Tomorrow is the big day! The weather forecasts seem uncertain. At 5:18 a.m. Friday the predictions are cool temps with rain held off, except for a few showers, until after the race is completed. Our "after" party—and a "live" stream of "Civil Discourse Now" at our usual 11 a.m. start—will be at Creation Café, located at 337 West 11^th Street, on the first floor of the former Buggs Temple. I have heard the food there is great.

   First, to answer Kurt Lorey’s questions after yesterday’s blog: Tomorrow as (I hope) I cross the yard of bricks, I will hold my right hand up with index finger extended, and my left hand with all  five fingers extended. From the view of the camera over the track, it will look like "1" and "5." Next year will be the tricky one. Either I will write the numerals in black on the palms of my hands, have a shirt printed with those numerals prominent, or something I think up in the meantime or someone suggests to me. I have each year’s photo someplace.

   Now, these blogs are a combination of memories of doing the Mini® and advice, based on those memories, of how to do it. I had no clue, in 1999, about the proper approach to the race. All advice given in this, or any other column, is not given as a healthcare professional. I do not have the formal training received by M.D.s, so check with your physician before the Mini®. And while you’re at her/his office, be sure to get free samples. 

More about before the start.

   Don’t be alarmed by the social graces (or lack thereof) of the people around you as you shiver and wait for the start. Some are groups of friends and, at play, is the social insulation small groups employ, unconsciously, in crowds. Others are into their own little worlds, contemplating how in the fuck am I going to do 13.1 miles? Others, though, will chat. I have found the older I get, the more the older people around me will talk to me. (Does that mean I’m old? After all, I pay the stylist to tint my hair.)

   If you plan to run, try and stretch out. It’s difficult, but people will give you a little room. If you plan to walk, you know the standing stretches you can do. If you don’t know them, Google® "standing/stretching exercises for race walks" or something similar. Play with the parameters of the search.

The Finish.

   My first year of law school I lived in Ball Residence Hall, almost at the bridge on Michigan Street. During the summer, the smell of corn syrup wafted over the river from those silos on White River Parkway. You will pass those on your right. You will also hear people giving words of encouragement to each other. Even strangers will tell people who look like they’re having a rough time, "Come on, it’s not that far. You’re almost there."

   You see the numeral "12" ahead, in neon orange. You turn left and walk a slight uphill grade on the New York Street bridge (probably named after someone, but I don’t know whom). After 12 miles, any angle upward is a pain, but the bridge crests and it’s all downhill. Use your cell phone and call whomever it is who is meeting you at the end. Let them know you’re close.

   Mileage signs now will be posted every quarter-mile. People—who were much faster than you, but never mind—walk past the other way, medals around their chests. People hold signs for loved ones over the entire route. The concentration of signs is greatest near the finish line.

   You need to continue to keep one foot in front of the other. You’re almost done. I’ve seen people lose it at this point. One year a guy started to walk in circles and babbled to himself. The EMTs, cops, and course personnel are pretty good about getting help to those folks.

   Myself? At this point the memories come back. As I ended my first Mini® in 1999, those memories particularly were sharp: of the second day in the hospital and not being able to walk at all; of legs that hung from me like dishrags, and not able to will them to move even slightly; of rides in a wheelchair for various procedures and, when the nurse or whomever would ask my diagnosis, breaking into tears as I said, "I have multiple sclerosis"; of ignorance as to whether I would live, much less be able to walk or even work again. I get less teary-eyed each year, but there’s still moisture under my prescription shades. And this last mile no doubt is special for everyone. For me it is special because I’d might as well lift one hand, extend that middle finger, and gesture to an unseen/non-existent entity—the personification of MS. Of course, my knee, by now, hurts like hell, but that has nothing to do with MS.

   On the loudspeaker the announcer reads off names of people as they approach the finish line. The stands are getting empty. Look up again and smile—one more time for the photographers to snap you on a critical stage of the course.

   MAKE SURE YOU GET YOUR MEDAL! Folks are draping them around the necks of people who have crossed over and finished. Get yours.

   You now will walk around to the right. There are bottles of (warm) water. There also are bananas. If your time is faster than mine, try to pass on the bananas. By the time I get there, sometimes they’re out. (Just kidding; go ahead and grab one. Be a heartless bastard.) You will continue to around to the right, past chocolate chip cookies and potato chips. The race organizers want you to know you can have your picture taken.

   In past years, I would look for a break in the fence to my left. This year, with security as it will be, I will not bother. I will exit at Ohio Street and meet Sarah (with her own medal from the 5-k) around Ohio and Capitol. A towel will be on the front passenger seat, to protect it from my sweat, or the rain that has gathered on me (if the forecasts are inaccurate.)

   Usually I am not yet hungry. My hypothalamus takes a few minutes to register the need for food.

   The drive north seems lonely each year—like going home after the 500 always seemed to be when we went to the Race. The energy levels have subsided. Everyone is headed home.

   See you at Creation Café afterward!