As the sun peeked over Dodger Stadium illuminating streaks of cotton candy clouds, I bounced nervously from toe-to-toe, stomach churning with acid, feeling like the odd duckling in my corral of calm, composed running pros.
Thanks to my own hubris I, a first time Los Angeles marathoner, stood in a 3-hour 50-minute pace group. Battling the tail end of a nasty head cold and running on an hour of sleep after a self-induced night of neurotic tossing and turning, I was now expected to deliver on that foolhardy goal.
‘Yikes,’ I thought to myself.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t allowed to fail. Mentally, I had already dedicated the race to the two toughest people I’ve ever met – people whose daily accomplishments make the 26.2 mile feat seem like a casual afternoon stroll.
The first is my best friend’s mother, the indomitable Isabella de la Houssaye, who completed more than 100 marathons in her lifetime. After receiving a Stage 4 lung cancer diagnosis and a six-month life expectancy, she went on to live five years – during which she scaled the highest mountain in the Americas, hiked more than 500 miles of the Camino de Santiago and completed multiple Ironman races.
At her funeral in November 2023, her family left the guests with a message – “The greatest thing you could do to honor her memory would be to sign up, participate in and complete an athletic event or other endeavor which is just outside your current comfort zone.” I signed up for the marathon the following week.
My source of motivation to keep pushing through tough training days was my dad Paul Harter.
A product of the LAUSD school system, he studied at Harvard and Yale before becoming a trailblazing and globetrotting lawyer, a bodybuilder and a fitness entrepreneur – who also happens to speak five languages.
He is now battling a rare neurological disorder that is progressively shutting down his motor functions. As every room he enters becomes a minefield of obstacles to navigate without injury, he tackles each day with a fearsome tenacity and thunderous willpower that never ceases to astound me.
So as 7 a.m. struck, with these two forces of nature in mind, I bounded across the starting line.
The first few miles were an adrenaline-fueled delight. As the swarm of runners poured down Vin Scully Avenue, I sighted my friends who had kindly let me crash at their apartment the previous night and began literally leaping with glee (an act that is currently laughable to my post-run legs).
As the early morning light bathed downtown Los Angeles in a golden glow, I marveled at the city’s majesty and treasured the opportunity to temporarily take over its historic streets. This bliss carried me all the way to Echo Park’s glittering fountains where, as the cool breeze rushed through my hair, I felt honored to call myself an Angeleno.
It wasn’t long before reality struck. After consuming an energy gel around mile six, the pre-run stomach acid returned with a vengeance.
Be it the after effects of illness, the poor sleep or my ill-fated decision to consume multiple sugary electrolyte beverages pre-race, one thing was certain: my belly was not pleased.
As mentioned, failure wasn’t on the table – this was nowhere near as tough as chemo or navigating the world in a wheelchair – but oh man did I think I was in trouble as a stabbing pain accompanied every heel strike.
While my fellow pace group members chatted chipperly, I clung to our 8:45 minute mile pace for dear life and lobbed a desperate text to my boyfriend Jordan Parker, “Find me. Bring Tums.”
As if by magic, he quickly emerged from the streets of Chinatown and the three pastel pills in his palm were among the most beautiful sights I’ve ever beheld.
Jordan was another a big source of inspiration for the race. In December he ran a 70 mile ultramarathon with two months of training, making my task of completing 26.2 miles after three months of practice somehow sound easy breezy.
I choked back tears as I swallowed the Tums, mumbled an incoherent thanks and stumbled onward. As pain ebbed and flowed, I held onto some of the advice bestowed upon me by 81-year-old legacy runner Paul Brestyanszky: keep smiling and have at least one sip of water at every aid station (I scrupulously steered clear of the aforementioned electrolyte beverages that I partially blamed for my near demise.)
Settling into the race, I allowed myself to appreciate how incredible it was to experience some of Los Angeles’ most iconic streets – like Sunset Boulevard, Hollywood Boulevard and Rodeo Drive – without cars, and I held a brief moment of sadness for how pedestrian-averse the city is on a typical day.
By mile 18, the course veered into run club cheer zone territory and the mood was positively electric. I felt grateful for the training runs completed with my own club in Hermosa Beach and the members who informed me, to my utter surprise, that I was apparently capable of a “sub 4 hour” marathon.
The depth of community and comradery on the sidelines of the marathon was the greatest display of Los Angeles spirit I have ever seen. I let each high five, whoop and cheer propel me forward feeling an extra burst of determination when I spotted a friend who came out to support.
This encouragement was much needed because by the time mile 21 rolled around I was on the struggle bus. The marathon thus far had been harder than I expected, but the last five miles felt like a different race entirely.
I watched with despair the pace group I had spent the last three hours with began to creep away. Legs leaden, blisters bubbling, stomach acid returning – I started to worry I couldn’t keep it up for another five miles.
I thought about my dad, who used to religiously hit the gym not once, but twice a day, and who would give anything to walk normally again, let alone run. I thought about Isabella, who climbed mountains through chemo and who always said to stay focused on putting one foot in front on another and not the task as a whole.
And then I thought of nothing at all, plowing on in a fugue-like state of determination.
At mile 25 a familiar figure appeared at my side. It was Harold Rodriguez my pace group leader from LA Road Runners. He had sent the rest of the group ahead for a final sprint and hung back to make sure I made my goal time.
I was touched and reminded once again of the beautiful community created around the L.A. Marathon. It was the final push I needed to cross the finish line clocking in at three hours, fifty minutes and thirty-seven seconds. I can’t wait to do it all again next year.
