I’m here.
I’m done.
I’m over it.
Hear me now... and as God as my witness... I will never run another marathon again. Yes, I KNOW I’ve said this three other times, but none of my friends have actually put the bullet in my head as requested. But this is it. I’m going to tell the people at Run With Us to cut me off.
As I write this, it is about midnight, the day of the marathon, I’m exhausted and have to be up in six hours to move hotels and possibly go to Rome. Depending on my mobility, all plans are up in the air. So this is not a complete coverage of everything so far.
The Thursday flight started off fine. There was no national security scare, and in my eyes, that’s always a nice start. If you have no idea what I’m referring to, you’ll have to search the archives for the moment I announced I “thought we were blowing up the CIA on Tuesday! That’s what I planned for!”
Apparently Lufthansa stands for “transporting and torturing two hundred paraplegic dwarves.” First class has more room per seat than a New York studio apartment. Business class was the size of my bathroom per seat.
But we were traveling coach, and I would have had more room in a coffin than I did for ten hours. Hell, I would have had more room in and URN. The seat in front of me was four inches from my face. Ryan and I had to share the under the seat space in front of him, because there was a post in front of my seat and I won’t even go into the thing tat was sitting to my right. If you are a dwarf who doesn’t have legs (even short people were complaining, and I’m 6’2”) and have the ability to fall asleep for ten hours and not move, then I’m sure you would enjoy the flight.
And the plane has ashtrays all over the plane, with signs that read, “No Smoking.” Didn’t they stop smoking on planes like around 1832? You would think they would turn the little ashtrays into bud vases. Or here’s a brainstorm, COVER THEM UP.
But as for torture... our two movie choices were “The Break Up” and “The Lake House.” I think that’s all I have to say on that.
I downloaded two meditation podcasts and I’ll have to get the exact link and post it later, because those two podcasts saved my life. I managed to sleep for about five hours on the plane thanks to them and they have saved me in the hotel as well. I’m usually out like a light about fifteen minutes into them.
We landed in Frankfurt, did the whole customs thing, and the went on to the tarmac to board a “puddle jumper” to Florence. However, this little puddle jumper had more room than American Airlines.
We landed in Florence, it was about two in the afternoon on Friday. We made it to the hotel. AIDS Marathon is split between the Baglioni and the Albani. Ryan and I are at the Albani. If you want to know what it looks like, imagine the inside of Shrek’s stomach. That’s the color of the walls. We have a beautiful terrace that looks over an alley. And a shower I still haven’t figured out how to work.
Friday afternoon was spent unpacking and trying to eat dinner.
Backing up. Tim Kring was very, very, very insistent that I DID NOT go to sleep when I arrived and instead, stayed up until a reasonable hour to go to bed.
So at 5PM, imagine me drunk. While I had not had any alcohol, I was so sleep deprived, I couldn’t walk straight.
Now, one of the things they don’t tell you about Florence... dinner is not served ANYWHERE till at least 6:30 PM. The doors are closed and they won’t let you in. At this point, Catie, Shannon, her sister, Stacey, and I were trying to find food. For an hour and a half. And for all intents and purposes, I’m trashed.
Stacey, the only coherent one, suggested we get coffee and a pastry and a small café. We went in, where I would learn that “coffee” is like a shot glass. I think if Italians served Starbucks, they’d lose their minds. And now that I think about it, why are the drinks at Starbucks all Italian names, when they don’t HAVE a Starbucks in Italy?
This would also be the moment that all the Italian I learned before my trip went right out the window and I would begin speaking French. For pretty much the rest of the trip. Somehow, two years of college French came flooding back after hibernation for nearly ten years. About the only Italian I retained was “where is the bathroom?”
At 6:45 we finally found a pizza place. Our waiter was great. He suggested a pizza for me. It looked like chopped up baby with Vienna sausages. It tasted like it too.
I began to wonder, when Italians plan their trips to America, do their friends advise them, “you MUST go to this place called Pizza Hut. They even DELIVER to your hotel!”
The pizza was a bust, but I knew that I would find good food in Italy.
Long story short, I fell asleep at the dinner table and I don’t remember coming home. When Ryan came in later. We apparently had a conversation, but I don’t remember it.
Saturday. I had the best night of sleep, EVER! We woke up at 6AM and we went to breakfast before heading to pick up the packets.
The buses were packed so we took a train to the pick up place. Note to my brother: we are NEVER doing “The Amazing Race.” Trying to buy train tickets was nearly my undoing, but fortunately, the other people I was with got them.
We arrived at the Stadio, only to learn we had to have our medical forms. The medical forms we sent to APLA three months ago. So after an hour, we signed a form that said, “if I die, I won’t sue you.”
We headed back and traveled around – points I will talk about later.
This morning – we got up, had breakfast and headed to the start line. Again, a story point I will have to talk about later – the entire marathon itself.
I finished around 5:33 – which is my best time to date.
When I crossed the finish line, I was more distracted by the three Italian men at the finish line who jumped out at me and started dancing like lost background oompaloompas from “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” Of course that was the moment that the photographer snapped my finish line picture, and I know the look on my face was “who are you, why are you dancing and get out of my way before I start throwing punches.”
You’re probably asking yourself at this moment, “gee Chad, why didn’t you post any pictures?”
Funny story.
I’ve never checked bags at the clothing drop for a run. When I finish, I’m hot, I never get cold. So no need to check bags. But it’s safe and everybody does it.
So this morning, I prepared my bag and dropped my camera in the bag. And a voice said, “Don’t take your camera. Yours will be the only bag out of 6,000 runners to get lost.” And I said, “pa-shaw.” So I picked up my camera and threw it in. I reached for my wallet and threw it in as well. The voice said, “ARE YOU CRAZY!?” So I was all, dude voice, chill out. So I took my wallet out, and just three 40 euro and my camera in the bag.
I wore to the start, my favorite new Crossing Jordan sweatshirt and my favorite running pants. I took them off and threw them in the bag and handed it to the woman on the back of the truck.
Do I really need to even finish this story for you? Out of 6.000 runners, whose is the ONLY bag to get lost? My only solace is knowing that whenever the person opens my bag and finds my camera tightly bundled in the arm of my sweatshirt, is that there are going to be pictures of the trip, pictures of my friends, and about 25 pictures of dead bodies. (Dummies, obviously, but they look real.) I may get my bag back, when the police come to arrest me.
So after waiting around for an hour and a half with three girls who spoke no English, me speaking French, my bag was no where to be found and all the bags but one were claimed. At this point, the sun is going down, I’m FREEZING and I have to walk two miles back to the hotel in a wet tank top.
So apparently I’m psychic. I’ll be giving readings once I get back for twenty bucks an hour. I figure after ten readings, I can buy a new camera.
In the meantime, I’ve started drawing stick figure sketches of my trip and will post them when I return to LA.
I’m off to bed.
-C
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