neither here nor there

Introduction
In the past three years of commuting, I’ve had some interesting experiences. There was the drive home from Stockton when I saw not one, but two naked-butts. (If you must know, one was on a guy who decided to pull-over and pee on the side of Hwy 5, not 1/4 mile from the exit. The second was as I exited on to Broadway and a teenaged girl was riding her bike: her belt at her waist, her pants over half-way down her ass.) I’ve also seen a college-aged (but probably not college-attending) guy trying to balance the steering wheel, lighter and hash-pipe in rush-hour traffic on 99. I have a rather nervous memory of the time a peach truck tipped over the highway and into the Consumnes River. This little accident turned my 50 minute drive into a 2 hour one and I had to pee so badly while stopped in traffic, that I debated abandoning my car and running up the grassy shoulder to take a squat. Somehow, someway, I made it. Through these wonderful times and others, I have survived. The following (and preceding) is a rather mellow-dramatic and cynical look at my life as a commuter. It is 99.9% factual. Try not to hold the exaggerations or offer to trade in my fiance for an hour of sleep against me.

A Day in the Life of a Commuting Teacher:

3:30 am: You get out of bed to go pee. As you stumble back to bed in the dark, you pray it’s some wonderful time like 1:00 or 2:00 am so that you have a few more hours of guaranteed sleep. But as you slide back under the covers, you check the time on your phone and it’s 3:30. Damn.

4:50 am: Cell phone alarm goes off. It really doesn’t matter what ringtone you have chosen. Whether it’s the Blues, Samba, Piano Rift or the iPhone factory settings, it sounds like Death has come knocking. You never actually get up at 4:50; but recently changed your alarm so you can experience the joy of hitting snooze once or twice and still be out of bed and in the shower by 5:10. When a carpool buddy and 27 children are waiting for you, it’s time to get your ass in gear.

5:15 am: You stand in the shower wondering if you have the flu. It’s hard to tell if you’re sick because getting up at this hour, daily, is sick. Even on days you really are sick you go through the entire getting ready process as a test. If you still feel nauseous and headachy by the time you’re ready to go, you might actually be ill and it’s time to call for a sub.

5:30-6:00 am: Make lunch, eat breakfast and get ready while watching the 5:00 morning news with Walt Gray and Deidra Fitzpatrick. No interesting news, but you do need the weather and traffic. You normal routine is to get dressed using only the light of the closet. When your significant other groans and covers his face with the covers because this one closeted light-bulb is disturbing his slumber, you wish to trade places, just for a day.

6:10 am: Meet the carpool buddy. If it’s your day to drive, get the caffeine going. If it’s not, thank goodness! Slip off your shoes and get your feet in there under the floor heater on the passenger side. About a year into commuting, you adapted just like any other animal that has escaped distinction. You extinct is to try and compensate for lost sleep whenever possible. This advanced ability of yours allows you to fall asleep before your carpool companion has driven past 2 exits and you sleep soundly until the wheels hit the off-ramp. This is no joke. The phenomenon of perfectly timed sleep has been observed in many a carpooler. On weekends and evenings, the most advanced carpoolers can even sleep soundly on a five-minute car ride to the grocery store if they’ve roped that useful significant other into playing chauffeur.

7:10 am: Wipe the sleep from your eyes; climb out of the car; and get to work.

7:30 am: Use the bathroom before school starts. While washing your hands, you look into the mirror and realize your shirt is on either inside-out or backwards. Just a symptom of getting dressed in near darkness.

10:10 am: While reading with a small group of students you reach down to scratch your leg and realized you only shaved your left leg. Personal hygiene really works best when you are fully awake and functioning.

4:30 pm: Time to hit the road again. You turn on the radio and since none of the same music stations have signal out here, you resort to the old standby: NPR. “All Things Considered” is interesting two or three days/week, but why can’t “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me,” air on a Monday afternoon? It would start the work week off right. At least you have all the episodes from the last 3 months downloaded on to your iPhone and can try to play along and remember the news trivia that was big and important during the week of February 12th. That’s not all. You also have about 6 audiobooks on there, but those are hard to get through when you are carpooling. David Sedaris makes a joke about his boyfriend doing “faggy things like picking wild flowers” and all of a sudden you feel uncomfortable sharing a small sedan with a rather conservative 60-year old music teacher. At least he’s not driving and in control of the radio today. Classical music makes great background music, but it certainly doesn’t make 50 miles pass by very quickly. For now, he can deal with some Rhianna or perhaps some Angels and Airwaves.

