Running is hard

So yesterday I ran the half-marathon with SRO. And you know what I discovered? 13.1 miles is FAR.

Due to 2 rounds with my wisdom teeth and a subsequent bout of the flu, I'd been out of training for 3 weeks, while the students kept pushing forward. My longest run before my various ailments had been 8 miles, but the kids had made it to 10.5. When we met last Saturday for our tapering run, the kids ran a gentle 6 and I ran an arduous 3. All the while I was thinking: How the hell am I going to run a half-marathon next weekend?

I ran every day last week, trying to get prepared. And it was difficult; each day felt like my very first run. I ran 3 miles on Monday, 4 on Tuesday. I only managed 2 miles on Wednesday, and 2.5 on Thursday. Things were looking grim. I could feel a cold trying to settle in my chest and I was fighting it. But then on Friday I stuck it out for 8 miles, and that gave me hope that I might be able to complete the race on Sunday.

The volunteers were asked to choose 1 or 2 students to run with, which is not our normal procedure, but there were going to be 10,000 people at this event and we had to make sure that none of our kids got lost. I chose Julie, a quiet 9th-grader who keeps a slow but steady pace and has a congenial attitude. I've run with Julie in the past and I figured I could keep up with her. I thought for a moment about choosing one of the really slow kids, concerned as I was about my own pace, but the slowest students are usually slow because they spend more time complaining than running. And honestly, I needed a good-natured kid to keep me going throughout this race, because it was likely going to kill me.

At 6:00 AM I boarded the bus with about 25 students and a handful of volunteers. Another bus would meet us at the race start with the 2nd half of our crew. It was still dark outside but I felt wide awake. I ate a peanut butter sandwich and an apple, then did some stretches in my seat as we drove across the bridge and toward Golden Gate Park. I figured that things would move fast once we exited the buses, and I wanted to make sure that I had ample time to get prepared.

I'm so glad I did, because sure enough, once we stepped out into the chilly morning it was total chaos. "SRO! SRO, over here!" screeched Alita, trying to herd us into formation. Meanwhile, thousands of people were sweeping past us on their way to the starting line. I was afraid we were going to lose a kid or two in the flow of eager runners.

"Water! Come get water!" boomed Heidi, while Christine wove through the group, hooking up volunteers with students. "Errin, you'll be with Julie," she confirmed, then darted away. I made my way over to Julie.

"Morning Julie!" I said, tapping her on the shoulder. She turned around. "We're going to be running together today."

She regarded me curiously. "We are? How come?"

"Well, there's so many people here that we want to make sure nobody gets lost. So they've paired up volunteers with students."

She didn't look too put out by this statement, so I figured we were off to a good start. Our group began walking towards the starting line.

And almost immediately, chaos reigned. "Sweat drop over here!" called Ralph, and half the group fell out of formation to drop off their extra layers in labeled plastic bags, which would be transported to the finish line for pickup after the race. I shoved my fleece, legwarmers and gloves into a bag, hoping that I'd see them later. Then I looked around. Our group had completely disintegrated; I saw a red SRO shirt here and there, but nobody was together anymore. "Where did we go?" I called to Ralph, and he pointed in the general vicinity of the starting line.

I checked my watch: 20 minutes till race start. I needed to go to the bathroom. Picking my way through the crowd, with an eye out for Julie, I headed towards the Porta-Potties and stopped cold - there were half a dozen of the longest lines I had ever seen. They trailed across an entire field and pushed up against the woods beyond. "Are those the lines for the bathrooms?" I asked a passerby, horrified. She nodded, and then I saw several tiny figures waving at me from the end of one of the lines. There were about a dozen students and volunteers waiting for their turn. Sighing, I got in the nearest line, still scanning the area for Julie. I didn't see her anywhere.

Ten minutes later, no closer to the bathrooms and with still no sign of Julie, I swore under my breath and abandoned the line. I was afraid that the race would start and Julie would take off running by herself. Knowing I'd need to stop at the first set of bathrooms along the route, I joined the crowd near the starting line and began weaving through people toward the cluster of red shirts I'd spotted. Here and there I ran into an SRO volunteer. Everyone seemed to have been separated from their student.

"Have you seen Jasmine?" Charles asked me.

"I think she's in line for the bathrooms," I said.

"John and Henry! Anybody seen John and Henry?" called Steven.

