Running with the Devil, Part 3

And then the brutal, heartbreak hill was topped. Torrid waves rolled over the long, curving brow like clouds over a mountaintop, and into the turbulence I limped. Finally the end was in sight, a small cluster of green about a mile ahead. How pathetic and fragile that life looked, hammered into submission by the sun on this anvil of desert rock. Yet it was a desperately needed reminder of the tenacity of life, like a solitary weed defiantly sprouting through a crack in a Walmart parking lot.

I, too, was fragile and struggling to survive. Each step was a chore, but no longer painful. After three plus miles of thumping on my injured leg, it had gone numb. But every other part of my body screamed fatigue and aches racked up and down my body with each jolting step.

I glanced at the devil temptress running beside me. She stared ahead at that patch of green hope, absolute concentration filling her face. She looked horrible, I realized. Her hair was soaked and limply clung to her forehead, then was smeared to the side as she continuously wiped the sweat from her brow. Salt stains ran down her sleek, brown skin in rivulets. If she looked that bad, I could only imagine how monstrous I looked. Fortunately the photographer continued to miss me.

But I had made an error. I had misjudged how much water I needed for the last, three mile leg of the race. I had hydrated so thoroughly throughout the first ten miles that I figured I could push it at the end. My twenty ounce water bottle had long since been depleted by soaking my steaming head. The temperature of the afternoon was always higher at 2PM than at noon, and here I was, trying to wing it when conditions were at their worst!

Though the course was generally downhill for the last mile, it was far from easy. I ignored everything but the bliss hidden in that green: runners passed out on the scorching asphalt were behind me, the pain was long since numb, and even the demon temptress was forgotten. But the heat would not be ignored. My head felt like a blazing coal in a fireplace. I had encountered dehydration before when running in a desert. It had knocked me down and plodded over me like a team of oxen. That was nothing compared to this. This was heatstroke. I knew it.

I wanted to stop. I could no longer even imagine how good it would feel to finish. I wondered seriously if I even could. Or should.

Why continue the pain? I had proven countless times that I could run 13.1 miles. I could do it on no sleep. Hell, I could do it in my sleep! What was I trying to prove? I was injured and limping. Was I just damaging myself in useless pride? I wanted to stop, damn it. I wanted to walk back. I wanted to end the pain. For the first time in my life, I had undergone a challenge that I wanted to quit before finishing. And it didn't bother me.

Yet on I ran. Pain was certain. Suffering was optional. Stupidity was inherent.

Ahead was the final turn. The last hundred yards of the race was not on the highway, but down a drive lined with wilting, browning palm trees. There's no better reminder of desert brutality than a bunch of dead palm trees. I approached a man of about my age, size, and level of pain. Without realizing it, I began to catch up to him. Before I knew it, I had passed the devil temptress and was passing this last runner. I turned off the highway and thundered down the parking lot towards the finish line.

There! Rocking madly before me was a small tent overshadowing the finish line. Oh, those precious blue timing mats on the ground. A handful of sun-dizzy spectators clapped halfheartedly as I swept past them. My feet slapped over the mats and I loosed a groan of relief. I did it!

Beneath the tent must have surely been a blessed five degrees less of heat. An elderly volunteer congratulated me quickly, then bent down to remove my timing chip. I nearly swooned from the shock of shade and sudden lack of pain in my leg. My entire being was devoted to not collapsing right there. The single folding chair provided was occupied by a forty-something man in a soaking wet T-shirt. He weakly looked at me and mumbled apologetically, “Can't move, dude,and I've been here ten minutes. Sorry.”

Wrinkled hands wavered with a pair of scissors at my shoelaces. My legs shook convulsively and my entire body shivered. In fact, the only part of my body that did not move was my feet, which were planted firmly on the ground. His aged hands tried unsuccessfully to cut the zip-ties, but he simply could not steady them enough to do so. I just wanted to die, but what could I do? This nice man was volunteering his time to help in such horrible conditions. I wanted to shout, to scream at him to hurry up before I crumpled into a ball on the asphalt.

After his fourth try he snipped off the timing chip and handed me a chill towel. Smelling faintly of menthol, it was designed to be soothing or some other such nonsense. Screw that, gimme water. I staggered over to the pavilion, croaking and awkward and feeble, like the primitive life-form emerging from harsh primordial world that I was.

Two barrels waited patiently for me to lumber over. One held the sweet, life-giving coolness of water, while the second had equal parts ice and water, meant for dunking soiled hats, bandanas, and bottles. My own hands shaking, I scooped several bottle-fulls of ice water and dumped them messily over my head. Then I plopped onto a concrete seat and stared at nothing, zombie-like.

