Go 23777.
I experienced the LA marathon earlier this year. There I was, hot, trudging along, searching for my sprinting housemate among the contestants simultaneously guiding my other round brown Indian roommate along for the cultural ride. We never got to see her because, as she told us later, she left her pace group at about mile 23 and finished earlier than she planned.
Luckily, a few short months later I got to witness her finish the Big Sur marathon. When I spotted her a few meters away from the finish line, I was thrilled and wanted her to see me run, I guess, because I broke into a sprint leaving her bewildered brother behind wondering what I was running from and where his sister was. We found her in the "family" area.
This is where the participants go right after they finish, get their box lunch, are handed their noisy foil warming blanket, and then collapse into the arms of, or more precisely, collapse directly onto any family member they can make out from behind the sweat, and the bleeding nipples. There they were: in shape, out of shape, tangy bodies eating bagels, apple slices and M&M bars, fashioned in various modes of aluminum. We found her and gave her an uncommitted hug.
After that trip to No Cal I was reminded of two things: I don’t want to run marathons, and I’m not interested in being a Lesbian living in Carmel. For the record, this wasn’t the last time I'd encountered the blond braided runner, run. In fact, just the other day she bolted out the front door when our lovelorn, chore-sharing, chicken-obsessed,high-tech employed roomie expressed his undying love to her for a second time.
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