"Over here!" I waved my hand. They were standing beside me. And there, thankfully, was Julie.

I couldn't help marveling at how quickly our group's order had disintegrated. I know the kids were high-schoolers, not babies, but it still seemed like poor planning on our part, just to let everybody loose into the fray with no clear instructions as to how to proceed. I felt responsible for Julie; I didn't think we should be separated. I just hoped that she'd run slow enough for me to keep up with her.

The race began and we spent the first 10 minutes shuffling out of the gate. Jokes were flying back and forth among the jam-packed crowd. "This isn't so bad!" "Hey, Iverson, slow down, you'll burn yourself out!" And when the mass stopped dead for a moment: "Well, that was fun; good race, everybody!" Julie and I giggled.

After awhile the crowd spread out and we had enough room to jog. There were walkers mixed in with the runners and every once in awhile we got stuck behind a pair. I said to Julie, "You set the pace, okay? If you want to pass somebody, just go ahead. I'll keep up with you." Praying, as I said it, that I actually could keep up with her.

But I needn't have worried: Julie set a slow, steady pace, and we trotted along comfortably for the first mile. Knowing that she's not much of a talker, I didn't force conversation. We just ran for awhile in companionable silence.

When the first marker appeared I felt triumphant - 1 mile down! This wasn't so bad! In fact, I quite liked knowing how far I'd come; breaking the race into segments made it feel much more manageable. But Julie pulled a face. "That was only 1 mile?" she said.

"Easy, right?" I replied, keeping my voice light. But I was surprised to hear her complain. She is normally so stoic.

"I'm tired," Julie whined, and it was an actual whine.

"Oh, come on!" I said, upbeat. "That was nothing! I've seen you run 10 miles, easy, so I know this is no big deal for you." Julie shook her head.

At Mile 2 Julie said she had to use the bathroom. I would have protested, being that it was so early in the race, but I really had to go myself, so I agreed. "Okay," I said, "I see some restrooms coming up. Do you want to stop now or would you rather wait until we pass the next batch?"

"Let's stop now," Julie said.

So we veered off course and jogged across the Panhandle toward the bathrooms. These weren't Porta-Potties, they were actual park restrooms, and there were only 2 stalls. A line had formed outside, and though it wasn't long, it wasn't moving very fast either. Julie and I stood in line and watched the runners pass us by. I knew we'd be bringing up the rear when we rejoined the race.

After 6 or 7 minutes we made it to the front of the line. I ushered Julie toward the stall, but she shook her head. "I don't think I have to go anymore," she said.

"What?" I asked.

"I don't think I have to go anymore."

You don't think? I said to myself. "Try anyway," I told her, feeling like I was talking to a small child. I didn't want to talk down to her, but was she serious?

"No, I don't have to go."

The people in line behind us were looking aggravated. "Julie," I said, "You might as well try, since we're here. We're not going to be stopping every mile to use the bathroom, okay?"

"I'm fine," she insisted.

"Fine," I replied, waving away my concerns. She's 14 years old, I thought. She ought to know her own bladder. I went to the bathroom, washed my hands and flapped them through the air, drying them as I gestured to Julie to come on.

"We're last," she complained as we stepped back onto the pavement.

And she was right. There were almost no more runners, but there were still a lot of dedicated walkers, arms pumping furiously as they power-walked the course. "It's not about time," I said to Julie. "We're just in it to finish. We'll get there when we get there." But secretly, I was dismayed too. I didn't like being behind everybody else.

The next 2 miles were fairly easy, the course was beautiful, and I was enjoying myself. We'd caught up with a few SRO members, and it felt good to see some familiar faces in the crowd. And then at Mile 4 Julie said:

"I have to use the bathroom."

I turned to her. "You're kidding, right?" She shook her head, no.

I was frustrated, but determined to keep things light. The course had taken us in a circle and we were just reaching the place where the race had started. By now the bank of Porta-Potties was empty, so I slowed to a stop in front of them and told Julie that I'd wait for her there. She gave me a quizzical look, like: Aren't you coming too? I returned it with a shrug that said: No, I just went to the bathroom 2 miles ago, remember?

She wasn't speedy. As I waited, several SRO folks passed by and they all looked confused to see me standing around without a student. "Bathroom break!" I called, and they nodded and continued on. I took a few minutes to stretch. Finally Julie emerged and I said, "You ready?" She shrugged her reluctance.

