Over the weekend, I had some friends over for a small get-together, and one of them asked me if I ever blogged about the fun I had after my first marathon. I’m pretty sure I haven’t, and I’m absolutely certain it would be WRONG for me go through this entire year without relaying the story, so today, you’re in for a treat.
Real quick, just in case you’ve never been here before, I’m a father of three and a marathon runner. My middle child, 7-year-old Jack, is severely autistic. I want to try to make a difference, and I want Jack to have an impact on the world, so I’m attempting to run 61 full marathons this year and raise money and awareness for a charity I’m a part of called Train 4 Autism. I named this endeavor Operation Jack after him, because I wouldn’t be doing this if not for him.
Last Friday, I ran marathon No. 56 of the year, the Wishbone Run in Gig Harbor, Wash. It was a pretty challenging run on trails covered by snow, ice and mud. You can read my recap here.
That was my 84th lifetime marathon. But I’m going to talk about the aftermath of my first full. How’s that for a pretty weak transition?
I was looking forward to my first marathon, and like most people attacking their first full, I planned on making a big weekend out of it. It was the 2006 San Diego Rock ‘N Roll Marathon. June 4, 2006. That was my day, my weekend. I owned it!
I stayed with friends the night before the race in a fifth wheel (kind of like an RV) about 10 miles from the start line. My brother was with us and he drove me to the start. I ran to the finish. Since it was my first marathon, it was a big deal to everybody.
My wife and kids were there at the end. My parents were there. My in-laws were there, too. Several friends were there. As a group, we had several cars, although, as I mentioned, I ran to the finish after getting dropped off at the start. I didn’t know where in the parking lot those cars were. I was limping around and feeling pretty miserable. I certainly wasn’t used to that kind of pounding on my legs.
I had the opportunity to leave the finish area with my brother and friends, but I gave that spot in the car to my dad, because I wanted to ride back to the campground with the fifth wheel with my wife and kids in her Suburban. So, I was with my wife and kids, my in-laws and my stepmom. The parking lot was a huge dirt parking lot. HUGE. You could get lost in there for hours (Hint: That was foreshadowing!).— It all looked the same and it seemed to go on forever.
We started walking to the car. Apparently, it was in the second row, all the way to the right. The group was certain of that. We kept walking and walking and walking. No Suburban. After a while, somebody I was with was convinced we had gone too far so we turned around because we must have walked right by it. I really wanted to find the car, sit down and go back to the fifth wheel to take a shower and eat. We had a barbecue planned.
After about 30 minutes of aimless wandering, I called up my dad, since he rode down in the Suburban. He was on speakerphone via bluetooth, so my friends got to hear the conversation. I was extremely frustrated.
“Hey, do you remember where the car is?”
He nonchalantly told me he didn’t remember. I decided to ask again.
“OK, let me rephrase the question,” I calmly said. I was extremely irritated by the situation at this point, and this is when I exploded. “ACT LIKE YOUR LIFE (expletive) DEPENDS ON IT. WHERE IN THE (expletive) IS THE (expletive) CAR?”
That rattled him, and I felt bad, but I wanted to find the car!
“Uhhhh,” he said, just about trembling, “by a fence?”
My friends were laughing hysterically. I was not. For starters, there was no fence! Plus, I wanted to sit down, but I knew I couldn’t, because if I did, I wouldn’t get back up. So we kept looking at every car, right along where my wife, in-laws and stepmom said it would be. They said second row, but I looked at every car from the front to the back, in every row from the first to the fourth.
After about an hour had passed, we were right by a big sign with a letter B. I was beyond angry. I couldn’t believe this was happening.
So, I questioned the group.
“Does anybody remember one of these big signs with a letter on it when you parked? You know, like B, for boy?”
No response. Just silence. I think they were scared to talk to me.
“C? Cat?” Still, no response.
“D? DUMMIES?” Definitely no response, and no anger back towards me and my frustration.
They kept offering to let me sit down, but I knew I wouldn’t get up. And something chivalrous about me didn’t feel right letting my wife and stepmom and mother-in-law search for the car while I sat. My father-in-law, different story.
I broke away from the group (but had my phone), and kept searching for the car. After about an hour and 15 minutes, my sister-in-law, who was 80 miles away but knew what was going on, tried calling OnStar to get them to honk our horn. We had let our service expire, though, plus in a lot that size, I don’t think it would have helped.
About 10 minutes later, my wife asked one of the lot attendants where they might have parked if they showed up somewhere around 9:15 or 9:30. I wouldn’t have known this, because I was at around mile 17. But apparently, they were likely either in lot 4 or lot 5. Tiff called me and told me this.
I walked to lot 4, which was in the middle of the parking lot, not all the way over to the right, where everybody was certain the car was. But you know what? Lot 4 was … surrounded by a fence. As soon as I saw it, I knew, based on the ridiculous clue from my dad, that the Suburban was in there. I also knew, since everybody was so adamant about it being in these second row all the way over to the right, that all I had to do was walk in on the right side of the lot, turn down the second aisle and I’d find it.
That’s what I did, and sure enough, about 20 cars down was the one we’d spent 90 minutes searching for. Yeah, I’m the one who found it in that massive parking lot, even though I was the only one who wasn’t there when it was originally parked. Thanks to my dad for the clue, huh?
I called Tiff and told here where it was and I didn’t move an inch. I just waited. Within 10 minutes, I finally got to sit down. I’d been on my feet for a good six hours at that point if you count the 20 minutes before the race.
I knew even before we found the car that I’d be telling the story for years. But now, I also make very certain to text myself where I parked the car before a race so I don’t have a repeat of this episode.
Ask Me Anything!
I don’t really remember how, but I came upon a site called Formspring earlier this year. I got a few questions over the weekend out of nowhere, so I answered them. It’s kind of fun (well, at least for me), and if you’ve had any questions you ever wanted to ask me, you can do so anonymously and get your answer. Ask away at www.formspring.me/operationjack!
Operation Jack Marathon
We’re less than four weeks away from the Operation Jack Marathon! If you haven’t registered, or even seen what it is, take a look! If you’re not going to be in the area, take a look at our Satellite Run option. I have some Satellite Run registrants I need to put on that list. Sorry about the delay — I’ll get you up today.
And I think that’s all for today. Have a great Tuesday … I’ll be back here with a guest blog for tomorrow!
