I’m a Believer

So, I’ve heard of this alleged fog for decades now. And I’m sure at one time, my very first jaunt to San Francisco (aside from the ones as a baby, which sorry but I don’t recall a thing) when I was but a wee thing of six years old–and what do you know! I have a picture of that very plane ride from Nashville to San Jose–I saw the fog. But I don’t remember much about that trip except that it was August and we had to wear jeans and sweatshirts to the beach, something I didn’t quite comprehend as I had lived my six long years in Tennessee and vacationed in Florida regularly, both places where you rarely ever needed a windbreaker at anytime of year, let alone summer. And also how on the car ride down some unknown mountain, I kept telling my mom I was hungry, even though we had just eaten an hour before, and she eventually got mad at me because how could my stomach possibly need food right after lunch, and then I puked everywhere in the van. Turns out I was inflicted with motion sickness even then and often mistook it for hunger. (Side note: Until I was 12 at least, my mom always outfitted Kari and me in matching Kelly’s Kids outfits, if it wasn’t something she smocked herself. Side note to my side note: And who even knew the line was still around??? The bows, however, were all self-made by my mom with puff paint and a glue gun.)

So when I went on my last of my 20-milers last Thursday before the marathon in, gosh, just 19 days and some-odd hours at Facebook so unnecessarily continues to remind me, I was surprised that someone had dug up The Bridge and misplaced it, maybe even in a dumpyard, somewhere. You see, in the six months and more than 50 runs I’ve been traveling the Marina waterfront by foot, I’ve gazed in awe at The Bridge. Every. Single. Run. Sometimes there would be a slight mist hovering above it, giving the structure an even more majestic air, but it had never been blanketed to the point that it simply disappeared.

Until Thursday. It was beyond eerie. And running over the bridge into Sausalito was a bit disconcerting, as I couldn’t see more than 10 feet or so in front of me and was being periodically pelted by water (which turned out to be rain, duh, but since we haven’t seen a single shower in months now, I just assumed someone was spitting on me from above). But that didn’t do anything to ward off the tourists, oh no. I suppose since it’s summer, we’re currently experiencing the regular influx of visitors–even more now that domestic travel is taking over thanks to the dollar sucking and that lil recession everyone can’t stop talking about–and rightfully so, as San Fran is easily one of the most beautiful cities in the world. And I’m heavily in favor of tourism–of course I am, I promote it for my job–however, every traveler should take a Tourists’ Code of Ethics class, in my opinion. For one, when you’re standing in the middle of a two-way footpath that is as wide as 10 feet at some points, as narrow as five at others, and there are cyclist and runner signs at every turn and you’re traveling in a large group, please don’t walk six-people wide and not have the audacity to step aside when those moving faster than you are approaching from the other direction. As Stephanie Tanner would say, how rude!

Now, after living near Times Square for a lengthy period of time, I became a pro at dodging tourists, and trampling over them at times if need be, but it’s rather hard when you’re in such tight quarters on a bridge. When I come to your city, I respect you and your other residents and don’t gaze mystified at your skyscrapers and other landmarks, so much so that I don’t noticed when I’m holding up a line of 50 people. So, tourists take note: If you want to be liked around these parts, get out of our way! (I kid, I kid. Sorta.)

Anyway, back to the fog. The second, literally, that I stepped foot into Marin County, about two-thirds of the way across the bridge, the sky opened up to reveal a gorgeous afternoon. It was pretty bizarre how once second your clothed in fog, the next you can see for miles. Once I was down in Sausalito, I could see the fog from afar absolutely cloaking the bridge and the Bay. I don’t know which weather was worse, the fog or the intense 90-degree Sausalito heat (despite all of my recent tanning efforts, I now sport heavy tank top lines). Both sections were equally as windy, though: In fact, when I was making the descent into Sausalito, I actually felt sorry for the biking tourists who were huffing and puffing their way up the hill but getting nowhere fast, as if someone had attached a giant bungee cord to their bikes and was pulling them in the opposite direction. And something about the wind in San Francisco–and residents, you can vouch for me–but whichever direction you’re heading, it’s always working in your opposition–i.e. when you’re on a run against a hard headwind that feels like a wall of bricks, you take solace in knowing that the way back will be easy-peasy. And then you turn around, and yet again the wind is whipping against you. You just can’t win. (BlogHer attendees, listen up: It also does absolutely no good to straighten your hair here, and like Holly said, lip gloss is the Devil, as it’s simply a magnet for your hair.) So in essence, if any of you have an in with Mother Nature, please request that Aug. 3 be sunny but not too hot, hovering around 60, fogless, and not windy, yet emitting a nice, gentle breeze. That would be just fab, and I’ll even bake you a Bundt cake for your efforts!

