A local man recalls the fears and foibles he faced during his first day training for last October’s Dublin AIDS Marathon.

By Michael Hofacre

“This is all your fault.”

I'd scream this if I could, but I'm too out of breath to scream, so I continue running. Alan's not around to hear me anyway -- he lives in Dublin -- but I'll yell at him in an e-mail when this is over.

If this is ever over.

A while back, I received a brochure from the National AIDS Marathon Training Program. On the cover was a little boy with his hands on his hips and a terry-cloth towel tied around his neck like a cape. The caption read: “Remember when you wanted to change the world?”

The brochure described how they would train you to complete a marathon in Dublin. If it had said Detroit, I would have thrown the brochure away, but instead, I started day-dreaming about running across Ireland's green hills and drinking Guinness instead of Gatorade at the finish line. I also dreamt about going on a date with Alan's brother.

Ever since I made my first trip to Dublin I've wondered how I could get back and go out with Alan's brother. (When I met Alan for the first time, I remember thinking, “I wish he had a gay brother.” Then I briefly met his gay brother -- his really cute gay brother.)

So, I sent an e-mail to Alan telling him about my idea. “Look, I know this sounds crazy,” I said, “I've never run further in my life than to catch a bus. But I'm in the midst of an on-going mid-life crisis -- I think I'm into year eight or nine of my mid-life crisis -- and maybe training for a marathon is the sort of thing one should do for a mid-life crisis because I'm starting to worry more and more about creating a life that matters before I die.”

I received a note back from Alan saying he couldn't picture me running a marathon.

I became indignant.

I'm used to wading around in the muck of my own crippling self-esteem, but I get riled up when anyone else doubts me or tells me what I can or cannot do -- I get defensive, irrational, and stubborn.

I realized that putting myself through a marathon just to prove a point and maybe go on a date with someone who might not remember meeting me was an insane notion, but there would be the by-products of getting in shape, raising money for a good cause, and having permission to eat pasta without feeling guilty.

I mentioned my idea to a few friends. Their responses were consistent: You're not a runner ... You're not an athlete ... You're not in shape ... You are joking, right?

I stopped mentioning the idea.

But I didn't stop thinking about it, and after weeks of debating with myself, I attended an orientation meeting.

Twenty people sat among several rows of folding chairs that encircled a large television. Half were women who looked like athletes from Kenya. The others were over-weight Latina women. This was encouraging.

“How many of you have run a marathon before?” The Kenyans raised their hands.

“And how many of you have never run before in your life?” The Latinas and I hesitantly raised our hands.

They showed a videotape featuring runners of various ages, races, and body types all finishing a marathon and hugging one another in slow motion. These images were intercut with people telling us whom they had run for: in memory of their lover, their brother, their father, their son.

I began thinking of the people in my life who were no longer here because of AIDS. I thought of Jackson, who never told anyone he was sick, his friends finding out about his illness only the week after his funeral. He was 24. I thought of John, 36 years old and skinny as a 13-year-old boy in the end, thanking me for not being afraid when I hugged him goodbye. I thought of Lisa's father, infected by a blood transfusion, his grandchildren watching TV at the foot of his bed.

Moments later, I found myself balancing an orange plastic clipboard on my lap and signing up to run my first marathon. Different volunteers congratulated me and told me not to look so scared.

Walking back to my car, I felt dangerously exhilarated.

And then I panicked.

Oh.

My.

God.

I don't know if I can run a mile, let alone a fucking marathon. The first marathon runner in ancient Greece ran 26 miles to deliver a message and then dropped dead.

They told me that on the first day everyone would have to run three miles so we could be assigned to the proper training group. But if you total up the running I've done in my entire life, I'm sure it wouldn’t equal three miles.

Can you walk a marathon?

When I arrive at the Griffith Park training site, I try jogging to the group, but become winded immediately and have to begin walking.

There are about 200 people there. I look around, hoping to find someone I know. (I don't.) At first I'm disappointed, but then I'm relieved because I don't want anyone I know to catch me trying to do this.

The group does look as diverse as it did in the video. Kind of. There is a mix of races and ages, men and women, gays and straights, but everyone, it seems, is in decent physical shape and dressed like serious runners in bright micro-fiber outfits.

I'm wearing cargo pants and a cotton T-shirt with a picture of Underdog on it.

The chubby Latinas are nowhere in sight.

All of a sudden, a woman dressed like a camp counselor hops on top of a picnic table and asks: “How many of you have run a marathon before?”

A number of hands go up.

“And how many of you have never run before in your life?”

I seem to be the only person with his hand in the air.

“That's great!” She says, “You're really going to have fun!”

We start running.

I'm a short distance behind the group at first, but that changes quickly. Pretty soon everyone is way ahead of me.

I take a sip of water, but then worry about over-hydration. There was an article in The New York Times about runners dying from over-hydration. I put the cap back on my bottle.

I should have had breakfast. I didn't eat because I was worried about throwing up on myself.

I wonder what the Latinas are having for breakfast.

The road curves away from the nearby freeways and I run past the parking lots for the Los Angeles Zoo and Gene Autry Museum.

I wonder if Alan's brother would even want to go out with me. We only met for an hour and I can't honestly say there was a connection. All I remember was his thick blond hair and the scarf he wore on the night we met. He looked like a grown-up version of the Little Prince.

I finally pass two women.

“Hi,” I call out in an encouraging way, as if to say, “You're doing great! Keep it up! We're all in this together…”

But then I notice they're out walking their dogs.

I continue running.

What if I get diarrhea? I've always heard about runners having uncontrollable diarrhea during a race. Well, I heard that once and it terrifies me.

What if my nipples bleed? Supposedly, marathon runners have to put Band-Aids on their nipples to prevent chaffing. Please let that not be true.

A friend also told me that whenever her boyfriend finished running cross-country, he was delirious and foamed at the mouth.

It's a good thing this marathon is going to be on another continent. I don't want anyone I know to see me cross the finish line covered in blood, shit and foam.

Suddenly, I feel shooting pains in my arm. I wonder if I'm having a heart attack, except once I switch my water bottle to the other hand the pain stops and I keep on running.

I cannot tell how much time has passed, but it feels like hours.

Eventually, I see the end of the course. The perky camp counselor is up ahead holding a stopwatch.

I lengthen my stride as she calls out my time. As I jog past her, I compose my next e-mail to Ireland:

Alan,

Ran three miles today in 33 minutes. This is all your fault. That stuff about a “Runner's High” is bullshit. Tell your brother I'd like to take him to dinner.

See you in Dublin.

Last fall the National AIDS Marathon Training Program raised over $1.3 million for AIDS-related charities. Michael Hofacre placed 6,957th in the Dublin Marathon.