4:40 pm: The drive home is usually more interesting. You tend to stay awake more whether or not it’s your turn to drive. As you cruise along the scenic Highway 99, you take in the local landmarks. The dilapidated “Chicken Kitchen” just outside of Stockton, the drive-through in Lodi that looks as if it was made of Lincoln Logs and has a sign advertising “Chicken Croissants.” Every time you see that sign you wonder if a comma is missing, but you never stop to find out. Perhaps no one does, as you’ve never actually seen a car in the supposed business. Lodi is a great place to keep your eyes on the sky, as sky divers plummet from an airplane and land what appears to be mere yards from the freeway.

4:50 pm: Ah, a couple of adults are trying to cross 99 on their bicycles. You must be in Galt. Be cautious here. This is a reoccurring phenomenon in Galt. Apparently the bicycle overpass just half a mile down the road is too far for these Galtians. They make it to the center divide before attacking the next two lanes of traffic. You swerve to miss a rotting dog carcass and hope the cycling citizens make there appointment at the tattoo parlor on time.

5:00 pm: If you are taking 5 today, as you sometimes do (depending on the carpool meeting spot), “The Dawn of Civilization” comes into view. This is actually the unimpressive skyline of Elk Grove. If you stop at any of the Elk Grove exits, you will find the civilization here is gray, cement, uninspired and not too impressive. What is so enchanting about Elk Grove is that as you drive North on 5, it magically appears out of nowhere. It doesn’t slowly come into view on the horizon. All of a sudden, it’s just there. Elk Grove is good for two things and two things only: caffeine (there is a Starbucks at every exit) and hope (you know that Sacramento is minutes away).

5:15 pm: You exit the freeway. Praise Allah!! This feels wonderful. Sometimes it feels as if you must have driven from Bakersfield. Other days, few and far between, the drive feels suprisingly short. These must be the days when Ann Taylor has some juicy news from Capitol Hill or Meeeeeshell Norris has a hilarious interview with a plucky old woman living in the Appalachian and complaining about a hive of 4,000 bees living within the walls of her mobile home.

10:00 pm: Shortly before hitting the sack (or passing out on the couch), your significant other complains about “having to get up early.” You know that no words are needed here. Instead, you cast a cold eye on him that immediately puts him in his place. “Oh really?” this look asks, “You have to get up early? Early like seven? Or heaven forbid, early like six-thirty.” Poorly chosen words from your mate. Because God only knows you would exchange him in a second if it meant you could sleep in one more hour.

See it to believe it.

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There is a chubby fourth grade boy who enjoys chasing himself with the tetherball at recess. Danny winds it up, lets it fly, and runs squealing in circles, trying to escape the leashed ball. When I swim, I imagine that I move with same grace and speed as this waddling nine-year old.

As a swimmer, I’ve distinguished myself as the one person that doesn’t do a single lap of freestyle throughout an entire swim workout. Despite my best efforts, I’ve found that getting a healthy intake of oxygen and keeping afloat while using this stroke are mutually exclusive tasks. I used to alternate between 6 strokes of freestyle and a couple of side strokes which allowed me to catch my breath. This seems really lame and so I pretty much stick to breast stroke. I can hack my way through the back stroke, but I have a continual flinch at the fear of smacking my head on the cement wall (again).

I only started lap swimming this summer, and with one exception, I never swim more than 1/4 mile at a time. The exception would be the time I swam 1/4 mile, plus 2 laps, just so I could say that I swam more than my usual 18 laps.

Today was my first day back in the pool after a several month hiatus (and given that I only started this whole swimming thing about 7 months ago, well…) Anyways, as I jumped in the pool, I planned on putting in my obligatory 1/4 mile and then heading upstairs for some cardio.

