The Loneliest Runner

I'm watching the LA Marathon. I love the marathon for a variety of reasons. Mainly it takes a while. I am neither fast nor powerful and through most of my life I've been a good distance runner, so jogging is the only sport where I have been able to make a respectable showing. Many years ago I became entranced by the Olympic Marathon. It seemed like something I could do. And then you get a medal! I don't get enough medals for stuff. Okay, I don't do enough stuff, but for the stuff I do, I want a medal.

Since moving to LA 19 years ago I've thought I should train for the LA Marathon. I'm as skinny as those Kenyans, and I know the neighborhood. Granted, I was skinny because I was smoking about $50 worth of crack every day. Not a crack smoking record, personal or world, still I didn't have to carry that weight for 26 miles. Soooo I would train sporadically. Running a few miles in the mornings for a few weeks here and there, making my big push the year before the 2000 Olympics. The plan- Win the LA Marathon. This would automatically qualify me for the US Olympic team. Already I've got a title for my business card: Olympic Marathon Runner- Johnnie Walker. Just being on the team will get you some dates. And distance athletes must get a few curiosity fucks, don't ya think? Step 2. Medal in the Olympics- Order new business cards: Olympic Medalist (Gold would be best). Since Americans don't win the marathon often, and I would be 37 years old for the Sydney Olympics, I could expect huge endorsement deals, and never have to buy a drink for the rest of my life. Delusion is good for the soul.

In 1998, I recover from colon cancer and register for the '99 marathon and develop friendly relationships with drug dealers and bartenders all over Hollywood. I run 3 miles a day 4 days a week, peaking at 6 miles on a run the week before the marathon. By then I had given up on winning and would be happy if finished in less than 4 hours.

March 14 1999. I took a bus from my apartment in Hollywood to the start of the race wearing my shorts a t-shirt a sweatshirt and my number. I threw away the sweatshirt as the race started and began fighting from the middle of the crowd of 20,000 to catch the leaders. The pack too thick. I would have to pace myself. As the crowd thinned out at 5 miles I had found a comfortable stride and began my attack. After about an hour and a half I had run about 10 miles. My knees hurt a lot and I was pretty sure I wouldn't make the Olympic team. I can walk now. At about 20 miles the route turned onto Hollywood Boulevard, just a quarter mile from my apartment. I paused, drank a cup of water, thought and made the tragic decision to continue. Like Rocky Balboa, I just wanted to go the distance. A punch in the face would have done me good. My knees had begun to complain loudly enough to be heard form the sidewalk.

By mile 23 my knees were in open rebellion, refusing to participate further. Sadly at this point I was just as far from my apartment as I was from the finish line. My legs are now one piece units that I swing like stilts. Elderly runners I had passed hours ago, are now passing me and they seem to be laughing. Spectators on the sidewalk, sense my pain and and applaud in encouragement. My race has become the Special Olympics. "Go Corky! You can do it!"

Street crews were beginning to open the streets to traffic again. twice I had to beg them to wait until I crossed. Twice it was too late. Now I wondered if it was possible to finish last. About a hundred yards ahead, around the 24 mile mark, I spotted a tiny old lady limping along at about my pace. If I catch her, at least I'm not walking alone and maybe people would think I didn't want to leave my mother. We walked and talked. She was a nice older woman from Riverside or somewhere and this was her first marathon as well. As we limped the last mile I began to think "I don't care where I finish, I just wanna beat YOU." I guess she was thinking the same thing. about a hundred yards from the finish line I picked up the pace. So did she. I thought, "Let's see your kick, old lady." Apparently she had one. I still had something left. I stepped on her heel giving her a flat tire and I never looked back.
7:14:19. The race crew was loading boxes onto trucks and walking stragglers to aid stations. Someone wrapped a mylar blanket around my shoulders and offered me a cup of water. "Where's my medal?" I asked. "We're all out of medals. Write down your address and we'll mail it to you" I didn't cry. I walked to a nearby hot-dog stand and then to the bus stop. No medal? I hadn't come in last but it felt like it. The medal never came, but I did receive the finish line photo of me just a hair ahead of the old lady. I felt validated. Some Kenyan guy won.

That summer, I registered for the race, trained a couple of months with the LA Road Runners and then went into rehab for 60 days. A few weeks before the marathon, I received some mail reminding me that I had registered, so I decided I would do it again but walk the whole way. Mercifully, I sprained my ankle 2 days before the event and watched on TV. Some Kenyan guy won.

Today, just like '99 and 2000, some Kenyan guy won.
My new business cards:
Johnnie Walker
Special Olympian
We're all Winners!

They Got My Peter Pan!

The FDA says to throw away certain jars of Peter Pan Peanut Butter because of possible salmonella contamination. I have 5 jars of Peter Pan. It is the only think I stockpile in such disproportionate amounts. Peanut butter and Jelly is my best recipe. My only recipe if you exclude cereal. I eat PBJs 3 or 6 times a week. I have three full jars and 2 half jars. (1 and a half jars at work) This is potentially devastating.
But wait! It's not ALL Peter Pan. Only jars with the lot number starting with 2111. What are the chances I'll even have one bad jar?- 100 PERCENT!!! ALL 5 FUCKING JARS!!! (deep sigh)
Wait a minute. I've been eating out of 2 of those jars for weeks, so they're safe. Still to throw away 3 jars of peanut butter seems just wrong. Maybe I'll offer them to the homeless. I'm sure many homeless are willing to gamble on intestinal discomfort for a few jars of creamy Peter Pan.

The worst part of this tragedy- I am no longer secure in the knowledge that these things only happen to other people. Other people get mugged, win the lottery, or find a finger in their salad. Other people get evicted from their apartments- No wait I did that. Other people watch Dr. Phil.- No. Me again. Other people fly coach. Other people die! Now I know it could someday be me. Will I ever truly be safe again? Reality has come to my door and now I mourn the loss of my innocence. The terrorist finally have won.

posted 2/16/7 http://blog.myspace.com/mrjohnniewalker