But then I heard somebody call out my name. I turned around and there was Sara, an SRO student, who seemed to be running by herself. "I'm so glad to see you!" she said. "I started to think I was lost back there!"

"Are you running alone?" I asked her.

"Well, I was running with Molly and those guys, but I was faster than them, so she told me to just keep going. I think they're behind me." She gestured back up the course. "Besides, I'm not supposed to do the whole half-marathon. I'm supposed to stop before we get to the Great Highway. I guess there's a place where we'll pass the Finish Line, and Heidi told me stop there."

"How come you're not running the whole thing?" asked Julie.

"Cause of my foot," said Sara. "They didn't want me to run at all, but I really wanted to do it, so they said I could run part of it." Sara is super-dedicated. She was seriously disappointed that an injury would prevent her from running the entire race.

"Man, I wish I had an excuse not to run the whole thing," said Julie, and my annoyance level rose another half-notch.

"Why? I wish I could run the whole thing with you," said Sara passionately. Julie shrugged.

"Sara, why don't you run with us?" I said, hoping that some of her attitude might rub off on Julie. "We'll take you to your drop-off point."

"Okay," said Sara. "But I have to use the bathroom first."

"We'll wait for you," I said, somewhat wearily.

While Sara was occupied I said to Julie, "Let's make good use of our time and stretch." I bent double and groaned as the backs of my legs un-kinked; Julie stretched out one leg experimentally and then lost interest. I swear, I do not understand how these kids can run long distances without stretching at all. Their bodies must be like rubber bands. I, on the other hand, feel like I'm made out of splintery toothpicks.

When Sara reappeared I clapped my hands together and said brightly, "Okay! Back to it! Who needs water? Gatorade? Anybody, anybody? No? All right then, let's do it!" And we resumed our race.

It quickly became apparent that Sara was much faster than Julie. The distance between us grew immediately. At first I ran between them, but when I sensed Julie slowing to a walk behind me, I dropped back to keep pace with her. Sara was quickly becoming a speck in the distance.

"Keep running, I'll be right back," I said to Julie, then sped ahead to catch up with Sara.

"Sara!" I called. She turned around. "Listen, keep running, okay? But when you get to the Finish Line, stop and wait for us so that I know you've made it there all right." She nodded and kept on going. I fell back to Julie, who immediately ground to walk.

"I'm tired," she said.

I trotted in place beside her. "Are you hurting?" I asked.

"No," she confessed.

"Then we run," I said. And we ran.

I tried to think of something to talk about that would take our minds off the race, but the girl just wouldn't meet me halfway. "What are your sisters doing this morning?" I asked.

"Sleeping," she said.

Okay. "So, you're halfway through 9th grade, right? How are you liking it so far?"

"Boring."

Mmm hmm. "What do you like to do in your spare time?"

"Sleep. Sit."

Jesus. "How about when you're not sleeping or sitting?" I asked, in what I hoped was a teasing voice. But I was starting to want to throttle her.

"Play video games."

Okay! "What games do you play?"

"Mario."

"Wow, they're still making Mario? I played Mario when I was a kid. I thought he'd have run out of adventures by now." Much the way I was running out of conversation.

I tried again. "Have you played Wii?"

"Yeah."

"What games?" A shrug. "Tennis?" A nod. Silence.

And then: "Guitar Hero."

Palpable relief from me. "I love Guitar Hero! No, you know what I love? Rock Band! I played Rock Band once and I was so good on the drums; everybody was like, 'Are you a drummer in real life?' And I said, 'No, but I'm gonna be!' And I was really convinced I was so good; I asked for drumsticks for Christmas and everything, but I didn't get them. And then the next time I played Rock Band I played the drums and I was awful! No good at all. And that was such a bummer; here I thought I had a natural talent and it turned out it was just a fluke." I gabbled on, desperate for some conversation, even if it was all one-sided. Julie ran beside me, resigned.

At Mile 6 she said to me, "I'm hungry."

"Did you eat breakfast this morning?" I asked.

"Piece of toast."

I breathed rather heavily through my nose. "Do you think maybe a piece of toast is not enough to get you through 13 miles?" She shrugged. "Next time we run, you should make a peanut butter sandwich and eat it on the bus. Do you eat peanut butter?" She nodded. "Okay, that will get you through a run. That's what I had for breakfast this morning." I regarded her for a moment, then remembered: "Don't you have a Clif bar in your pocket?"

