I love it when a plan comes together
If you've been reading this blog regularly, you know that I had left a few threads dangling. One was how I had felt returning from our long summer off, which probably will not get resolved on the blog. Actions speak louder than words, which works better in this case. The other dangly was what happened to 'Buffy', the theatrical show we were trying to stage.
Well, read on. In the space of 24 hours, as our Buffy adventures concluded, my car was broken in to, I nearly lost Donna, cycled with a bad calf injury around San Francisco, and got a puncture miles from any help.
One month ago, our attempts to get permission from FOX to stage the Buffy show were going nowhere, our chances for a last minute reprieve were as good as George Bush saying "aw shucks, ya know I was wrong all along, hahahahaha!", and we had to cancel the shows.
Not wanting to waste good time, effort, sweat, blood and tears that we had spent on the endeavour, on Saturday we set up a filming of the show (just us, no audience, not for sale, publication, profit, personal use only, no public showings, everyone was blindfolded who wasn't involved in the scenes blahblahblahlegalesetoavoidgettingsued).
I arrived at the studio, and parked in one of the alleyways nearby. Despite the home-challenged gentleman lying there, and evidence that the pavement was also his private bathroom, it was a parking space, it was free, and in San Francisco that's harder to find than a home video of Paris Hilton with her clothes on. I locked the car. We started filming around 6pm, each scene was rehearsed, then filmed several times, allowing the cameras to get enough coverage, wide shots, close ups, etc. As the evening crept on and it got closer to midnight, I was nervous. Donna was due to run the Marathon the next morning and she was not in the best of moods, so I wanted things to wrap up as quickly as possible. And when it gets that late, things start to fall apart - lines get forgotten, silliness creeps in.
Finally, at 2am, everything was done.
Returning to my car, the urinal smell was still there, and my stomach sank when I could see that the driver's door was open. It didn't seem forced, windows were shut and unbroken, but the inside of the car was a mess. A quick look over turned up an empty ashtray (that had contained a dollar and change) tossed in the back, maps from the side pockets, and the glove compartment contents were spread all over. Everything that could have been of 'actual' value to sell to someone for a couple bucks (a Nokia phone charger, a Sony PSP game disk, my car insurance/registration info, cookie monster - hey he's valuable!) were untouched or buried under a lot of other things. I guess whoever it was was pretty desperate for some small change. I tentatively sniffed the car seats, remembering the story from a friend of mine who had had her car used overnight as a temporary shelter/toilet, plus my car has a long history of picking up weird smells. Just picture me sniffing around inside the car, and let's move on with the story.
I was so tired and desperate to get home that I drove away without tidying anything up or thinking too much about it. As I drove I heard the re-assuring thunk of the softball on my back window that I keep meaning to do something about, so I guessed the burglar wasn't a sport's fan either.
Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge I had a moment of panic when I thought someone was lying in the back seat and I gave myself whiplash looking behind me. And have you ever had one of those 'what if?' moments, when you realise you haven't checked the boot (the trunk for all y'all from the USA), and that anything or anyone could have climbed in, or been dumped in? Why someone would have climbed into the trunk and not the back seat I can't tell you but it was late, ok?
My cell phone messages were demanding attention. Earlier that evening I'd had a contentious conversation with Donna about some things, so I knew any messages on there wouldn't be all hugs and puppies - sure enough, one was a teary message that if I wasn't going to be at her performance on Sunday (the Nike Marathon) then why should she support me at any of my performances?? My plan had always been to drive her into town and be at the finish line, but beyond that I was hoping to find a comfy place to curl up and sleep, but she left no doubt that this wasn't an acceptable compromise. I hadn't thought that she really wanted to have me cheer her on along the way, because Donna's never been one of those runners who notices what's going on around her. She has a "get in the way and I'll mow you down" approach, whereas I'm more the "ooh look over there" sort of runner. But, oh boy, girls have that emotional-blackmail-with-tears thing DOWN. I didn't think she was being fair, but I wasn't about to wake her up and debate the finer points of my well-reasoned thoughts (ha!) when I got home. At 3am I was finally home, in bed, and despite the adrenaline I managed to fall asleep, although not before checking under Donna's pillow for the ice-pick (just joking).
For two hours.
5am wake-up call. I drove Donna and her friend into the City, and having left them at Union Square at 6am, I drove to the Presidio (where my bicycle is kept), where I tilted my seat back and tried to catch a little shut-eye. Up again at 7am I grabbed my bike and headed down to the race course. It must have been later than I realised - the race had already been going for a good 40-45 minutes. Had I missed Donna passing already? I prayed I hadn't. I spotted someone I knew, and that told me Donna was further along the course, as I knew Donna ran faster than my friend. I hopped on the bike and started pedalling hoping to catch up to her.
I should mention that until a couple of months ago I was going to be running the marathon too, until a deep-tissue tear in my calf muscle messed me up. Recently any kind of running, hiking or cycling makes it flare up and, well, take a hot metal poker, and jab it in your leg. Go on, I'll wait. Ok, see how that feels? Something like that.