As I struggled through my 18 laps, I watched the lean and not so lean fill up the other lanes in the pool and then glide from end to end with grace and ease. As men with legs smoother than my own powered through their workouts, I plodded along. When the water aerobics ladies aren’t taking up half the pool with their floaties, flippers, and Abba soundtrack, swimming is pretty boring. After a sunny 14 mile trail run yesterday, the views of a swimming pool pale in comparison. My focus rotated between the blue line on the bottom of the pool, my chipped nail polish, and the oh so distant, 3 1/2 feet sign at the end of the lane.

Once I had finished my 18 laps, I took of my goggles and got ready to forfeit my lane. But alas, as Summer Sanders jumped in next to me, I decided to go just two more laps. And then 2 more. And a short eternity later, I did a flipping 1/2 mile! It took forever, was seriously boring and I’m sure I looked like a wounded fish. But I was victorious! And exhausted. I was able to retire to my couch, the Bachelor, Ben & Jerry’s and a project one of my parent volunteers botched and was now time to fix. And finally, I have come to the time I’ve been looking forward to since the alarm went off this morning: time for bed.

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Dear Thief,

It’s two a.m., and I’ve been lying awake, so I’ve decided perhaps a cathartic letter to you might allow me to sleep once again.

My name is Katy Byrns and I am a fifth grade teacher. I teach in a crappy neighborhood in Stockton instead of somewhere like my hometown of Davis because I want to help those kids do something valuable with their lives and not take the same path that you did. As you probably saw, I’m a runner and live with my boyfriend, Dale. We like our little house here in East Sac. but do look forward to moving to Portland. It’s too bad you couldn’t have waited a few months. You didn’t, and so I thought you might want to know the value of the items you stole from our house today.

The Power Book:
You were probably disappointed to open that baby up and find that it’s a few years old and missing the “M” key. Sorry about that. It was a college graduation gift and has been through some rough times. The M was lost about three years ago when Dale, Mayta, and I were watching something trashy like Laguna Beach while drinking martinis. I should say that Mayta and I chose what was on TV and that Dale was probably drinking a Gin and Tonic. Anyways, Dale leaned over to give me a kiss and knocked my Cosmo into the keyboard. Despite the drip dry, blow dry and key removal, a certain stickiness remained for years. When the weather changed, my keys were slower to bounce back up upon impact and sometimes you would hear a little suctioning noise as the unstuck themselves from the sugary glue in there. Eventually Dale replaced most of the keys, but the poor M wouldn’t budge. It became the wobbly key, until it just straight up fell off. While the key itself is missing, no worries, you will not have to abandon that letter of the alphabet because the little plastic nub works just fine.

Also on the Power Book, you are welcome to have the many stages, drafts and revisions of my Masters thesis. That thing took a year of work during my first year of teaching and darn near killed me. If you choose not to read all 100 pages, at least skim through to appreciate the pictures of the students in my study and the colorful graphs I labored over. While perusing my Word documents I recommend you try the Empanada recipe; it’s excellent.

There are many other things of value (well, only to me) that you will find on that computer. Maybe every sweet educational website I’ve ever found bookmarked in the internet browser. I do hope you get a chance to browse the internet before you sell it. And please, I pray that if there is any justice, you will open iphoto while using other programs and experience the same aggravating freeze that I’ve learned to avoid. All programs will stall as my aging computer goes into overload and you too will curse the “rainbow spinney wheel” that means the Power Book is freaking out. While you’re in iphoto, enjoy pictures of anything I’ve don’t since college. You can see my trips to Georgia with Dale (I think you will especially enjoy the beautiful pictures of Savannah.) Let’s see…there are also pictures of the two Davis kids I used to tutor. I call them “My Brazilian Children.” You can find pictures of their First Communion and dance recitals. I can’t list all of them. I’m sure you will enjoy everything from the bars of Davis, to backpacking trips and vacations in those pictures.

Jewelry from My Dresser:
Most of those necklaces and earrings were given to me by my father or Dale for a Christmas or birthday. While the Power Book might have been a let down, at least that handful of jewelry is monetarily valuable for you. I must say I’m thankful you missed out on the earrings I was wearing today, well yesterday, as they are the ones Dale bought for me with his first paycheck as an urban planner and are my favorites. And my necklace—you probably noticed the signature Tiffany’s pouch, empty. I was also wearing my SF Women’s Marathon necklace, so you missed that one.