"Yeah," she said.

"Okay, eat that."

She made no move to pull it out. "I can't run and eat at the same time!" she protested.

I was getting weary. Weary of the complaints, weary of running. It dawned on me that I might have felt more energy had I been running with one of the faster kids. All of the stopping and starting and the slow pace we'd been keeping had combined to make me feel rusty and tired. I was losing energy and we weren't even halfway through.

We passed a water stop and I grabbed a cup, a handy excuse. "We'll walk for 2 minutes," I said, slowing down. "So if you're hungry, start eating."

"One hour, fifty-six minutes!" called one of the race time-keepers, and I wilted. We'd been running for nearly two hours and we'd only traveled 6 miles! My God, no wonder I was weary. It was harder to plod through the race than it would have been to simply run it. I had a brief moment of panic: How the hell was I going to make it through the full marathon?

Julie wasn't eating. "How come you're not eating?" I asked. Again, she shrugged. "Not hungry after all? Okay, then we run." I tossed my cup and we set off again.

Just before Mile 7 we passed the Finish Line, where Sara was supposed to be waiting for us. At this point, the course doubled over and now we were running alongside those who were finishing the race - just going in the opposite direction. The course was split down the middle with traffic cones and tape, and spectators were pressing in from either side, calling out to those runners who were nearly done. The crowd had grown dense, and I was worried about Sara wandering around on her own. But then I spotted her, swimming upstream, looking for us in the fray. "Sara!" I called, waving my hand. She ran up to us.

"This is where I'm supposed to stop," she said to me. "But where do I go?" I craned my neck, looking around for somewhere to deposit her. Julie, surprisingly, had kept running.

"Hang on," I said. "Julie!" I hollered. "Wait just a second, okay?" She paused, uncertain. "Stop," I clarified, "I'll be right there." Sara and I kept peering into the crowd.

I heard somebody shout, "Go SRO!" and turned my head toward the sound.

"Who said that?" I asked Sara, but she didn't know. Then I heard it again: "Yay, SRO!" I caught sight of Betty on the other end of the Finish Line. "There's Betty," I said to Sara. "Go with her, okay? Nice job today!" I shunted her across the Finish, called out to Betty, "Sara's coming with you!" and turned around to find Julie. A man was trying to shoo her off the path.

"You need to get moving," he told her, "You can't stand here," and confused, Julie was starting to run.

"No," I said firmly, "She needs to wait for me." The guy looked a little taken aback. "Thank you; we're leaving now," I said, and we set off for the Great Highway.

The Great Highway was not so great. I mean, it's probably great if you're in a car, but when you're running a 6-mile loop on concrete and the sun's come out in full force, it frankly sucks. Julie and I trudged past Mile 7. We were still running alongside those who were finishing the race, and after several minutes I thought I would quit if I had to hear one more person shout, "You're almost there! Just 1 mile to go!" Because there was nobody shouting, "Keep up the good work! Only 6 miles left!" And it felt awful to be so close to the Finish Line but so far from finishing.

We ran in silence for awhile, and Julie seemed downhearted. Or maybe I just guessed that she felt downhearted, because that was how I felt. I asked her, "How are you doing?"

She shrugged.

"It's kind of hard, huh, hearing people shout 'You're almost done!' when we're not almost done, isn't it? Kind of makes you feel frustrated?"

She nodded.

"Yeah, me too," I sighed. "But..." I cast around helplessly for a 'but'. "But...this is our run," I finally said. "It's our run, yours and mine; it's not about anybody else. We're doing this for ourselves, and we're going to finish." It was a tired little speech, but it was all I could muster. Julie didn't even bother to shrug.

I spied Mile 8 coming up. I desperately needed a break, needed to stretch. And I thought it might be good for our moral if we took a quick breather.

"Okay, here's what we'll do," I said. "See the Mile 8 marker up there? I'm going to stop for a second and stretch my knees. Do you want to stop and stretch too, or would you like to walk for a minute?"

She considered. "I'll walk," she said.

"Okay," I told her as we approached the mile marker. "You walk and I'll catch up with you in just a minute." I stopped and pulled one of my legs up behind me. Julie kept going.

