dddd
photo by Ellen Goldstein
Last Sunday, on a warm and crisp morning, I joined an assortment of 1500 other runners in the 100th Anniversary Dipsea. My personal history in this storied event is not a distinguished one…in three previous races, I had failed to crack the top 1000. Most years, something seemed to derail my entry into the race…a sister’s wedding, a poorly-timed injury, (or mostly) not getting my application in on time. This year, through some amazing luck, I managed to get in.
Fortune has been smiling upon me. In 2003, I had the best excuse ever for not running the Dipsea. A brain tumor, surgery, radiation and chemotherapy had left me fighting for my life. Running the Dipsea was about as feasible as running for Miss America. Besides, I hadn’t trained at all. By 2004, against all odds, I was feeling good enough to think about it. Fit. Lucky. All of the above. So I ran carefully, finished, and said prayers of thanks all the way back to Mill Valley.This year, after driving to the Mill Valley post office and hand-delivering my application, my check came back, indicating I was too late. After pleading my case via phone, I was put on a waiting list, and the following day, given a spot. Despair turned to elation, and my training began in earnest, taking advantage of the hilly China Camp terrain near my house. My final training run was a grueling and exhilarating two-hour, ten-mile hillfest, and I declared myself ready. It was time to get out my National Brain Tumor Foundation t-shirt.
This is a one-of-a-kind item which was first worn in the San Francisco Marathon in 2004. I signed on to the NBTF team as a runner and fundraiser, and was issued a shirt with information on the back, but nothing on the front. Using markers, I fashioned a design that featured a large drawing of a brain, with lines radiating out of it the way Kryptonite is rendered in comic books, with the words “tumor survivor” underneath. I wore it while running the second half, and a photo taken at the finish line by my wife, Ellen, was published in the NBTF newsletter and web site. We were also part of the team at the Los Angeles Marathon in March.
Recently, I read about the passing of Summer Skye, with whom I shared a love of running and the same type of brain tumor. Although I had never met her, I was moved by her story, and the amazing job she had done raising funds for NBTF through road racing events. So I chose to memorialize her by adding the words “in memory of Summer Skye 1972-2005” to the back of my t-shirt.
The night before the race, my wife put on a pasta feed for ourselves and two couples. Terry, Jane, George and Cindy were good friends of ours, and the men were runners. The pasta was for my benefit, as neither Terry nor George were in the race line-up, but the talk was all Dipsea. Terry had brought over a metal box with a padlock, for which he sought a secure place upon his arrival. “What’s in the box?” I asked, only to be answered that it was something he wanted to show me. “Is it radioactive?” “Sort of,” he replied. As dinner was being prepared, the men retired to our bedroom where Terry proceeded to unlock the box. The lid flew open, scattering Styrofoam popcorn all over our bed, as he unwrapped an antique sterling silver cup with handles fashioned out of antlers. The inscriptions revealed that it was presented to the winner of the inaugural Dipsea in 1905. I felt as if I was in the presence of the Holy Grail, and cradled the object to see if I could absorb any of its mojo. After telling me how it turned up at a second-hand store years ago, Terry swore me to secrecy concerning its ownership, and I can only reveal this much because Dave Albee wrote about it in Monday’s Marin IJ. Nonetheless, it was like being initiated into the Secret Society of the Dipsea. I awoke early the next morning, too excited to sleep until the alarm went off.
Ellen drove me to town and hung out with me at the starting line as we watched the various handicap groups head off towards Old Mill Park. Suddenly my group was being readied for their start. I blew a kiss and darted into place as the rope was raised and the group surged forward. Soon I was on the fabled steps, breathing rhythmically as a stereo blasted out the Fabulous Thunderbirds’ “Tough Enough.” In the middle of the steps, I caught my friend Don Timmer, who had also overcome a life-threatening condition to run the race last year. “See you at the finish line,” I called out cheerily. Holding myself to a brisk PowerWalk to the top of Windy Gap, my plan was to avoid bonking before I got to the beach. After the descent into Muir Woods, the throng settled itself into single-file through the long stretches of uphill culminating in the top of Cardiac Hill. Everyone at this point was in trudge mode, all of the people who could run up these slopes having passed through long ago. Overtaking someone in this crowd required both a superhuman boost of energy and a wide spot in the trail, and only occasionally did both occur at the same time. We crested Cardiac as the Pacific stretched out below. The sensation was as if birds had been released from a cage.
As we descended into Stinson, I found myself behind a kid about twelve who had taped “Remember Summer Skye” to his shirt. An instant bond was created, and we ran together for a bit, each of us honoring Summer by doing what she loved. I gathered some strength and managed to pass a half-dozen runners behind a young woman with a curly ponytail. Staying with Ms. Ponytail as long as I could, I started to lose her when the race was held up for a minute as a runner was taken out on a stretcher. Continuing, we reached the bluffs overlooking Stinson and I caught sight of the kid with “Remember Summer” on his shirt. Crossing the highway on the last turn, we were stride for stride and I had a vision of us crossing the finish line together, hand in hand like the ending of the movie “On the Edge” which was based, loosely, on the Dipsea. With the finish line in sight, the kid found another gear and shot forward…despite feeling pretty strong, and the fact that I was going as fast as I could, he dusted me. Once past the finish line and meeting Ellen, it was only moments until I ran into my friends Terry and Don. I had finished strong. Not very fast, but strong. I had partaken of the sacrament and it was good.
I’m already looking forward to next year, and starting my training, tomorrow. There will be more events for NBTF, and I will continue to try to spread hope among those facing the challenges of brain tumors. But the next Dipsea could be really special…not only do I get another handicap minute, but my group next year will include women from 19 to 39. It’s hard to imagine it getting any better than that.
Peace and love,
Dan