by Emilie David, 18 October 2011
I finish packing sometime after midnight after procrastinating. As if that would slow everything down and cancel the marathon. But time passes, I know I sleep because I dream things that don’t make sense, and the alarm goes off and I drag my bags to the bus that will take me to the metro that will take me to the airport because it will take longer that way than taking a cab. But still I make it to the airport in plenty of time. I text my traveling partner and running buddy, Leigh, to make sure she is still coming. Of course she is. She is a Patent Attorney with an Engineering degree. Everything is planned and every plan is carried out by the book. You would think this would make her boring but she is also comically self-deprecating and has an incredible sense of humor that is alternately charming and sarcastic. She claims to be nervous and slow, but she is the most prepared of all of us and is definitely not slow. I beat her to the airport though (I take my victories where I can)!
We meet up outside the security line. It is being manned by a Russian lady who takes her job very seriously, and directs us through the maze of seatbelt dividers (I guess a lot of people get confused at National and try to go under and maybe even over the dividers?).
In security, my suitcase is being pulled off the line for inspection. There is a lot of arguing over who is responsible for doing the inspection and name calling amongst the TSA workers. This is very helpful to my stress level. Meanwhile, Leigh and everyone behind her are stopped up waiting for someone to come look at my bag.
The bag inspector finally arrives and goes to the scanner to see why he was summoned. The scanner girl points to the screen and says “Because I can’t tell what the hell THAT is.” He grabs my case, waits for me to retrieve my other items, and walks me over to the special inspection table. He reminds me a little of Lou from Rescue me; about 75lbs healthier, but still, not a man to be trifled with. He looks me over. At first I think he’s assessing whether I look like a terrorist or not. I say, “I’m pretty sure I know what the problem is.” He responds, before even opening the bag, “You’re a runner aren’t you? And you’ve got The Stick in here.” And now it’s official. Before I even get to Chicago, I have met a new fellow runner. He is a multi-Marine Corps Marathon vet. He offers me two pieces of advice: “LOTS of Vaseline on your feet – you will be glad you did;” and, “The day after, when you are whining about the pain, remember what my wife asked me: ‘Would you rather not have the pain and also not have that Finisher’s medal?’” I file this away for later and tell him that maybe I’ll see him at MCM in 2013. He says what all other marathoners tell me that I do not believe: “You are going to have a great time!”
I take time on the flight to review my to-do list. I’m slightly detached about it, because it still doesn’t seem possible that I am actually going to do this.
We land at the airport. Coach has already arrived and is making her way to our gate. Which means that multiple texts and phone calls to eachother later, we finally find eachother.
We drive through another state to get from the airport to the hotel. We don’t really, but it feels like we are in the cab that long. Already I have started the race strategy of saying to myself “don’t panic yet, you just have to make it to [in this case we fill in the blank with “the hotel lobby”].”
At this point, I feel like my stomach is eating itself, so I announce that I cannot possibly go to the Expo without lunch first, unless they want to see a grown woman throw a temper tantrum in the middle of the convention center. We head to Potbellies and start what will feel to me like days of endless starch consumption the likes of which my body has not seen all year. I eat my entire sandwich at lunch out of nervousness, and then I realize I’m about to get on a shuttle bus. Bus + bloating + lethargy + motion sickness=DANGER!! Plus, it’s a school bus. The kind with the tall seats so you can’t see where you’re going. And once we get on the bus, Leigh happily points out the kit affixed to the bus wall, next to the First Aid Kit. It is labeled “Bodily Fluids Clean-up Kit.”
Fortunately, we are a trio of gossipy type girls and I am well distracted on the trip by all of our observations on our fellow bus mates and their resemblance to Barbie. Then, finally, we are there.