Actually, Julie kept running. I waited for her to slow to a walk, assuming she'd be happy for the opportunity, but the girl didn't slow. She kept running, and you know, I think she actually sped up.

I lost my balance, standing there like a crane, and quickly pulled on my other leg, trying to work the kinks out. But Julie was getting farther away and I was worried that I was going to lose her. Sure enough, a few seconds later she was out of sight.

"Shit," I muttered, and ran after her. I was creaky and achey and could not muster a faster pace; it was simply too late for me to limber up in this race. I really needed a proper stretch break but it looked like I wasn't going to get one. Everything hurt from the waist down and I blanched as I tried to speed up. It came to me, suddenly, that I was going to faint if I pushed too hard, so I slowed down and resumed my usual trot.

Julie reappeared in the distance, seemingly trapped behind a pair of walkers. "Julie!" I called out, but she didn't hear me.

I sped up just a bit. "Julie! Hey Julie!" I shouted, my hands cupped around my mouth. The effort of shouting cost me, and I had to slow down again to compensate for my loss of breath.

But she heard me and she turned around. I waved my hand at her. "Wait up!" I shouted. I hated to make her slow down. It's got to be frustrating to get in a zone and then have somebody grab your tail. But if she didn't let me catch up I was seriously going to lose her, and the crowd was so dense that I might not find her again. I was not going to lose this kid on the Great Highway, no way.

Julie saw me waving, but turned around and continued to run. And I swear, the kid put on a burst of speed. What the hell? "Julie!" I screamed, and people between us turned around to stare at me. I didn't care. "Julie! Stop! Wait for me!"

And you know, that little shit kept running. I know she heard me. Everybody else heard me. But she just kept on running like running was her new favorite thing, like she hadn't been bitching about it for 8 miles.

"JULIE!" I bellowed. "STOP!"

She didn't stop. But she did slow down, and after another few laborious minutes, I managed to overtake her. I was pissed.

But I swallowed my anger. "Thank you," I said breathlessly. "Sorry to make you wait, but I was going to lose you there." She made as though to speed up again. "Hey!" I said sharply, and she braked. "You need to slow down for a minute and let me catch up, okay?"

So she jogged for a moment while I speed-walked, trying to catch my breath. When I finally got my wind, I resumed jogging beside her. "Okay," I said. "That's better. Thank you for waiting."

Not 3 minutes later, the kid stopped in her tracks. "I'm tired," she said.

And then I reconsidered leaving her on the Great Highway.

Miles 9 through 13 were hard. Julie was complaining of a stomachache. "Is it a hunger kind of stomachache?" I asked. She shrugged. "Do you want to eat your Clif bar?" She shook her head. So I assumed it wasn't a hunger thing. We ran for a few minutes, but then she slowed to walk. "Can you make it to those traffic lights?" I cajoled her, and she nodded.

Okay, I told myself. So it's going to be this kind of race from here on out. Whenever Julie would stop and walk I would set a marker. "We're going to walk until that lamp post, and then we're going to run until the stop sign, okay?" I relaxed a bit, because I knew I could get her across the finish line this way, even if it took us awhile. And frankly, I was ready to walk. I was exhausted.

We began to collect other SRO folks, those who were on the slower end of the race. First we found Reecy, who was walk-running with Walter, and then we spotted Daisy on her own. "Where's your partner?" I asked her, and she pointed behind us towards a small cluster from whom she'd broken free. Daisy ran with us for a minute or two but then passed us; it seemed clear she was ready for her race to be over.

Julie stopped again. "My stomach hurts," she repeated, and this time she confided that it was a feminine complaint. Aha, I thought, thinking back on our pit stops at Miles 2 and 4. But truly, there was nothing I could do for her at this point. We were 2.5 miles from the Finish Line. Even if we quit the race at that moment we'd still have to walk to the end. So I tried another pep talk.

"You should be proud of yourself for running anyway," I said. "Lots of girls use that as an excuse not to run, so you should feel extra good about yourself." Although it's not an excuse that I have any patience for, it's true that some of the girls did use it as a reason not to run. And it worked like a charm because all the males turned pink at the first mention of cramps.

"I'm not going to let you quit, Julie," I said suddenly, meaning it. "I've seen you run 10 miles and we both know you can run 13. I'm not going to let you quit because you'd be selling yourself short. And I know you don't want to do that. Am I right?" A pause. And then she nodded.

