This is a special edition of What’s Up With Dan, as I am not scheduled for an MRI for another month. But the events of this past weekend were too extraordinary not to want to share them with all of you.
Some time ago, the National Brain Tumor Foundation, for whom I ran the San Francisco Half Marathon last September, contacted me about participating in the Los Angeles Marathon as part of the NBTF team. They had been using a photo of me, at the finish line in San Francisco (taken by Ellen) on their web site to promote a new program called Racing Ahead, whose purpose was to raise funds and awareness through athletic events, such as marathons. I thought it would be an interesting way to take my participation to the next level, and Ellen offered to accompany me to LA and participate in the marathon. We also started a fundraising web page and raised close to $1000 for the Foundation. (A grateful "Thank You" to all who contributed so generously.)
About two weeks before the event, the NBTF was contacted by the NBC-TV affiliate in LA. They wanted to do a segment about the Foundation’s presence at the marathon, and they had heard my story about overcoming a brain tumor and writing songs. So I was asked if I wanted to be interviewed prior to the marathon for a news segment involving the NBTF, and by the way, could I bring my guitar. Of course, I was more than willing to do this, and once the logistics were worked out, we made arrangements to meet on Ocean Boulevard in Santa Monica two days before the race.
Although the purpose of the news segment was to raise awareness of brain tumors and to provide an inspirational sidebar to the race, I began to consider the potential impact of appearing on TV before millions of southern Californians. It occurred to me that my music website would be somewhat of a disconnect for anyone seeking it out after seeing the news segment, so I undertook the task of a major overhaul of the site from being primarily an artist site with a journal to a brain tumor resource site with some music. Despite the fact that we upgraded our Mac operating system the same week, I managed to put the new site together in a few days just before we left for LA.
We set off for LA on a Thursday, planning to spend the night with our good friends Rick and Roberta, who live in a lovely house in Dixie Canyon. Only a half hour from Santa Monica, it would be easy to meet the crew there Friday morning. At the appointed hour, a group of NBTF representatives, a camera crew and the two of us convened on a jogging path overlooking the ocean. We were filmed running as a group, setting a pace that allowed the slowest of us to keep up. For me, it was like Chariots of Fire slow-motion running, but the cameraman got what he wanted. They interviewed each of the NBTF people. Finally, they set me up with my guitar against the ocean. I chose to sing a new song called “Survival” rather than something from the CD. It was the right choice. They interviewed me for about five minutes, then called it a wrap. We were told it would be broadcast the following night between 5 and 6 PM.
Since the race started at 8 AM in downtown LA, we had made arrangements to stay at a hotel near the start line, where two members of Team NBTF were also staying. The four of us convened in our room with a bottle of wine at the start of the newscast. Fifteen minutes or so into the broadcast, we all saw the Chariots of Fire running scene as the announcer intoned, in news-teaser fashion, something like “20,000 runners are running the Los Angeles Marathon tomorrow, hoping for a medal. But one runner has a different goal. He’s running for his life. Stay tuned.”
“I’m a teaser!” I remarked, savoring a moment I never expected to have. Soon, we were again watching ourselves running along Ocean Boulevard, as the announcer gave the “back story.” (See what a few days in LA does to you?) They managed to mispronounce my name, and refer to my self-healing program as “kwee-gong.” This was followed by some of my interview. I noticed immediately that the sun was coming into my face at an angle, casting sharp shadows wherever there were irregular contours. This type of lighting is wonderful for photography in Monument National Park, as it reveals every knob and fissure in the spectacular stone formations there. Unfortunately, the lighting had the same effect on my face. Every bump, every wrinkle, every crooked tooth stood out in bold relief. But my delivery was respectable…if a person can watch re-runs of himself on video without cringing, then things probably went pretty well. After two short interviews with NBTF people, they ran some footage of guitar and harmonica playing, singing a couple lines from the song. Thankfully, they kept the harmonica part…I had thought that they might cut it, but it added that Dylan/Springsteen vibe I wanted.
The next morning, Ellen and I donned our marathon outfits (commemorative shorts and a Team NBTF shirt for me, a lovely teal sports top and black leotard shorts for El) and walked towards the starting mob, as Randy Newman’s “I Love LA” blared from a PA system. Slowly but inexorably, like a glacier on speed, the crowd surged forward. Ellen and I started out at a decent walking pace as we began our trek around downtown LA. We set off down Figeroa, past the USC campus and into the sun, where we were soon swept up in the enthusiasm of a gospel choir on the sidewalk. Since Ellen decided to record every mile marker, we stopped to take photos, which pulled us farther back into the pack. As we turned onto Exposition Boulevard, we noticed that all of the modest houses had iron grating on every window and the people cheering us on from lawn chairs were all black. Nonetheless, the vibe was very mellow, as though the neighborhood radiated good will all the time. Still, it would likely have been very different without thousands of people streaming through it en masse.
