while i did pee on my hand, i did not shit in my shorts

"there is a beginning, and an end". this was the mantra that my running buddy repeated at miles 4, 9, and 26-point-one-and -three-quarters. the san diego rock and roll marathon 2008, or FOC (fear of comitment) journey, did have a finish line, and we crossed it like true codies; holding hands.



the expo was a great opportunity for 4 idiots jacked up on pancakes, french toast, and breakfast burritos to: do the US marine pull bar challenge (girl's version); detoxify their feet in electro charged buckets of water that turned into poo stew after 20 minutes; trawl for free samples of nut based energy snacks that could pass through our colons before we even left the convention centre. unfortunately, while the trademarked "rock and roll" appeared to be the mouse ear equivalent for it's omnipresence on keychains, onesies, and various kinds of running vaporwick couture, it was impossible to find a simple bumper sticker that didn't instruct me to 'run like a girl', 'diva', or 'after chocolate'.



race day started early (and as it often does, in line for the port-a-loo), where team in training were the popular kids in town (out numbering even elvis), each region having their own sorority style hand slap/chant/running formation. the kenyans were nowhere to be seen (excluding a brief sighting at the expo), but that was hardly surprising as my corral was about 3 miles from the start line. apparently the winner crossed the finishing mats barefoot (where does he attach the timing chip?), but given the 3rd degree burns i sustained on my shoulders, i would assume that running on hot tarmac might feel mildly unpleasant. of course by the time the sun had burned off the clouds, and top layer of my epidermis, he was already getting a massage and relaxing with his complimentary bagel, bottle of poland spring, and cheque for $35,000.

despite the intestinal combination of brazilian steakhouse, sushi, and 3 varieties of trader joes tortellini marinating in the spin cycle with red wine, margaritas, and jamba juice, my GI was able to overcome any mid-race anal dilation. however, in an effort to avoid complete dessication, i hydrated enough to give my kidneys something to do for a few hours, i just did not want to spend several muscle stiffening minutes standing and waiting for a hot, stinky port-a-loo. instead we joined the men (and the homeless) in the bushes lining downtown san diego's office buildings, opting out of the more revealing "pull down and bare the cheeks" pee, for the "pull to the side and hope you don't splash on your hand because who really has control over the dispersal of a litre of accelerade at high pressure" pee. (apparently not me).

overall, the course was great (flat), plenty of people to watch (nike could so corner the market on dri-fit religious wear for the guy running in his yarmulke), and enough early morning fog to keep the melanoma levels low. the "rock and roll" feature had a disappointingly low zone of noise transmission or perhaps i was just achieving such levels of acceleration, that i never heard an entire song. however, there were plenty of homeless people and pre-pubescent middle school cheerleading clubs lining the course to motivate us to get the hell on to the next mile marker. during the harder (higher) mileage it did help to know that at least i wasn't bart yasso ultra marathonning in the southwestern desert, changing his (melting) shoes every 10 miles, and dodging piles of (slowly cooking) regurgitated banana. mind over puked up matter. so there was no crying because there was no debilitating hip pain, which i attribute to stretching out my IT band at each of the last 4 miles of accelerade stops.



and what does one do when faced with a 2,500 calorie deficit? drive over to old town for margaritas and chips, because obviously the salt packet from mile 13 was depleted and forming a crusty exoskeleton on my face. and then one compares the hues of her "first pee"; diluted mustard (french, not english).

unfortunately i never got the black toenails. even my supervisor at work was eager to check (and justifiably disappointed at)their post marathon status. if i train for another one, i might get lucky. next time it will be the east coast.