So we soldiered on. Run, walk. Run, walk. I felt like I'd been doing this for days. I checked my watch. It was 11:00 AM.

Spencer rode up to us on his bike. Spencer is the Executive Director of SRO. He never runs with us, but he'll sometimes ride alongside on his bicycle and intimidate the kids into picking up their pace. He always seems to catch us walking, and it drives me nuts because he's never around when my kids are running like champs.

He descended on Julie. "What the matter?" he said. "Why are we walking?"

"Stomachache," replied Julie.

"We're working through it," I told him with a smile. It was a bright smile with a dark undertone. It said: Don't come riding into our race at the 12-mile mark and try to motivate us now. Where the hell were you at Mile 7 when I needed you?

Spencer tried to coax Julie into a run by giving her the Pick-Yourself-Up-By-Your-Bootstraps speech. "How are you going finish the marathon if you're walking the half-marathon? Huh? You've got 1 mile to go. Now let's finish strong. Come on!"

I was annoyed. I was annoyed for myself and I was annoyed for Julie. This, for the moment, even overshadowed my annoyance at Julie. Because it was 11:00 AM and I was drenched in sweat, running in circles on the highway. Everything hurt. I was exhausted. I was crabby. I was desperate for the Finish Line. But I had learned that you can take a journey in 3 hours. In 3 short hours, while the rest of the world is asleep, or lounging over their breakfast, you can take a journey on a concrete road with your partner beside you, fighting to put one foot in front of the other. Under the relentless sun, sweat crystalizing in the corners of our eyes, bleary from 12 miles of pounding the pavement, we were making a journey through the realms of self-discovery. We were proving the dictum of mind over matter. Heartily, it sucked. But it was our journey. Mine and Julie's.

And now Spencer was trying to swoop in at the Last Mile and call the shots. I wasn't having it.

"We're walking until we get to that traffic light," I said firmly, pointing up ahead of us. "And then we're going to run it in to the Finish. Right, Julie?"

She blinked at me.

"Right, Julie?" I said again. This time she nodded.

Well, we wound up walking 3 more times during the course of that last mile. But we didn't give up. We could hear them announcing people's names as they finished the race just beyond the crest of that final hill. And with the Finish Line in sight, Julie put on another burst of speed and left me in the dust. I didn't even try to catch up with her. I just let my creaky body lumber its own way across the Finish. At 3 hours, 20 minutes and 26 seconds.

Julie was waiting for me on other side. "They pronounced my last name wrong," she complained. We were limping along toward the T-shirt tents.

"Oh yeah?" I said, past caring. "How do you pronounce it?"

"The 'g' is silent," she told me.

"Hey," I said. "Hey, Julie." She stopped and turned around.

"Great job today. I'm proud of you." She blinked at me. And almost - but not quite - smiled.

"High five," I said, and she held up her hand. I smacked it with my own, hard.

"You almost knocked me over!" she exclaimed.

Yup.

Students Run Oakland

A few months back some friends and I attended a screening of the film Runners High, a documentary that follows 4 Oakland teens as they train to run a marathon. The kids were involved with a group called Students Run Oakland, a non-profit organization that trains Oakland youth to run the marathon with the broader ambition of teaching these kids that there is nothing beyond their reach.

The film inspired me, and in a pique of magnanimity I decided to volunteer with SRO. "I can make a difference in these kids' lives," I said tremulously to Monte, the day I signed up. "You should have seen this movie. These kids show up to run in their street shoes, their blue jeans. Some of them have never run 2 blocks. First they don't think they can do it - and sometimes their parents don't think they can do it! - but by the end, when they finish the marathon, they know they can do anything they set their minds to!"

Monte regarded me carefully. "You're going to run a marathon?" he asked me.

"It'll be hard, I'm sure. But if these kids can do it, I can do it," I said confidently.

I am not a runner. Matter of fact, I was that kid in gym class who walked the 16 minute mile and still had to struggle not to throw up. I've been afraid of sports my whole life; they didn't come naturally to me and as a shy kid I was wary of team activities. The result was that I missed out on a lot. My fear held me back from trying new things and making new friends. That realization has been dawning on me over the last few years, and I've decided not to let my past dictate my future. I was something of a fearful kid, but that's not the kind of woman I want to be.

So I'm going to run this marathon.