The mileage banners came and were photographed. The clock gave us feedback about our pace. (We started at a solid 3 miles per hour but tapered off due to photos and tired body parts.) Volunteers handed out a variety of helpful things…which, depending on the packaging, would dominate the pavement for the next several blocks. Water in white cups became post-hailstorm landscapes. A Gatorade station would litter the street with green and orange plastic cups, like autumn on another planet. Well-meaning volunteers even offered cardboard squares gooked up with Vaseline, its intended use something I preferred not to ponder. Not surprisingly, there were few takers. As we moved deeper into the neighborhood, its religious fervor began to make itself heard. After all, it was Sunday morning. Preachers and choirs testified up and down Crenshaw, filling up the street with a joyful noise, courtesy of their church’s PA system. They set up in front of storefronts and let loose, sometimes so loudly that it seemed to be coming from everywhere, echoing from across the street.
Eventually, we crested an overpass that traversed a major freeway, and the character of the neighborhood began to change again. The modest stucco bungalows were giving way to larger, grander, wooden residences that resembled Korean fraternity houses, nicer apartment buildings, and more trees. Soon we changed directions again and the neighborhood took on a distinctly Latino flavor; the auto dealers flashing banners reading “Financiamos Facil.” Ellen began to stiffen up, and reminded herself of her goal of reaching the halfway point, some several miles away at this point. We also noticed that many of the bands and booths were packing up and leaving, as we were near the tail end of the race. As we approached Mile 13, we spotted a shuttle bus and looked at each other. It was time. Ellen got a ride back to the finish line, and I continued my journey solo.
I began a relaxed jog, weaving in and out of people as they were, for the most part, walking. Turning my senses up higher, I took it all in…the people in their yards cheering us on, the subtle differences in architecture as the neighborhoods transitioned, the color of the street revealing the next Gatorade station. I availed myself of the Gatorade, as well as a couple of gel packs and advanced at a steady pace. After hearing about a race strategy that involves running/walking intervals, I adopted a strategy where I ran in between refreshment stations, and walked through them, taking time to finish my beverage before switching gears.
Around Mile 17 or 18, we encountered a classic marketing idea gone horribly wrong. A company marketing a thirst-quenching bubblegum was handing out samples, apparently unaware of what would happen when 20,000 people spit out the gum. Marthoners stuck to the street for at least a block, and it took at least another mile before my shoes stopped going “gwitch gwitch gwitch.”
By this time, we were in a leafy and upscale urban residential neighborhood. The houses were stately and well-kept, and different 20th century architectural styles abounded. People of all ages waved from their yards and set up sprinkle hose showers. As I approached Mile 20, I recalled tales of “the wall” commonly occurring at this point. I had to admit that my legs were starting to feel like someone had strapped a fireplace log onto each of them. But downtown…and the finish line…beckoned from six miles away, glimmering against the sky like an copper-toned Emerald City. Doggedly, I continued. By this time, it didn’t matter whether I was running or walking, both activities hurt. Simply changing from one to another offered some relief, but by Mile 24 I felt done. Content to limp in from there, I dug in and kept moving.
At Mile 25, the clock read 6 hours, 45 minutes. Realizing that at my pace, it would take at least 20 minutes to get there, I decided to run as far as I could in an effort to break 7 hours. I cranked it up and headed for the finish line. Most of the people were walking, so I had to thread my way through the crowd. After about a mile, I realized my gas gauge was pegged to the left, so I slowed to a walk as I prepared myself for one final burst of speed. With 300 yards to go, I jammed it into third gear and, well, “sprinted” isn’t quite the right word, but I made it through the gate with a time of 6 hours, 58.5 minutes. I surrendered the timing chip attached to my shoe, and along with 20,000 other people, reunited with my honey at the finish line via cell phone.
We walked the several blocks back to the hotel, not terribly comfortably, got our car, and returned to Rick and Roberta’s house. After a shower and a much-welcomed nap, we were treated to a wonderful barbecued fish dinner as I proudly wore my brass marathon medallion, which was almost big enough to use as a drink coaster. The following morning, after a photo session at Roberta’s office for a brochure we’re putting together for them, we cruised up the valley to Marin, where we were greeted very enthusiastically by a not-yet-fed yellow lab. Meanwhile, the National Brain Tumor Foundation is already talking about the San Francisco Marathon. I have until July to recover from this one.
I run with the wind at my back, pushed along by all of your support and prayers. Please accept my most heartfelt thanks.
Peace and love,
Dan
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