Mike Lee.org - Weekly Random Rambles, Musings & Writings of Mike Lee

My nipples were hard. The early San Francisco air was icy. We had a few more hours before the sun would tickle the air and vibrate its electrons. Thus, my nipples were hard.

I ran around Mission and Steuart to warm up. Although everyone agrees that you should only stretch with warm muscles, no one knows if stretching before a run really helps or not. Lots of knowledgeable people argue it does, lots of knowledgeable people argue it doesn't. So it probably comes down to personal preference. Me, I like to warm up and stretch first.

The loudspeaker crackled. "Wave 5 runners, get ready!" Scores of people crowded onto the Embarcedero like a seething mass of arms, legs, and bib numbers. Some bounced up and down to keep warm. Others stretched out on the fences. All looked bright and eager, even under the yellow street lights.

"Ready! Set! Gooo!" We took off. A trample of feet shook the pavement. The pitter patter of specialized running shoes, all measured for each individual's feet, sounded like frantic rain. I took in a deep breath and felt the cold air circulate. It felt good.

A girl in hot pink was right in front of me. I centered in on her pony tail as it bobbed behind her head. She kept a good and steady pace, passing dozens of slower runners. I followed her pony tail to set my tempo. She wasn't too fast or too slow. I knew I could keep up. So far, so good.

Then she tore through the crowd. What the? Show off. I got caught behind a pair of runners and took the opportunity to recuperate a bit. Then I darted around them and zoomed forward. I scanned my field of vision, but Ms. Pony Tail was nowhere to be seen.

A gaggle of runners came up behind me. They were carrying on a conversation like they were lounging around in a bar somewhere. "Did you hear what Mark did to Debbie?" "Why does she hang around with that loser?" "Oh my gosh, I know, right?" As fun and intellectually stimulating as that conversation was, I decided to let them pass.

Around mile three we rounded the Marina. Just beyond the morning fog stood the Golden Gate Bridge. "Wow, people are on the bridge already!" someone shouted. I looked up. Indeed, the marathon's forerunners were already at the six mile mark. At this distance, they looked like ants crawling on a twig. But I knew they were blazing at a six-minute-mile pace. Damn.

To the sides there were spectators cheering us on. "Great job!" "Looking good!" "You can do it!" They were as inspiring as they were cheerful. A runner next to me shouted a word of thanks. The spectator waved back. The energy of the runners and spectators was exhilarating. Even the cowbells, which spectators used very liberally, were intoxicating.

Then my eye caught a flash of pink. Ms. Pony Tail had pulled over to the side and was walking. Ha! That's what you get for sprinting so early in the race. She huffed and puffed her way to a water station and chugged a cup of Cytomax. I raced right by her with a grin.

The first hill hit us in the Presidio around the five mile mark. Dozens of people were walking. I slowed down to a brisk jog. The breezes were getting colder. Brrr. As I shivered, Ms. Pony Tail blazed by me. What the?? Did she get that energy from the Cytomax? Holy Jeebers.

The Golden Gate Bridge was in full view now. It was majestic, even shrouded in fog. It was also as cold as a penguin's butt. I tucked my hands into my sleeves and blew into my fists. A gust of wind nearly toppled a runner in front of me. I grabbed onto my cap to keep it from sailing into the Bay.

My nose was leaking like an old faucet. So, of course, there were professional photographers all along the bridge who took professional photos of the snail trail dripping down my nose. Great.

A few runners jumped onto the side and whipped out their cameras. They sighed as they snapped the glorious mist around us. Runners from the earlier waves were passing us on the opposite side. Automobile traffic was relegated to the leftmost two lanes. Enthusiastic drivers honked their horns in support. Noise and bustle surrounded by serene gray. What an awesome course.

I slurped down some goo at the other side of the bridge. Mmm, good goo. As I rounded the corner and reentered the bridge, I heard someone call my name. I looked up. It was Eric, closing in on me. Damn, didn't he start eight minutes behind me?

I sped up. The narrow lanes made for some congestion. Faster runners darted in and out like aggressive drivers. Slower runners held up traffic like granny drivers. I weaved a bit, but let the faster runners pass me. It was only fair.

It was cold on the bridge. Ice-biting cold. The kind of cold that shoves sharp icicles under your fingernails and slides into your skin. It was a little like getting a massage from a polar bear with frozen claws. I half expected my breath to materialize into snowflakes.

Half a mile after the bride, someone tapped my shoulder. "Hey Mike!" shouted Eric as he zoomed by me. Bastard. I picked up my pace, but was no match for him on the Lincoln Blvd hill. He was right in front of me as I crested the peak. With a hopeful grin, I blasted down the hill. But it was all for naught. He sped down the hill like he was rolling down it.

The last three miles were marred with more hills. My calves were on fire. The sides of the course were littered with people who had passed me earlier. Now they were walking up those hills. Eric wasn't one of them, however.

Once outside of the Presidio, I spotted him a block ahead. Biting back the fire in my legs, I surged forward. The gap closed a little. Then we rounded a corner. "Wooo! Go Mike!" someone shouted. Startled, I twisted my head around. Colleen was walking with her bike. "Wooo!" she cheered. I waved and pushed forward.

Car traffic was stopped on either side of the course. Long lines of patient drivers sat there while the marathon cut through their neighborhood. One driver honked violently. "Hey buddy, what's up?" asked a traffic cop.

"How am I supposed to get home?" shouted the driver. He inched his car forward.

"Hey, hey! What do you want to do, run over these people?" answered the cop. "You gotta wait." Runners around me laughed, then sped past the intersection, just in case the driver decided he did want to run over us people.

I checked the mob in front of me. There was Eric! He seemed to be slowing down. I engaged in overdrive again and soared down the hill, trying desperately to block out the pain. Mind over matter, mind over matter. Then I reached him. And then I realized… it wasn't Eric. Damn!

I gave up trying to find him and aimed my mind at finishing strong. When we entered Golden Gate Park, I knew the finish line for the half marathon was coming up. Runners who had already finished were lined up at the sides, cheering us on. "You're almost there!" someone shouted. Thank goodness. My feet and hips were sore from pounding the pavement. What punishment for my joints. I wondered if I should ice them, or if the air was icy enough.

Then, finally, I spotted the finish line. The glorious finish line. Like Heaven, Nirvana, and Utopia all rolled into one. I tapped into my reserves and sprinted. It felt great. I burned down the last few meters at top speed.

Then I almost slammed into two slower runners. You could hear my heels skid as I applied the brakes. I almost smelled smoldering rubber. A third runner blocked me from a hasty pass. Rats, my momentum was gone.

As soon as the third runner broke free, I continued my sprint. I sped past the finish line to a chorus of cheers. Wooo! I did it! I finished the San Francisco half marathon!

I slowed to a walk and sauntered onto the grass. Right in front of me was Eric. Finally, I caught up to his ass. Whew. We picked up our medals, a windbreaker shield thingy, and congratulated each other.

I looked at my watch. 2:08:45. Not bad for my very first half marathon. Ever. And in just a couple of months, I'll have my next one: the San Jose Rock 'n' Roll Half Marathon. Yea! Bring it on!