I don’t know if it was the wind, which required exerting twice the effort, my increase in pace, the fact that I hadn’t eaten much the day before–I’d been saving room for a feast at the fashion show, a feast which never happened; when I got home, it was too late to eat dinner–or the fact that there is so much smoke in the air from the fires, or maybe because I’m physically drained from all the globetrotting of the past month or emotionally fatigued from the family situation–FYI, my grandmother and grandfather (both of whom live with my family) AND my dad have all been in the hospital within the last week–but Thursday’s 20-miler was the hardest run I’ve logged yet. Confession: I even had to walk a couple 30-second stints after I entered the 16th mile, and I usually NEVER do such a thing.

It’s come to my attention, too, that I need some type of SuperWoman undies to wear when I run, because my usual hipster briefs from Victoria’s Secret are giving me the most uncomfortable of wedgies. (And wow, aren’t we getting intimate here? Next thing I know, you’ll be asking me how I take my eggs!)(Scrambled with cheddar and sometimes a bit of salsa or ketchup, if you must know.)(Though my ultimate favorite in egg creations is huevos rancheros.) Do any of you active types out there have an athletic underwear you swear by? And please don’t recommend a thong, because, well, I simply don’t do butt floss. (I’ve tried, but just can’t.) (I told you I’m just not that cool.) Back in my intrepid days when I was living out of hostels and doing my laundry with pure soap in the sink, I rotated in and out these quick-drying Patagonia panties that were uber-comfy, but that’s been so long, I doubt if they even make them anymore.

On this particular run, I also tried Gu for the first time, despite having purchase an economy-sized box three months ago. To avoid another run-in with the Donut Girl, I took two packets with me, a chocolate and a vanilla. While I still would’ve preferred my glazed -sugar treat, they were both surprisingly yummy–you probably can tell by my blog title, but I’m slightly obsessed with cacao, I make it a mission to have something chocolate-y at least once a day–though just knowing I was consuming power gel was enough to make me want to gag. (What can I say? I’m a psychological eater. Hence why when I purchased my first lobster roll in Maine last fall, I promptly through out the meat, the ARM, and only ate the buttered bread.)

Also, it came to my attention that there is horse poop all along Marina Boulevard from the old-fashioned police people who travel by equine. Why, oh WHY, must dog owners clean up after their canines, when a piece of shit five times the size can just be left alone to fester? POLICE PEOPLE: I’M LOOKING AT YOU.

So yeah, the run was HARD, to put it mildly. But ever the cheerleaders, my running mentors Autumn and Jemima, are always quick to motivate me. After I finished a little more than three-and-a-half hours later, Autumn phoned to ask how it went. When I relayed all the difficulties I experienced and how nervous I was for race day, she responded calmly: “Well, you already know you can do the distance. You’ve done 23, what’s three more? It’s good that you had a bad run, because now your body knows how to power through it in the race, because there will be times in the race where it just doesn’t feel good at all. I still think you did awesome.”

Still, when I was finishing mile 20 and rounding the corner to the Starbucks, which was my reward, my light at the end of the tunnel, I began to think, “AHHHHH, I’m doomed to fail miserably at this marathon, why was today such a rough day, what if three weeks from now is just as bad?” But at that very moment, and I kid you not, my boy George–no not Boy George, the other George…no not W! People, seriously!–came on to serenade me. That’s right, you know what he told me…cause I gotta have faith, faith, FAITH!

And if that’s not a sign, folks, I don’t know what is.