So, when I got to the biggest hill of the course and hadn't caught up with Donna yet, I took a deep breath and imagined terrible but temporary pain versus a lifetime of tearful voicemail messages, so I stuck the bike in low gear and pedalled like a Flintstones character whose legs are a cartoon blur of motion. Wonderfully, magically, about two-thirds of the way up, there she was, running her heart out, listening to her favourite running music - hardcore crunk.
She was delighted to see me (phew!) and the next two or three miles I cruised alongside her. The relationship was back in running-slo-mo-in-the-surf territory, even while my calf was in hot-poker-jammed-in-eye hell. When we reached the Golden Gate Park I told her I'd meet her when she emerged from the Park, 6 or 7 miles later. I took the breather to sit in a coffee shop and dosed up on caffeine.
Back on the course at mile 17 my timings were a little better and I was out there a couple minutes before D came speeding down the course. I pedalled alongside her and the other runners, trying not to run into anyone. We saw the leading runner heading to the finish as the course doubled back on itself, although Donna still had another 8 miles or so to go. Those guys are CRAZY. Those last 8 miles are the toughest - aside from any physical issues, your brain plays all kinds of tricks on you. I was excited at the thought of being able to ride alongside her for these last miles and offer encouragement if she started to flag.
As we reached Lake Merced at mile 19 my front tire suddenly punctured and I was riding the wheel rim against the rough pavement. CRAPAROONY. I told her I had a puncture and watched despairingly as she disappeared around the Lake. There were two giant staples sticking out of the tyre. Even if I had had my pump it wouldn't have done me any good. Of course I didn't have an emergency patch kit either. I thought of just making my way slowly to the finish, but I was determined to ride those last miles with her (images of eternal relationship torment came back), so I stopped all the cyclists coming by and asked them if they knew of a nearby bike store. No luck. The nearest street with any kind of shops that I knew about was Sloat, just by the Zoo, so I hopped on my bike not caring what condition it would end up in. I kept imagining Donna's expression of disappointment and I pedalled pedalled pedalled.
Sloat wasn't giving me any joy, but some people there told me if I kept going to 20th St and turned right I'd get to Stonestown Mall, where there was a Copeland Sports. That was about 25 blocks from the ocean, 2-3 miles, but it seemed doable. My bike 'rattle-thunk-rattle-thunk'ing its way down the road I thought to myself - "What would the A-Team do?". They got out of worse pickles than mine with nothing but a soldering iron and a couple crumpled tin cans, or so it seemed. I had an idea, if I could buy some bubble gum and use it to temporarily patch up the holes, then if the sports shop had a pump I could pump up the tyre and voila, hopefully enough air to finish.
It was now 10.15am. Donna was due to finish around 10.40am - if I could figure something out, or bought a whole new wheel (my current one was getting destroyed), had it replaced in 10 minutes and rushed back, I *could* make it in time. Copeland Sports was suddenly in front of me, and I felt a rush of optimism, I rushed to the front door, someone was on the inside, and the door was locked. The girl on the other side gave me a dirty look and held up two fingers. She mouthed 'EE-LEH-VEHN'. Hyperventlating, I said it was an emergency, did she have any wheels she could sell me?
"There's no one here to help you"
"You're there!", I said, and started to cry in frustration. I was going to miss it. Now I was further away from the finish line than ever, with a useless bike and no obvious way of getting back in time. I wasn't going to see Donna finish, and all the effort I'd made had been for nothing.
Later on I thought about the way in which that girl passed up the opportunity to make some serious $$$ - I would have paid almost anything to have a wheel at that moment, but in this day of corporate sanctioned everything (even plays - heh), she couldn't see how desperate consumer = payola.
Looking around Stonestown I saw that it was a hub of public transportation - I went to the bus stop and crossed my fingers. The next bus going North to the Park was due in a couple minutes, 10.24am. Ok, I thought, 10 minutes to the park, then ride my now very sorry looking bike as fast as possible to the ocean from 19th Ave, I *could* still make it in time, barely. The bus showed up and I wrestled with the bike rack on the front, climbed aboard the bus and would have sat on the driver's knee and urged him "DRIVE DRIVE DRIVE!" if I thought it would have helped me get there sooner. A few minutes later we arrived at the Park, and, well, you know the image - furious pedalling, Flintstones, wheel thunk-thunk-thunk etc. Exhausted, I reached the finish at 10.45 - Donna would have just come in. Minutes went by and I didn't see her - she was running strong so I was sure she must have already arrived. I waited until 11am before I gave up at the finish and started to look for her in the mass of people beyond the finish. My pocket started vibrating - I knew it was her - and I prayed she would forgive me.
She had come in at 10.38am, and was beside herself with joy at how well she had done, her training had paid off this time. 91st woman out of 4,100+. Not only that, but she qualified for the Boston Marathon - a huge achievement. She said she hoped I had heard her name called out as she ran in. I said I hadn't, but she didn't mind. She said that I was with her for the hardest parts and it made all the difference. Awww. All was well in the world after all - my trusty bike excluded...
Eventually (after some back-and-forth, getting a cab, driving back to get my crippled bike etc), we got home to Marin. I'd like to say that I slept for 24 hours, but I was getting together with my fellow Buffy-ites for another night of non-performing, so I rested for an hour, and Groundhog Day-style, it was time to get up and drive back into San Francisco...
Marathon | Buffy | Stories| San Francisco
