Run faster... Part 2.

We started running at the perfect time—fall. One of my favorite runs started by the Elks Lodge off Expressway. We took the path back towards the zoo, and the trees formed a colorful umbrella over our heads. Winding on the path we'd look at the Missouri River.

After running for a couple months we decided we needed something else to keep us motivated for the full marathon we planned on doing in May. We started looking online at all the different half marathons, and decided to make a trip out of it. Surfing the web for different marathons was exciting. Did we want to do the Bayou marathon, "where one must beware of crocs and snakes?" Not so much, but we loved knowing if we did want to do a marathon where snakes came in to play, we had that option. There was the San Francisco marathon, up the Pacific coastline with bands motivating you at nearly every mile marker. But we decided to go with the Orange County marathon in Irvine, California. Good choice. We boarded the plane stoked on life and ready to get out of the landlocked Midwest. Flying into LAX, I looked over at Brent, "We're a number now." It felt good to be a number, to get lost in it all. We rented a car and went to Beau's friend, Janelle's pad. She lived in Santa Monica, a place I could see myself living someday. Santa Monica offers the ocean, and the chill attitude I've come to appreciate after living in North Dakota.

Our first night in Santa Monica was out of the movies. We decided the only thing to do the first night in California was to have a bonfire on the beach. Janelle was skeptical. “I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.” “We’ll just say we’re from North Dakota.” Brent was convinced we’d be fine. We ran to the grocery store for some wood and they had some. I was becoming a believer that it would all work out. I mean why else would they sell wood at the grocery store not far from the beach if they didn’t expect us to have a bonfire? We dug out some sand to prepare the ideal fire pit. Neither Beau, Brent, or myself were a boy scout, but it didn’t take long to get our “Fire logs” blazing. “When I move to California someday, this is what I’m gonna do the first night.” The idea of moving there seemed like something I should have done a long time ago.

The four of us sat around the bonfire listening to crashing waves and crackling firewood. “How you think this is gonna go?” Beau asked. “I don’t know, 13.1 miles is a long way. I’m kinda nervous.” I replied. Beau laughed, “No, I mean the bonfire? Think we’ll get busted?” “North Dakota man. Solves everything. Ohh, whata’we got here? Brent mimicked a police officer. Err… sorry officer we’re from North Dakota and didn’t know you couldn’t have a bonfire on the beach.” I picked up where Brent left off. “I don’t care where you’re from. Put it out, and here’s your ticket, hope the fire was worth a thousand bucks.” Janelle laughed, “Exactly. He’s not gonna care where you’re from.” Just then a couple guys approached the bonfire.

“Think they’re cops?” Beau asked.

As they came closer it was obvious these guys weren’t on that side. Both supporting beards and looking like they needed a shower, one of them asked, “You guys need anything.” We exchanged glances, and I sat there trying not to laugh. “Nope. We’re good, just enjoying the fire.” Brent was our spokesperson. They stood there in silence, and we sat wondering when these guys were going to leave. After a few minutes they told us how awesome it was that we were having a fire right on the beach. They walked off disappearing into the dark, unhappy they couldn’t make a sale. Not long after they left another bum appeared. He told us how he hadn’t seen anyone with big enough “balls” to have a fire on the beach in over a decade. He told us about the good times in the seventies when he first came to Cali. “Yeah man, you could see fires all up and down beach man. That was the life—everyone smokin’ it up, partyin’ it up. Ahh man. You guys are crazy.” I started thinking maybe the bonfire wasn’t the best idea after all. “So I guess we’re pretty gutsy.” Brent joked
“That or stupid.” Beau replied.

The next morning we ran up Venice beach and checked out what it really meant to get lost in life. A grown man was dancing to reggae wearing a diaper. “Don’t see that every day.” Between the diaper dancing guy and the cuties strolling the paths we were easily distracted. Brent thought he ought to get his palm read—I agreed sarcastically, “That’s a great idea.” A lady dressed in dark purple velvet with disgusting long nails read Brent’s palm. I was happy she wasn’t touching me. Robbed of ten dollars, we walked off.

I was nervous. We had run over thirteen miles while training, but race day stirred up some extra emotion. As the gun shot fired we started off. The first couple miles was like running through a mob. We started too far back in the pack, and were paying for it. Weaving around the gobs of people we were forced into a methodic slow pace. I listened as Beau and Brent talked, and said nothing for the first five and half miles. Finally at mile six I was able to ease into the run. With three miles left Beau pointed out that we needed to finish the last three miles at a seven minute mile pace to break two hours. “Let’s do it.” Brent was up for the challenge. Nobody told me about the killer hill within the last half-mile of the race. Not fair. We crossed the finish line greeted with cookies, bananas, and juices. Life was good again.