First, let's clear up any misconceptions. I did not run the L.A. Marathon. I ran the Emerald Nuts 5K that’s held in conjunction with, at more or less the same time as and on portions of the same route as the marathon. Three-point-one miles of putting foot to pavement on roads that, on this one day a year, are free for a few hours from the millions of cars that snake through downtown every day. There’s a special joy in running in a city so worshipful of the automobile, in shutting down roads to horsepower in favor of leg power.

It’s difficult to write cohesively about the marathon and 5K. There are bits and pieces of greatness sprinkled in with long stretches of just pounding it out one step at a time. And since I seem to remember it in little bits, I figured I’d write it that way, too.

Taiko:

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. Bangbangbangbang. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. Bangbangbangbang.

The sound bounced off the high-rise buildings, pinging off walls and zig zagging through alleys like a little silver ball in a pinball machine. The sound was so intense it made your sternum vibrate.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

At least two dozen taiko drummers were lined up along the first mile of the marathon course, pounding out traditional beats on enormous red drums, their arms precise with each strike and recoil. It’s not the wild pounding of American drummers on stage or on a football field at half-time. It’s like a martial art or a dance, precise and stylized. And strangely, perfect to run to.

Disabled runners:

This was my first organized, timed, number-pinned-to-my-shirt run. And nervous doesn’t even begin to describe it. Like a black hole, my stomach felt like it had been compressed so tightly as to create its own gravitational field, sucking all my other organs down into my gut. What if I couldn’t finish? What if I got sick? What if I was the very last person to cross the finish line? What if I was an embarrassment to myself and others? What if...

I stood on the sidewalk of the marathon course before the 5K worrying myself into a puddle of mush. And then the racers started pacing by. Not runners exactly. Men in wheelchairs. Men on crutches. A man with no legs balancing himself on a skateboard and pushing himself along with the knuckles of his hands. For 26.2 miles.

You don’t know courage until you’ve seen that.

And after you’ve seen it, you know you don’t have any right to be nervous about your own able-bodied race or to whine or to complain in anyway. The only thing to do is to clap like hell for them and then line up for your own race. And I swear to God, I’ll never stand at a start line thinking that what I’m about to do is hard. I don’t know hard, and I don’t have any right to snivel. Those were athletes to be made into role models. Keep your Mark McGuires and your Kobe Bryants. These are the guys I admire.

Gospel choir:

Somewhere near the second mile, a gospel choir had lined up to sing inspiration to the runners. And you know what? It worked. It worked and so did the people with the noise makers, clapping and shouting encouragement. I’ve never been a shouter, at sporting events or anywhere else. Undignified, I thought. Not anymore. I’m going to cheer my guts out at every race from now on. I heard every one of the hoots and hollers and way-to-gos as I pounded it out on the asphalt. And it helps. It really helps. I appreciate every one of those people. And the next time I’m a spectator, I’ll pay it back.

Water hand-er out-ers:

Most people have seen races on television, seen the people on the sides handing little cups of water to the racers as they pass by. They’re race volunteers, people standing out in the sun for hours to help the runners along.

So picture it in your mind. Picture who you think those volunteers would be, what they would look like. Got it?

No, you don’t.

There were guys handing out water that – I have to admit my prejudice here – I would have avoided on the street. Shaved heads, bulky muscles and tattoos that made you think they had probably been released from prison very, very recently. Possibly that morning. And they were the most enthusiastic cheer-ers and water-givers. They loved their job. They loved you. They knew you could do it, and they said so. They were great. They made my race better. So, thanks guys. And thanks to the people at the end who took the timing chips, who handed out post-race energy bars, who registered racers, who handed out the numbers, the goody bags, the t-shirts. There were tons of volunteers, hundreds. And they were all great. Every one of them. And I don’t think it gets said very often. So I’m saying it here.

Thanks a million.