Other than that, the items you would find less valuable include a beautiful necklace (complete in banana leaf box) a friend brought to me from Kenya. There’s also a colorful necklace with oversized beads. That one a student of mine made for me.

I could go on, but I think I’ve done enough listing of “goods” for now. I just wonder what goes through your mind as your rifling through my underwear drawer. Sitting on my dresser, staring you in the face are pictures: me as a baby with my grandpa; my sister at age 4, wading in a lake. When you broke into our living room you walked by pictures of Dale and I as well as numerous other “things.” Things we’ve both worked for and earned over the years.

What did you do to earn an old laptop and a handful of jewelry? Break a French door? Time to do something worthwhile with your life. Pull your shit together. I had only two more words for you, but perhaps you can guess what those are.

Sincerely,
The Woman You Stole From

P.S. I only wish I had waited a day before changing my Facebook password so you too could enjoy this letter written from me, to you.

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This morning, on our first day back from Winter Break, our class sat in a circle ready to play a game we call “Two Truths and a Lie.” For this morning’s edition of the game, each person wrote down 2 truths and 1 lie about what he or she did over break and then the rest of the class had to guess which statement was the lie. My students know I’ve run several marathons, but I stuck to short and easy runs over the past two weeks, so I was sure my three statements would trick them:

Over break I…
1. Baked a lot of cookies
2. Walked on the Golden Gate Bridge
3. Ran 20 miles

As a my students held up 1, 2, or 3 fingers, Hector, sitting directly across from me on the couch experienced his not-unusual diarrhea of the mouth.

To no one in particular, but loud enough for everyone, he blurted out, “Number three is the lie. Run 20 miles? A woman can’t do that.”

My eyebrows shot a few inches up my forehead while 26 students sucked in a collective gasp (I later reflected upon this and was thankful for their joint shock at the statement.) Rather than rant or rave, I find that a calm seriousness really is most effective and helps everyone to sit up a little straighter in this type of situation.

“Oh really Hector?” I asked. “Women can’t run 20 miles?” At this point I think the class is waiting for some real fireworks. They should know by now, that’s not my style. “I find that interesting,” I continued, “because I myself have done that probably 10 times.”

“Oh…” he sank back into the couch cushions. “Um…is a marathon 20 miles?” he asked, a bit meeker than his first declaration. This is probably when he remembered that I shared with the class that I had run a marathon in Sacramento a month before, one in SF a few months prior, and another when I had them back in fourth grade.

“No. Actually, a marathon is 26 miles. And I’ve done that 5 times.” A matter of fact tone paired with eye contact is really much more powerful than raising your voice.

“And you know, there are women who have run over a HUNDRED miles, at once, without stopping,” I added.

“Oh.” Poor Hector. Maybe the devil is back to speaking to him in his head (see previous note, “Fabulous Student Quotes.”) Or perhaps his parents just need to move a few hundred years forward in time. I suppose it’s better he learns it now from his fifth grade teacher, rather than some teenaged girl that slaps him across the face a few years down the road.

“I guess we won’t be skipping Women’s History Month this year,” I noted. And so we moved on to the week’s spelling words.

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We were listening to NPR while en route from one S-town to another when they began telling a horrific story of the Mexican drug cartel and a recent spike in gang related murders and violence. The story then focused on teachers at a school that had been threatened by some drug cartel dudes. The guys said they would be returning and the teachers would hand over their Christmas bonuses or be killed. As I listened, I was shocked. Teachers in Mexico get Christmas bonuses? Whaaaaat? I want in on that.

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Let’s see if this stuff carries me through the CIM. My first race with music. Shuffle it up. By the way, I’m not ashamed of my musical tastes. Just try and make fun.

