I've always thought it's a good idea to surround yourself with people whose talents exceed your own: They push you to do your best work. But that thinking can, of course, be taken too far.



Yesterday, I lined up at the start of the L.A. Marathon just behind some of the world's best distance runners—including American favorites Ryan Hall and Mike Morgan, and Kenyan studs Daniel Limo and Edwin Koech—ready to run my 26.2-mile debut.

I'd been training, of course—for all of 10 weeks, never putting in more than 20-mile long runs. (And I only did two of those.) But I wondered if starting near Ryan Hall would light a fire under me. Thanks to the generosity (or sadism) of the race director (and the title sponsor, Asics, which comped my entry), I was allowed to crash the party with a few hundred others in the vaunted "Corral A," where sub-three-hour marathons are, well, pedestrian. (The cut-off for entry was 3:00:59.) My racing resumé? I'd run half a dozen 5Ks over the past couple years, mostly around 21 minutes. I've finished a single half marathon in just under two hours—all the way back in 2006. Throw in a few sprint triathlons and some ill-conceived all-night mountain bike races and hikes and you get the picture.

Gathered in Corral A with me were the top runners in a 26,000-strong field, the biggest the L.A. Marathon has ever seen. I tried to fit in, secretly planning to set off at a sub-five-minute per mile clip, which I wasn't sure I'd ever attempted, much less executed in a race. My thinking: Wouldn't it be cool if I briefly had the LEAD in the L.A. Marathon? I told a few friends back home in Atlanta to check out the webcast of the race and look for me out front panting audibly. Just in case.

Arriving at Dodger Stadium around 5:15 a.m.—the start of the race was pushed up earlier than usual, to 6:55 a.m., thanks to record high temperature predictions—I mostly looked the part: I'm tall for a distance runner, but have a slim, somewhat athletic build. My quads aren't going to make you look twice, but that wasn't so out of the ordinary, I felt, glancing around at the other legs on display. Even in the premier corral, there were plenty of body types represented. I also was wearing all the right gear: short-shorts, singlet, new-to-market shoes, and running shades.

I flashed my bib at the unimpressed Corral A sentry, and he waved me inside. Feeling a bit awkward in the corral so early, I went back out into the caffeinated masses and found a dark clump of trees to take a pee. (Bathroom lines were insanely long and, I figured, beneath the dignity of the special citizens of Corral A.)

Fifteen minutes later, others started filtering in, so I returned. I did some light stretching, much of it in imitation of a serious fellow with arms that seemed far too muscular for distance running. He did what appeared to be a sort of "snow angel" stretching move, on asphalt. It was impressive, and I felt better afterward. I then jogged in place, did some basic yoga, and tried to strike up conversation about strategy. I wanted to learn how the fast guys planned to start the race, but not sound like it was my first marathon, fearing that revocation of my corral privilege was still possible. So I tried this tack:

ME: "Do you, uh, plan to go out hard today?

FELLOW 'CORRAL A' GUY: "No habla inglés."

As the time to run neared, I pushed myself against the metal corral barrier closest to the starting line. A race worker in front of me said, "So you gonna run under three hours?" I shook my head before he resumed, "Then why are you in here?"



It was a good question, but before I could explain the National Anthem was playing. About 20 yards ahead—in the super-elite Corral AA—I watched Ryan Hall put his hand over his heart. And then we were off. And I was sprinting up a slight incline around the stadium.

Yes, I broke the cardinal rule of marathon-debuting: Don't go out too hard.



I knew this rule—many marathon veterans had shared it with me—and intentionally flouted it. Perhaps my half hour in the corral had deluded me into thinking I really was one of the elite. In any case, I pushed fast and hard to try to reach the Coral AA men with the 20-yard head start—not to mention the years of useful training and natural talent. Did I catch them, as my friends and the world looked on?



Of course not. But for a minute there, I was only about 10 feet behind. And, thanks to this momentum, I ran the first 5K in a record-breaking (for me) 20 minutes! And the first half in just 1:45!

Later, as I slipped from the 3:25 crowd, to the 3:45 crowd, to the 4:00 crowd and, finally, the 4:15 crowd—having reached my lactic threshold somewhere around mile 16—remembering my brush with the elites was bittersweet. At least I finished, though, in 4:21. Not even Ryan Hall did that.

***

Charles Bethea (@charlesbethea) is an Atlanta native, and now, a 4:21 marathoner, with a long term goal of maybe running one again. Or maybe just a half next time.

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