I went to my first session of SRO some weeks ago and found myself keeping pace with a student named Sara on our first 2 mile run. I was prepared to administer guidance and support. But Sara schooled me quickly.

"Everybody in my family is heavy," she told me, "and they've all got diabetes. I don't want to get diabetes too. That's why I'm here. That's why I'm running."

"Wow," I said.

"The doctor told me I weigh a little too much, but I'm strong, you know? I don't eat junk food, I don't eat fast food. I used to have asthma, but I just kept on exercising and it went away."

"That's great," I encouraged.

"I was doing this with my friends," she continued. "And one my friends, he was like, 'I'm only here because of you.' And I said, 'Don't do it for me, do it for yourself.' Cause in the end we're all going to have to do it for ourselves, you know?"

I looked at Sara, running steadily toward the finish, and wondered just how I was supposed to be her mentor. I felt like asking her to give me some life advice.

The following week I met Yesica. She told me about her family's upcoming trip to Mexico.

"It's so, so fun!" she enthused. "We go once a year - no, once every other year. And we go for two weeks and it's just like a giant party. All of my family is there and we just eat and hang out and have a great time. I love it; it's my favorite thing!"

"That sounds incredible," I said.

"But this year I don't want to go."

"How come?" I asked her.

"Because I don't want to fall behind in school! Last year I was in the program and I did the whole thing - like, the whole thing, all the way up till the last run. But then my grades dropped and I wasn't allowed to do the marathon."

"Wow, that must have been hard," I said.

"It was," she agreed. "But this year my grades are pretty good and I don't want to mess up again. I want to keep doing good so that I can graduate and run the marathon."

OK. Another teen who apparently needs no guidance from me. I told her to keep up the good work and went looking for a less fortunate kid.

The trouble is, I can't seem to find one. All these kids are well-adjusted and smart and fast runners. I realized just how fast upon my return from vacation - and three weeks behind in my own training.

This past Saturday we did a 7 mile run. It was supposed to be 5.5 miles - that's what I was prepared for - but due to the fact that the marathon has been pushed up by several weeks, we're now working on a condensed training schedule. So I went to last weekend's run jet-lagged, out of practice, and admittedly hungover. (Cut me some slack; Friday was my last day at work.)

Half a mile into the run I was hurting. Most of the kids had shot ahead of me and were little figurines in the distance. But that was normal; I keep a slow pace and usually do the first part of the run on my own. It's after the kids peter out that I'm able to scoop a few up and convince them to run steady and slow. Most of these kids maintain that they cannot slow down, but they exhaust themselves after a couple of minutes. I run like a little old lady, but I can go for several miles.

Usually. But Saturday was a struggle. I thought about copping out at the water stop and claiming illness (which wasn't too far from the truth, with the alcohol still sloshing through my veins). But instead I slowed my pace even more and glommed onto a couple of kids who were walking.

"Hey!" I said brightly. "Are you guys practicing the 5 minute rule?"

The 5 minute rule is supposed to keep the kids from walking the entire course. The rule is: Run 3 minutes, walk 2 minutes. Once you've got that under your belt you can progress to the 10 minute rule, which is: Run 7 minutes, walk 3 minutes. It really works. I know, because it's the same rule I use to bribe myself.

The kids looked at me warily. "I guess so," one of them said, even though none was wearing a watch.

"Great!" I said cheerfully. "I'll time you!" Seeing that I was not to be deterred, they grudgingly started to run.

And instantly I was eating their dust. "One minute!" I called out from behind them. "Two minutes! Good job guys! Three minutes!" As soon as I called 'three' they stopped dead in their tracks, determined not to run a second longer than they had to.

I caught up with them, still jogging slowly. "You guys are doing great!" I told them. "Now do you think you can run a little slower, like me? And maybe you won't need to stop so often?" They looked at me with blank faces. "No? OK, cool. Well, let's do it again. Ready, set, run!"

Again they took off and I was left in their wake. I trotted along behind them for countless 3-minute sessions, but these kids did not want to talk to me. I tried not to take it personally. I skipped along beside them during their 2-minute walks and peppered them with good-natured questions: "What school do you go to? All of you? What grade are you in? All of you?" They answered with as few words as they possibly could. Eventually I started feeling like an idiot, but I kept up my cheerful demeanor.