Call to Arms————– Angels & Airwaves
Everything’s Magic——— Angels & Airwaves
Breathe—————— Angels & Airwaves
Love Like Rockets———- Angels & Airwaves
Sirens——————- Angels & Airwaves
Secret Crowds————-Angels & Airwaves
Star of Bethlehem———- Angels & Airwaves
True Love—————- Angels & Airwaves
Jumping Rooftops———-Angels & Airwaves
Rite of Spring————- Angels & Airwaves
Heaven—————— Angels & Airwaves
Valkyrie Missile————Angels & Airwaves
Distraction————— Angels & Airwaves
Do It for Me Now———–Angels & Airwaves
The Adventure————-Angels & Airwaves
A Little’s Enough———–Angels & Airwaves
It Hurts——————Angels & Airwaves
Good Day—————-Angels & Airwaves
Start the Machine———-Angels & Airwaves
Doesn’t Remind Me——– Audioslave
Out of Exile————– Audioslave
Get Back —————- The Beatles
Suga Mama—————Beyoncé
Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It) Beyoncé
Shut Up—————– Black Eyed Peas
Anxiety—————– Black Eyed Peas
Womanizer—————Britney Spears
Short Skirt/Long Jacket——Cake
Nugget——————Cake
you got the love———–Candy Stanton
Keeps Gettin’ Better——– Christina Aguilera
Listen to Your Heart——– D.H.T. Featuring Edmée
Up and Away————- Dave Matthews
Lie In Our Graves———- Dave Matthews & Tim Reynolds
Eh Hee (Live)————- Dave Matthews Band
Ants Marching———— Dave Matthews Band
O Valencia!—————The Decemberists
The Crane Wife 1 & 2——-The Decemberists
Tell Me——————Diddy featuring Christina Aguilera
Still D.R.E.—————-Dr. Dre
Shake That—————Eminem
I Don’t Wanna Be In Love—-Good Charlotte
Science is ignorant———Jay-Z, Coldplay
Welcome to Atlanta———JD, P. DIddy, St. Lunatics, Snoop Dogg
Sweetness—————-Jimmy Eat World
Futuresex/Lovesound——-Justin Timberlake
Heartless—————–Kanye West
Love Lockdown————Kanye West
All These Things That I’ve DoneThe Killers
Stairway to Heaven——— Led Zeppelin
Like A Prayer ————–Madonna
If I Never See Your Face Again-Maroon 5 feat. Rihanna
Mo Money Mo Problems——Mase, Puff Daddy & NotoriousB.I.G.
Shake It —————– Metro Station
New Low—————–Middle Class Rut
Powerless (Say What You Want) Nelly Furtado
You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid—–The Offspring
Time After Time————Quietdrive
Don’t Stop the Music——–Rihanna
Breakin’ Dishes———— Rihanna
Disturbia—————–Rihanna
Live Your Life————- T.I. (feat. Rihanna)
Hash Pipe—————-Weezer
California Love————2Pac featuring Dr. Dre & Roger

Afterward:
The Shuffle was wonderful; I didn’t have to play all of my usual mind games and could just enjoy the music thoughtlessly. The shuffle also seemed to be very wise and have some good timing. The excellent Killers song came on in the last mile (I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier), and appropriate enough, the very last song was Angles and Airwaves: “It Hurts.”

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Conversation in Sophia’s Bar, Thanksgiving Eve 2008

The group: Dale, Adam, Ali, Matt, Myself

Enter: Two 40-year old women (No descriptors necessary except that I think these women must have handed me a caprisun and an orange slice or two back in my AYSO days and neither one seemed aware of her actual age.)

Cougar 1: Hey what are you guys doing out tonight?
Dale: We all live in the area.
Cougar 1: But what are you doing here?
Adam: Uh, well we are seeing our families for Thanksgiving.

<lots of blah blah from the two women. no one on our side is really responding>

Cougar 2: You know our generation (**I find this part rather ridiculous. We are not of the same generation lady. You are almost part of our parents’ generation. She proceeds to talk about “our” generation for the next five minutes.**), our generation is the ME generation. People our age just always want rewards for everything…blah blah blah
Me: Well wouldn’t that be the product of poor parenting?
Cougar 2: Nah! I just tend to blame the future generation.