Easily eight or nine bottles of water were drunk in rapid succession, even as I continuously ladled ice water over my head. My feet had swollen and removing my shoes was agony. I puffed pathetically as I tugged on those damn, strangling laces. I winced pulling off my clinging socks, and nearly fainted peeling off my leg brace. Then, as naked as legally possible, I leaned back with a pile of ice cubes on my head and let them melt at their convenience. I don't know how long I sat there in a stupor. After 13 months as a waiter on cruise ships, this level of fatigue and numbness were nothing new to me, so I just waited for it to pass.

I vaguely recalled congratulating runners as they partook of the barrels. Then again, I vaguely recalled seeing pink elephants herding by, too. Eventually awareness returned to me. A handsome black man of some fifty years approached, wearing a chill towel over his head and a dripping bandana around his neck.

“Which barrel is for drinking?” he asked tiredly, but politely.

“They are both filled with sweat and salt and pain at this point.” I said. “I don't think anyone cares, though.”

He smiled weakly at me, then dunked his entire head in the ice water.

That's when I realized that the voices surrounding me were no longer buzzing, but actual articulated communication. In my daze everyone's voice had been like Charlie Brown's teacher. I had crossed the threshold and passed back into the world of the living. I chose this time to oh so slowly get up and walk around a bit before my legs locked into that sitting position. I yanked my shoes back on, because the ground was scalding hot.

I shuffled over to the scale, intensely curious what I weighed. I felt sorry for the scale, actually. It was so hot from being outside all day it fairly wheezed when I stepped on. I stood there, staring at the little numbers reading 201, and had a sudden realization.

I had already drunk at least nine water bottles full of water.

Nine bottles of water meant 180 ounces of water.

180 ounces of water meant 1.3 gallons.

1.3 gallons of water meant 11 pounds.

I had lost 14 pounds in two hours!

I stepped off the scale in wonder, but was distracted by a voice nearby that I did not care to hear. Ms. Bitter and several girlfriends were, to my surprise, joking and encouraging runners who were collecting awards for winning times. I overheard that Ms. Bitter had won something for her 10K race time earlier today. She caught my eye and we shared a quick smile. The mood was so lighthearted that I was about to step up and join the conversation when suddenly everything changed. The devil temptress approached.

Laughter abruptly cut off and the young, athletic ladies stiffened and glared disapprovingly at the ranger, not unlike a librarian upset at undue noise. Why, they stared at her up and down more overtly than I had! One muttered something like 'slut wearing a bikini on a race'.

“Well done, ranger,” I called out as a race volunteer handed her a stone, Nevada-shaped plaque. Ms. Bitter snorted loudly and elbowed her young companions.

“You, too,” the sexy devil said, smoothly ignoring the squabbling women. “You OK?”

“Oh, I'm fine. I'll be hurting later, though. I had planned another full marathon in four weeks, but I doubt that will happen. Say, what do you have there?”

She held up the small stone plaque. “I managed to get first in my age division.”

“Awesome! Dare I ask... twenty to twenty-five years old?”

She smiled faintly at me, then turned and walked towards a group of park rangers. Over her shoulder she called back, “Thirty seven.”

“Bitch,” Ms. Bitter spat.



I crunched over the gravel to my wife's compact, yellow Hyundai, named Galbişor. The 'little yellow guy', as the name meant in Romanian, waited amid waves of roiling heat. Ordinarily I would have driven my red Jeep, Lola, but today was not a day for her roof-and-doorlessness. No, I wanted air conditioning. Juggling a water bottle and some devil's food cake, I struggled to open the door and let the heat pour out. The thermometer reading 114 degrees, I cranked up the air conditioner and melted into the seat.

Kindly volunteers had provided the chocolate cake, but it was too heavy for me. All I really wanted at this point was salt. The Salvation Army had provided tortilla chips and pretzels, but they had been sitting in the sun and may as well have been a bowl of jalapenos. Munching on the devil's food cake, I absently grabbed the nearby coffee cup and took a sip. To my shock, it was perfect! Despite being leftover from three hours earlier, there was not even a hint of bitterness. It was fresh and steaming and tasty. Smiling, I snarfed down devil's food cake in style and contemplated the race. Amazingly, I had won second place in my age group with a time of 2:08:37. That was a whopping thirty percent longer than my average half marathon, yet it was without doubt the most satisfying of them all.