It’s the eve of the LA Marathon and I am sitting by myself in Nelson, New Zealand, six thousand eight hundred some odd miles away from the starting line.   I really, really miss marathon eve.  I crave the adrenaline of the expo, taking the kids to pick up the race number and free swag, the banter between runners, the hours of prep, planning race morning logistics, a big bowl of pasta, laying out clothes and reviewing nutrition.  And the anticipation.  Oh my, my, the anticipation.

I have a love affair with this race.  It has pulled me in six times over the years tempting me with all that LA has to offer and each of those race days have been nothing short of glorious.  The hours on that course have taught me more about myself than I can even begin to understand.

I showed up there for the first time in 2004, still heavy and bloated from years of neglect on the “nose to the grindstone, work 24/7/365” treadmill.  I was delusional, still benchmarking fitness using metrics more than a decade old.  I remember thinking I was young and invincible, that I could train for a few months, do a few marginal improvements in lifestyle, some shifting around the edges, run sub 4, and prove to everyone and anyone, most of all to myself, that I could have my cake and eat it too.  Such arrogance.  I should have seen it coming. I guess in retrospect I was searching for a catalyst, a reason or trigger of some sort.  On that day LA forced the issue.

The race kicked my ass on a perfect, beautiful, hot, sunny day. I was OK through the first half.  But soon after each passing mile seemed to push back.  I could hear the miles screaming, “Change! Change! Change!” By mile sixteen it was so loud that I could no longer avoid my demons, they had been called out, were sitting on the surface and needed to be dealt with.  Choices had to be made.

The trade-offs soon started in earnest.  By mile twenty I had negotiated everything away but the miles still wanted more.  Finally I surrendered, crashed and broken, walking, humbled, trying to not to weep.   By twenty-two I cut a deal. And at twenty-six point two, clocking in at four hours and twenty-six minutes, crossing the line with arms raised and finger pointing skyward, I was transformed.  I was on another side.

I owe a lot to LA.

Before I turn in tonight I’ll say a little prayer for the runners tomorrow.  In my book anyone brave enough to put in the time and dedication it takes just to stand on the starting line has already won their race.  LA is their gift.  It is their time, their moment.   And as they wander through the miles and peek into the corners of their souls, tomorrow LA is going to shine…