Cougar 2: (to Dale) You’re really tall! That’s sooo hot!
Dale: (nods)
Adam: (nods obviously towards door)
Cougar 2: (out of nowhere) You know my girlfriend masturbated to Obama earlier today.
Dale: Uh, you really don’t know us that well.
Cougar 2: What’s to know??

And that was our cue to exit. As a sidenote, I don’t think I know anyone THAT well that I care for those details.

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I gave up coffee about three years ago. It wasn’t something I wanted to do. Coffee and I had some good times together before the months I found myself lying in bed at night and whining about the stabbing pain “in my heart.” Sadly, I had no fast food to cut out of my diet; I didn’t drink soda at the time; and some specialist used the treadmill stress test to confirm that I had no congenital heart failure. The culprit was the bean. Damn.

I would estimate that I only made it through the first year completely caffeine free. I even gave away my loyal coffee maker. I held on to the French press for nostalgia’s sake. But then I started teaching in Suisun (think Budweiser factory), and feeling the bump of the little yellow dots on the lane line jerk my eyes open every morning during my commute caused me to become a regular of the Dixon Starbucks. (I skipped the drive thru since I felt getting out of the car and walking helped wake me up a bit. It is seriously a miracle I made it through that year without getting in an accident.)

Years two and three were all tea, the occasional mocha, and a far too many soy chais. Expensive and inferior. The taste does not compare and the power of the caffeine is lacking. I have no doubt that my Pepsi addiction never would have come to fruition had I not been starting my day with a drink no darker than my skin tone. Obviously I would fade by noon and be scrounging for quarters.

A few months ago, I decided I would try to get back on coffee. I had an iced coffee in May that gave me that wonderful, overly antsy, jittery feeling which I hadn’t experienced since freshman year of college. So good. In the last few weeks, as the mornings got colder, I went for a few real, honest to goodness cups of coffee, black. Prior to today, I was only able to drink down an inch between the hours of 6 and 3. Nevertheless, that stained cardboard cup provided some comfort just sitting there on my desk. Not to mention the smell. I think the moment I pick up that cup from the Peets counter, my nostrils are immediately filled with the aroma and it lingers—no overwhelms me—so that all I can smell until I shower after my evening run is Major Dickenson’s’ Blend.

I’m sure my former barista amigas will concur that when you work at a coffee shop, you need an entire separate work wardrobe, right down to your bra. The smell of coffee is so fully penetrating and lasting that it only takes grinding one pound of Columbian before everything touching your body is forever tainted with the aroma.

Today I was able to drink down 2/3 of the cup. But by 3:00, my gut was in knots and all I could smell was coffee oozing from my pores, clinging to my hair and to my clothes. In my paranoid state, I had asked more than one person (including a student), “Do I smell like coffee?” I had no happy jitter, just an unhappy stomach that felt like it was suffering from a long night of drinking. As I stepped into my car an hour later, I was hit by the stench of coffee that had spilled all over my lovely upholstery that morning.

And that was all it took. I used to drive coffee catering around when I worked for some horrible independently owned South Davis coffee shop and my old Corolla reeked of coffee. I will not let the same thing happen to my Yaris. Good thing gas prices are down. I’ll be squandering my money on soy chais and afternoon Pepsis once again. Oh well. The smell of coffee is so much sweeter when it is something I’m lusting after and not covered in.

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I dedicate this to one Mrs. Rivera. Thanks for sharing your Mexican bottled coke and your quarters.

Pepsi. I used to resist and set limits. ‘Only for Wednesday staff meeting’s turned into ‘only two afternoons a week’. That spiraled down into any day that Amelia and I refer to as a “three-quarter day.”

Three-quarter day n. 1. a day following a bad or sleep deprived night 2. a day involving a two-hour long staff meeting or any type of staff development 3. a day that is rough for whatever reason 4. a day that falls in the same week as some sort of deadline. I am so exhausted; I think this is going to be a three-quarter day.

Seeing as I go weeks without a day-off from work, teach fifth grade and set my alarm for 4:50 am, nearly any day can qualify as a three-quarter day. Naturally, this term originates from the change necessary to get a Pepsi from the vending machine in the staff room.