With about 2 miles to go, one of the kids really took off. He ran so far ahead that he didn't hear me call '5 minutes' (we'd worked our way up to 5). I was impressed but I was also dismayed. My whole body hurt. I was desperate to be done with the run, and I'll admit - I was calling time earlier and earlier just to keep up with the kids. A few times they ran right out of earshot and I had to crank it up to get back in their time zone. I was feeling light-headed and achy, and remembering every drink from the night before with acute clarity.

And then it was over. I felt like collapsing on the sidewalk, but the kids didn't look any worse for the wear. I don't even think they were sweating. I gathered my 3 students around me. "Hey you guys," I panted. "You just ran 7 miles. Can you believe it?"

They blinked at me.

"I am really proud of you," I persisted. I looked them each in the eye and tried to hold them in a meaningful gaze, but they just looked at the ground. "Really proud of you," I said again. "Shoot, I'm really proud of me!"

And there it was - a smile! From 2 out of 3 of them. How about that!

Then they turned around and walked away.

"You're going to want to stretch," I called out to their backs. "Or you'll be hurting tomorrow."

Truer words were never spoken. Wish I'd heeded my own advice.

Smacked by my rack

Last September I participated in the 15th anniversary of Critical Mass in San Francisco. It was my first time doing the ride and I wiped out in unspectacular fashion: my back wheel got caught in a cable car groove and I flipped off my bike. It was unspectacular because I was traveling at less than one mile an hour.

Nonetheless, I managed to hurt myself pretty good. I went down hard and landed on my left shoulder. My friends had to drag me to the side of the road, where I spent a few moments in shock; all I could register was that my front wheel was crooked and my left thumb wouldn't work. Nobody had seen me fall, but I suspect that I was thrown over the handlebars. Leave it to me to be vaulted off my bike while practically standing still.

My friends fixed my wheel and my thumb gradually went back to normal, but I sustained an injury to my left shoulder that still bothers me today. It clicks when I rotate it and pains me when I lift my arm straight up. It's hardly a debilitating impairment, but there are certain things that I can't do anymore. For instance, I can't do a shoulder stand in yoga. I can't do certain hoop tricks on my left side.

And I can't get out of my sports bra.

Now to be truthful, I've always had difficulty extracting myself from a sports bra. They're so damn tight and slippery, you've got to pull like hell to free yourself. Many a time I've yanked hard on the Spandex, lost my grip and slapped myself in the face. I guarantee, nothing will piss you off in quite the same way.

I recently decided to take up running again, which required the purchase of a few new sports bras. I found a garment I rather liked: it's black with white piping and cute enough to wear as a top, if I ever have abs worthy of display.

My friend Gina and I went running on Saturday morning. It was a hot, sunny day and I was dewy by the time we finished stretching. We took our first few running steps and I was startled by the Boing! in my chest. "Whoa!" I said out loud. Gina looked at me curiously. "New sports bra," I explained. With serious spring-loaded action.

My buoyant momentum carried me for the first several minutes, but fatigue set in as my body remembered that it's out of shape. I was fairly drenched by the time we finished our run and my clothes were sticking to me. I bid Gina goodbye and headed home to shower.

Once home, I peeled off my outer layer and attempted to shuck the sports bra. Nothing doing. I could not wiggle free of the Spandex straitjacket. I wrenched around to view the back side in the mirror, as if that would help. No hooks, of course.

Flinging my right arm over my head, I fumbled until my fingertips caught hold of the sweaty fabric. I pulled and wound up with both my arms sticking straight up in the air, my elbows strapped to my ears. I felt pain in my left shoulder, so I shimmied the bra back down and planned my attack from another angle.

This time I crossed my arms over my front, grabbed both sides of the bra and pulled. The back of the garment wanted to give, but the front wouldn't come up. It was caught on my chest. My grip was slipping and my shoulder was burning, so I gave an almighty tug...and my elastic bosom snapped up and hit me in the face.

I was bitch-slapped by my own boobs.

My face stung and my shoulder throbbed, and I blasted out a couple of good swears. I couldn't believe I'd survived my first run in over a year, only to be injured while taking off my clothes. These are the kinds of things that happen to me.

But I can't be the only woman who's ever endured this. Right? Surely some of my well-endowed sisters have suffered similar embarrassment? If so, I want to hear about it. Drop me a line if you've been smacked by your rack.

Let me know I'm not alone.