacher. In my offense, I
didn’t really try. How hard could it be to move around in a chair? We met in
the common room of the nursing home. They were sweet people with transparent
skin and joints that moved liked rusty gates. ‘Okay. Let’s start out with
some…uh…lift up your arm. Great. Lift up the other one.’ They complied. I
checked the clock. One minute down, fifty-nine to go. What the hell had the
last teacher done for an hour? ‘Lift up your arm again?’ A respirator gurgled.
A student in the front row snored.
Today is not that day.
The pain in my legs are the braces Forest Gump wears and as
I run I separate from them and they break and fall by the wayside. A fork in
the course. The half marathoners veer off. Thirteen miles. I only have to do
what I’ve already done. To my left, the course has turned around. I watch the
faster runners pass mile twenty-two. How are they so far? Eventually you’ll be
there. Just worry about right now. More Powerade. Thank you. A high five. Thank
you. You’re lucky to be here. Thank you. This is bitchin’.
The last time I ever drove with my step dad he picked me up
from the airport. I had come home from New York, where I’d done the first
staged reading of my musical. ‘Hey T!’ He’d bounded toward the baggage claim in
his long shorts and sneakers. Jim bounded everywhere. He’d had a brain tumor
before we knew him. One they told him he wouldn’t survive. After he proved them
wrong, we wouldn’t stop smiling about it. Not for anything. Nothing could make
him as annoyed as the simple act of being alive made him happy. He never
bitched, but everything was ‘bitchin’. ‘ He and my mom saw The Stones. ‘They
were bitchin’!’ They got a DVR to record his cop shows ‘This is bitchin’!’ He
hurled my suitcase into the bed of his pick up. ‘We’re so proud of your play.
It’s just… bitchin’.’ Four months later, he would lose his license to seizures.
Two years later, we would lose him to the same.
Guess my ankles are sore. Guess my knees are throbbing.
Can’t think about that. Just short mantras to match the fall of my heels: I can
do this. This is possible. Mom and Jim run beside me. The three of us alternate
phrases in rhythm. ‘Go T!’ ‘This is bitchin’!’ ‘Go T!’ ‘This is possible.’ They
get me to mile sixteen.
My siblings run up next. Seventeen. My boyfriend. Eighteen.
Water. Thank you. Banana. Thank you. You’re awesome. Thank
you.
Dad. Nineteen.
I have no body and I am only a body. A robot made of muscle.
A streak of light that pulses with every shot of encouragement.
A little hill. Push harder. Pain so normal now it doesn’t
hurt.
College kids line the course. Their magic marker enthusiasm
surges as I pass.
‘Yeah! This guy is the man!’
Guy?
Oh. The seventy year old man in front of me.
‘Woohoo! You’re amazing!’
Thank y—Oh. The guy in the wheelchair. Also in front of me.
‘Yay! You’re great too!’
Okay. This time they mean me. Somehow, I’ve managed to run a
marathon and still get pity cheers.
Keep running.
I’ve been saving Uncle Mike for nineteen to twenty.
We sat on the deck overlooking their farm: berry vines and
wild grass and a ’72 Chevy tucked into the arms of an oak tree. ‘I always
wanted to be a pilot. To me, that’s closest you can get to God, being up
there.’ He ran his hands across the controls on his wheelchair. ‘I got to drive
a glider plane over the Sierras last month. Go to hold the steering wheel. That
kind of control…when you spend most of your life in one of these…’ We both
looked back out at the sky. ‘I didn’t know this would happen to me. I’m glad I
got to be pilot before it did. Got to live my dream. I don’t look back and wish
I’d worked in a cubicle. You’re following your dream. You’ll be okay.’
Knees. Thighs. Ankles.
You’ll be okay.
One foot in front of the other. Uncle Mike runs next to me.
Runs. He smiles. He’s not in his wheelchair. When you spend most of your life in one of these. Just keep
running. You’ll be okay.
Mile twenty. Oh my god. Mile twenty. The homestretch. You’re
really going to do this. I switch to a mix one of my best friends has made.
This will get me through. This will get me through.
‘Tess Barker, this is all you, baby! This is me and Eric,
and we just have one piece of advice. Keep going! Go Tess Go!’ My own
homestretch song! They sing Britney Spears lyrics and chant ‘Go Tess, Go,’ and
now it’s my friends who run with me. The ones who did drugs on the Price is
Right with me, the ones who’ve rode bitch in the backseat to Albuquerque with
me, the ones who I’ve shared countless flasks and pizzas with. Some to my left,
some to my right, some run behind me and push. And push. I’m so lucky to have
people to push.
Mile twenty two. You said you’d be here, here you are. You
said you’d be here, here you are. I run with my mom again. This time just her.
She chants to keep my feet moving, ‘I’m always rooting for you. I’m always
rooting for you.’ That’s a lyric in my musical.
Opening night in New York, the new dress she wore. The way
she cried all the way through. The champagne she let herself have at the
reception.
I’m always rooting for
you.
At the end of the mile, she’s there in real life. Like
she knew. She and Mary scream and thumbs up and take pictures. Moms are so good
about pictures. ‘You’re almost there! You’re almost there!’
I’m almost there. I’m
almost there.
This phrase alone gets me through the next two miles.
Bigger crowds. More signs. Holy shit.
Last mile.
A firefighter hollers ‘Looking good, 4080!’
I go back to Jay-Z.
Victory’s within the
mile. Almost there don’t give up now.
I’m about to finish a marathon. You said you’d do it, here
you are.
Ocean. People cheering and cheering: the best kind of
paparazzi. Everything in slow motion. I could stay in this mile forever, but
the finish is close. Where’s Sean? There The finish gets closer. Closer.
And I’m done. Done.
The end happens fast.
I did it.
I just ran a marathon.
I take out my headphones. Time and sound return to their
normal speeds. Sean runs up and kisses me.
‘Congratulations!’
Oh yeah. English. Normal conversation. Say something.
‘Thank you. Now let’s get a fucking beer.’
(...and I'll probably do this again)