I am more excited about getting to the Expo than anything else. At the Expo I get my bib number and my timing tag: proof of my legitimacy. I have been to many Expos over the past couple of years with friends and loved ones who were running one big race or another. I love them. I love the schwag. I love the energy. I love the samples. I love the colors and the designs the different brands come up with to celebrate the race. I love eavesdropping on other runners and hearing what their race agenda is going to be, and how they ask and answer and evade the question we all have of eachother: what is your goal time (which is the polite translation of the actual question: am I faster than you?)?
I am extra thrilled about this Expo, because this is the first big one that is MY Expo. I can buy something emblazoned with the race name because it’s My Race! As my GPS would remind me, I have arrived!
I thought it was pretty great when, at the Boston Expo, I turned the corner and nearly ran into Bart Yasso. But here, at MY race – you know who our celebrity is? Scott Jurek! I get very excited about this but my companions do not get it. It’s Scott Jurek! The Ultra runner. The badass Badwater champion! At this race that is the longest I have ever run, that is going to feel like an eternity to me, they have the King of the long run for inspiration. It’s so perfect! I stand still and look and point. But when prompted to get in line for a picture with him, I sheepishly skitter off towards the merchandise.
Some runners will temper themselves at these things. Partly because this sort of hubris is ridiculously expensive. Partly for superstitious reasons. Do you buy race apparel for a race you haven’t actually completed yet? Is that bad mojo? What if you don’t finish?
But I am here. I have a bib and a chip and a plan to meet people at the start line. I am going to cross that one line without fail and I didn’t think that would be the case a few weeks ago. So I already have a victory, and I am going to celebrate it. I am getting a shirt, and I am getting the Nike arm warmers because I coveted them at Boston and I have been hoping like a child waiting for Christmas that there would be Chicago arm warmers (there are!!). I also get a shirt for my mother – it’s emblazoned with “Chicago Marathon 2011” on the front, and the Chicago skyline on the back, because, after talking me through all my dark places on the way here, and worrying for me and my wellbeing, she deserves it. A souvenir of this latest adventure she helped me take.
The three of us decide that for dinner we are going to hit the pizza joint Coach has promised has awesome pizza. In truth, I am in it more for the company and the distraction than the pizza. I am just going through the motions with eating now. I have no appetite and crave nothing. It’s all about getting it in.
When we finally get to the restaurant, it is packed. We are told we can put our order in and wait at the bar for the table to be ready. Between the three of us, we order a thin crust sausage pizza, and a deep dish veggie pizza to share. And then, the more important part, the beer. The Guinness that is delivered to me, long after others' beers have arrived, is the best pull of Guinness I have ever had. It is fully settled, with a gorgeous head atop its dark body. Creamy and smooth it reminds me that I actually like food.
We are having a good time at the bar. There’s a kid loading up on pasta and Coach zeroes right in on him. Sure enough, he’s racing on Sunday. He’s come over from the UK by himself. He’s hoping for a 3:30 finish. Leigh and I wonder where the other slow people are hiding. When our table is ready, the bartender is taking such good care of us that we don’t want to leave him – so we give up our table to a family.
On TV, the Brewers are battling the D-Backs to get to the NLCS. The guy next to me is from Milwaukee, and so even if I have to take my eyes off the tube while I shovel deep dish into my mouth I don’t miss anything because he is giving the play by play. When the Brewers clinch, he buys shots of Patron for the entire bar. This is officially the best race EVER. With shots in front of us, for the first and probably the only time there will ever be, my Coach is visibly nervous and I am in my element. The tequila goes down like liquid silver. God, I love the Brewers.
Mr. Milwaukee lives one block over. This is his bar. He’s been a spectator at the Chicago marathon many times, cheering on various family members. He repeats the promise that I’ll love it and I’ll love this town. Still basking in the glow of a Milwaukee win, he buys the bar a second round of tequila, and poof! There goes my nervous for a few hours. I love this bar, and Chicago IS my kind of town.
Love this! Can't wait to hear what happens Saturday and (gasp!) Sunday. You hadn't told me about the TSA guy. That is a GREAT moment, and so well told.
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