Divine Intervention Wore a Fanny Pack

I was feeling good. Real good. My pace was good, my breathing was good. I felt good. Real good.

Then somewhere around mile 14 or 15, the early stages of dehydration set in. At each mile stop, I had faithfully taken in fluids--still I wasn’t able to get hydrated. I knew I was in trouble because by this time I was clearly showing signs of dehydration accompanied by delirium. The proof:

* When I got to mile 14, I thought I had already been there at least twice before.

* The 5 on mile 15 kept changing from a 4 to a 5 to a 6.

* I was no longer sweating.

* During a potty stop, my bladder said, “Not today, girlfriend!”

* My bladder was talking to me.

Then somewhere around mile 16 or 17, a dull ache started in the second toe of my right foot. I had a realization. This was ridiculous, I thought. What did I have to prove? Nothing. I had already completed a marathon, so there! There were no mountains left to climb.

My mind was simply following my body, which wasn’t so much tired as it was dejected. There had been promises of bananas, PowerGels and other power sources along the 26.2-mile course. But as we ran past these pit stops during the second half of the race, there was only evidence. Stampeded banana peels and PowerGel packets littered the streets, but the real thing had long been devoured, so we ran on.

At one point I ran past a Sav-On and seriously considered going inside and shoplifting a granola bar. But I thought of the headline (“Crazed Runner Steals Trail Mix After Other Crazed Runners Clean Out Granola Bar Aisle!”) and ran on.

Until mile 17 or 18.

Feeling that I was this close to passing out, I slowly walked past a line of volunteers and took six cups of water, followed by two more. Now waterlogged, I decided that my running days were clearly over and started walking. Five minutes later I wasn’t feeling any better so it was then that I decided to pull over at the next mile marker and hitch a ride back to the finish line.

Yup, I was giving up and proud of it.

Then she came.

Debbie’s her name, but I now call her St. Debbie.

She came up alongside me (can’t remember the street, but we were headed west) and said something like: “Oh, I’m so glad I finally have someone I can walk with to the finish line.” If I had had just a touch more strength, I would have turned and said to her, “Sister, I’m getting off at the next exit.”

Instead I mumbled something incoherent.

She told me that her thighs were killing her and that this was her first marathon.

I mumbled something incoherent.

She told me that she had little support from family and friends. They had told her she’d never finish. I thought of my mother and orthopedic surgeon, who, while supportive, still maintained that I had rocks in my head for wanting to do this marathon. (By the way, the one part of my body that felt terrific during the marathon was my knee!)

As Debbie continued her one-way conversation, the good news was that the water was starting to kick in. I was starting to sweat again. Fabbo! But I still needed a piece of something in my system. Candy, fruit, a side of beef. I was operating at, maybe, 60%, up from, maybe, minus 30%, but still below maximum level.

Then St. Debbie--a psychic too--opened her fanny pack, which contained a stash that put 7-Eleven to shame. Water, power bars, candy.

“Help yourself,” she said. I devoured the Mentos with gratitude.

I was now up to 95%.

“So what was that bunk about no support?” I demanded.

None, she said.

“Well, we’re going to prove them wrong!”

And so Debbie and an energized Michelle took off. She filled me with mints and I talked her out of her pain, urging her to think of something else.

What made her do a marathon? I asked.

“I turned 50,” she said.

By mile 20 I felt so good that I could have run the distance to the finish, but I couldn’t leave Debbie. She had dragged my half-dead hide from throwing in the towel. Only a pure dawg would eat and run. (My plan had been to come in at under 7 hours. My last marathon time was 7 hours and 27 minutes. At this rate, it would be close.)

And so we stuck together, walking down Sunset.

At each mile marker, Debbie, a deeply religious woman, would say a prayer and tell me that God had sent her an angel--me. At mile 24 she raised her arms to the heavens and appeared ready to get on her knees and cry and pray. Panicking, I grabbed her arm, looked her straight in the face and (no doubt to the horror of the nuns who had raised me) said firmly: “No! Don’t do that! If you cry now you’ll never get to the finish line. You’ll have no energy left.”

Debbie sucked up the tears, stood ramrod straight and kept walking.

Mile 25 came and went as we walked down Wilshire Boulevard.

“Where’s mile 26?” she asked. She was beyond weary.

“There is no mile 26. The next sign you see will be the finish line.”

As we turned left from Wilshire onto Flower, crowds lined both sides of the street cheering us (and presumably the rest of the runners) on.

“Let’s run the last few feet,” I said, grabbing her left hand. “But just before the finish line I’m going to let go. You did this on your own.”

We crossed the finish line at 7:13.38, and with our new medals dangling from our necks, we clung to each other in gratitude and friendship.

I didn’t come in at under 7 hours, but you know, it was my best race ever. I believe I speak for Debbie too.

Michelle Williams is the editor of Southern California Living.