Touched by an Angel Momma

Al Encinias

Oh, yeah! The Orange County Marathon -- the real O.C., right between

the eyes. It was an adventure my son Matt and I wanted to venture

through with each other.

We made a pact. We trained separately because of our differing

schedules but somehow always stayed together in spirit and soul. We

were ready.

Sunday morning sneaked in with shady, shadowy clouds, dew-

splattered leaves and swirling, misty winds. The chill splintered

through us. Hot coffee, raisin toast, Cliff bars and training sweats

warmed us a bit as we huddled in our Chevy Tracker with the heater

humming and the boombox blasting. We drove the five minutes to

Fashion Island, inching along for 20 minutes to find parking. We

simply followed the caravan of cars until we stopped, parked and

stepped into the icy talons of 7 a.m.

With legs scrambling and frosty breaths lingering, everyone rushed

everywhere. No matter how we stretched, we just couldn’t thaw out our

bones. So, 10 short minutes beyond the official starting time, the

crushing mob baby-stepped through the starting line.

Matt and I soon settled into a comfortable pace. Matt has the

stride and grace of a gazelle, whereas I’m a walrus trying to dance a

waltz. It felt a little warmer, and even though the overcast skies

darkened even more, there was no rain.

At three miles, Matt said he was going to do the distance with me.

He wasn’t going to speed off. I knew that would hold him back, but I

was joyful in traversing this journey with him, side by side. Running

can be a spiritual offering, and Matt and I were surrendering in this

prayer together.

Starting at the fourth mile, the darkening overcast began shedding

rain upon us -- not heavy, just continually flowing and ebbing sobs,

enough to dampen and burden our stride. The scenery was a canvas of

gray and somber pastels as the wind, rain and shiver rallied against

us, whirled all around us and knifed right through us.

Wearing only T-shirts and running shorts, the chill slashed into

our flesh down to the bone and through the marrow. Our body

temperatures plummeted. Matt has less body fat than a skeleton, and I

recently lost more than 20 pounds, so we began to battle serious

discomfort. Each stride, no matter how slow or deliberate, became a

glute grinder, a thigh thumper, a calf cruncher.

Between miles 13 and 14, we hit the wall and came tumbling down,

battered. Only courageous acts of will and fearless desire put one

painful step ahead of the other as we shivered on. At mile 16, in

disappointment and frustration, we leaned our eyes at each other and

in harmony said, “heck with it,” or something more forcefully to that

effect. We shuffled into the warmth of a Del Taco and dialed

1-800-Take-Us-Home.

A bike-riding volunteer saw us in distress and offered us a ride

to the finish line. He rode back to his truck, picked us up, and to

the finish line we went. Even though the runners are the warriors, I

must say the volunteers are the heroes of the event. Without them,

there is no stage for our performance. I did, however, envy the hand

gloves, parkas, beanies and the absolute warmth that embraced them.

On the way, our volunteer hooked us up with an event van because he

had to return and retrieve another fallen warrior. We squeezed in

with others like us: frozen, crumpled, silent.

At our destination we saw runners slouched under silver ponchos

and umbrellas harboring goose bumps, trembling bodies and clattering

teeth. They were huddled together in lines waiting for shuttles back

to the starting line, where their vehicles were parked. Others not

willing to wait for shuttles were drudging up Jamboree like

battle-ripped gladiators, some victorious, some defeated, but all

weary.

The area was flooded, and as Matt and I recovered our bags to put

on our sweats, we dreaded the wait for the shuttle. Walking back was

not going to happen. I called my wife Anne to tell her our situation.

To our utter joy and amazement, she was at the finish line waiting

for us to run through.

As she approached us with an umbrella in one hand and our small

dog Bruiser in the other, it was befitting that she seemed to grow

wings, sprout a radiant halo and come floating to us on a celestial

cloud. She became our Angel Momma.

Matt and I did not fulfill our goal, but it was not a failed

attempt, simply a journey postponed. We had stopped in the safety of

wisdom instead of continuing with the injury of ego. The experience

of together gutting out all we could and having Angel Momma there in

the midst of our soaked fatigue made us all love each other that much

more. In the warmth of Anne’s car, there was a glow that embraced the

three of us. Even Bruiser was comforted by it.

Orange County deserves an annual marathon. The bad weather must

not dishearten any of us. I believe there is enough community support

to make it happen. Give us a course, and we will run it.

* AL ENCINIAS is a resident of Newport Beach.

EDITOR’S NOTE: The Orange County Marathon event began on Dec. 5.

The 26.2-mile course started at Fashion Island, wound past the Irvine

Spectrum and finished up along the Back Bay at the Newport Dunes

resort. Other races included a half marathon, a 5K kids marathon and

a Mayors’ 5K Walk. The goal of the event was to raise money for 10

Southern California children’s charities.