A few months back, I briefly considered getting this habit under control and returning to the soda-free days of yore. While the intentions were good, I had no real motivation to give up the juice. And today I found my justification.

It seems that all the most interesting and successful people have some sort of struggle or addiction they have kicked. Pepsi will be mine. I just need to give it another year or so to blossom into a full fledged addiction so that when I decide to kick the habit, it is that much more significant. I will toast to my improved bone-density with a glass of red wine and think back wistfully on the days I had with that sweet blue can.

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Finishing a marathon feels pretty damn good. Kicking a little ass along the way makes it feel even better…and it helps you to forget exactly how many people beat you in the great race and just how much pain you are in.

Sweet, cocky, victory is what I felt as I was able to pull out a finish line sprint and pass by my last two targets.

On Sunday I ran my fourth marathon. I hadn’t been planning on running this particular marathon; I was training for the California International Marathon, which falls about 7 weeks later than the Nike Women’s Marathon (this weekend’s event). I ran it last year and signed up for it this year only to learn that my sad little name did not make it through the lottery. This only served to exacerbate my negative feelings towards Team In Training.

Upon hearing of my rejection, more than one person suggested that I join the dark side, “You know, if you join Team in Training you can still get in.” I never pledged a sorority; I avoid being in a room with more than 3 or 4 other women and I do not tear up at Extreme Home Makeover. As I assume these are three requirements for TIT, er, TNT, I chose instead to maintain my dignity and if so inspired, bandit the race. Through a bittersweet chain of events, I was able to get my hands on a real, official bib and decided that despite my lack of planning, I had trained enough and would do the full marathon with my friend, Chelsea.

Miles 1-25 were made of the usual pain, pacing, gu-ing, Gatorade stops and mental mind games. Chelsea and I have done a number of LONG runs, a marathon, and a few halves together and so we have already shared nearly all of our most humiliating, juicy and entertaining stories. Thus, on Sunday we were left filling about 6 miles with the alphabet game: “Okay now name songs starting with letters A-Z,” I commanded on round five. This game lasted until delusion hit and M became just as difficult a letter as X and Z had been from the beginning.

Chelsea is one of those people that gets the race day engines burning and in the last few miles, will blow by you in an effortless burst of speed which I have come to know, respect, and dread. So when I pulled ahead of her somewhere around mile 20, I was determined to hang on to the lead by the skin of my teeth if necessary.

I spent the next five miles cursing who knows what in my head, smiling at the thought of Vanessa taking pictures along the way of her half-marathon, and wishing for my Ipod. While Chelsea’s incoherent rendition of an Angels and Airwaves song back at the start of Lake Merced was amusing, I was in need of some real drive. My sixty-year old music teacher-carpool buddy politely describes the band as “Very forceful, forward moving.” From him I know this is no compliment, but this was exactly what I was in need of.

By mile 25, I had just passed a notorious marathon sight: the lying spectator. Usually these saboteurs are shouting about how “that was the last hill” and “it’s all down hill from here.” Never believe these people. They have no idea what’s going on and are making this stuff up on the spot. “Just two more stop lights and you’re done!” my lying spectator shouted. That was shortly before the twenty-fifth mile. Half a mile later, a second man tried to encourage struggling runners, “Just two more stoplights!” Never too tired to argue, I responded, “The last guy said that two stoplights ago.”

I slowed to walk for a minute, thinking I should preserve enough energy to cross the finish moving at a respectable clip without collapsing, vomiting or bursting into tears. As I walked, I thought about how convincing the U2 cover-band at mile 24 had been. “That guy really looked like Bono,” I thought. As I was pondering why Bono would ever do a gig at a sell-out event like the Nike Women’s Marathon (and I do mean sell-out, not sold-out), my thoughts were interrupted by a crotchety middle-aged woman walking a few feet away.

“Is this your first marathon?” she asked as if it were an accusation. “No. Why, does it look like it?” I replied, irritated. I’m generally a very social race day runner. I will talk for miles with strangers around me partially out of selfishness—it helps the miles pass. No matter how haggard someone looks, “Is this your first marathon?” is not the question. Even if the person next to you is running in Keds, has bleeding nipples and has a pedometer hanging around his neck, the acceptable question is, “So which other marathons have you done?” No need to let someone know they are looking as bad as they feel by implying that they are a first timer.

This woman rubbed me the wrong way and so I broke from my normal routine and tried to let the small talk die. She persisted. “I absolutely HATE this marathon! I’ve done 43 marathons and this is THE WORST!” After a quick once over, I decided that she must not share my hatred for Team in Training and female empowerment bonding events and so I took the bait. I couldn’t guess what she found to be so horrible about this event. “This is a great marathon. It’s gorgeous. What don’t you like?”

“Oh no! It’s absolutely terrible! This is the hilliest course I’ve ever run!” she spoke with the air of one who would like to be considered a seasoned veteran. Now I know she said 43 marathons, but I have three responses that I would have enjoyed sharing with this woman:

1) If I did 43 marathons I would certainly hope that I would look more like I had RUN 43 marathons and not just hit up the food tables at the end of 43 marathons.

2) Where the hell did you do 43 marathons without hills? I had no idea Bakersfield and Stockton sponsored so many events. This is San Francisco lady! If you are from out-of-state and didn’t learn geography in fourth grade, have you not seen one movie depicting this city and its obvious HIlLS? The views of the Golden Gate, Alcatraz, the Pacific Freakin Ocean more than make up for some hills. I live in the great land of Sacramento, which is not known for wonderful hill training workouts, but I do know how to up the incline on the treadmill. So maybe by your 44nd or 45th marathon you can find an overpass or get a gym membership so you too can train properly for a marathon that is held on a fault line.

3) It is mile 25.5 of 26.2. I do not need to hear negative talk from strangers. I have been cursing in my head and trying to ignore my wooden knees and the seizing pain in my hips that occurs every time I turn my head to the right or left. Even when running with good friends, running partners know when to keep their mouth shut if words of optimism and encouragement are not spilling out.

I let this woman pass me by with her rain cloud hovering overhead and gathered my last reserves of energy. Finally I could see the white tents marking the finish line. I assessed the situation in front of me. Immediately ahead was a Team in Training drone who I had been running near for almost an hour. Like all TNT money-makers, this woman had her name puff-painted on the front of her gaudy purple shirt. The Team in Training worker bees stationed along the course every 10 feet had been cheering her name for the past four miles. Now, just short of mile 26, a Team in Training coach (think Richard Simmons without the fro but plus 10 pounds of purple whoo-ha) jumped into the race and grabbed the TNT woman’s hand and began running with her towards the finish. He pumped her arm vigorously in the air while with his other hand he made wide, sweeping motions pointing to the woman he was clutching. It was very much, “Oh roaring crowds, don’t look at me. This is the woman that deserves the cheers. Look at her! Isn’t she just wonderful? And she probably has 5 kids at home to boot.” Perhaps if he wanted the attention directed at her, he might step off the course and let her complete her 26.2 miles without slowing her down.

This sideshow was immediately in front of me and to pass I would either have to squeeze by in a narrow breath of space between the TNT coach and the spectators or run all they way around them to pass on the ¼ of the road which the duo was not consuming with wild arm gestures. For those of you who have run a marathon, you will understand that taking the steps to run around someone is not a viable option. There was no way I would ever let this display of Team in Training beat me. I tapped into my reserves of aggression and turned on a short sprint down the side to cut the two off.

Now all that stood between me and the bagels was about 200 yards and two women, one of which bore a strong resemblance to the Grinch Who Stole Mile 25. I don’t know if this was the same woman, but at this point it was no matter. It was all the drive I needed. As they happily strutted towards the finish, I found it in me to put on a bit more of a sprint and passed them by seconds before I heard the wonderful beep of the chip passing the last timing mat. They may not have known or cared that we were racing, but I beat them, and that was enough for me.

Disclaimer: I know Team in Training has raise about a bazillion dollars for cancer research and has surely motivated thousands of people to get up off the couch and train for something difficult and impressive. That is all excellent. I’m a jerk for hating them, but you try doing this event and not walking away with at least a little residual irritation. I know I may sound a bit harsh, but it’s my own little short story and honesty is sometimes more entertaining.

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