L.A.’s Marathon Was a Shifting Kaleidoscope of Sights and Sounds

Doing 26 miles . . . in the press bus. Or: drafting behind Art Boileau and watching the world unfold--Little Tokyo, Chinatown, downtown, Koreatown, Olvera Street, Hancock Park.

In fact, the L.A. Marathon is almost more a travelogue than a race, nationalities revealing themselves along the course with a zany unpredictability. Breezing along, watching from the windows, the course seemed like a weird theme-park attraction.

Really, you felt like you were in one of Walt Disney’s tea cups. All that was lacking was the “It’s a small world, after all” theme. Here’s what it was like, darting in and out of countries the whole way.

Miles one through three, during which an unidentified runner tried to pass race director Bill Burke’s Mercedes-Benz, covered ground Walt wouldn’t have dared shown. Leaving the area north of the Sports Arena, the course plunged down Figueroa and into the downtown area. Some of Los Angeles’ disenfranchised gazed dumbly at the latest civic festival. Down Spring Street the runners went, and men traveling with their homes on their backs seemed extremely baffled by the commotion.

At four miles, runner No. 7180 was still well ahead. Burke, riding in his convertible like a grand marshall, had to wave camera trucks out of the runner’s way.

The course went down 6th Street and into Little Tokyo. At Weller Court, some Japanese custom was being enacted. The Japanese theme held up for a mile, Kodo drummers setting a killer pace at the New Otani Hotel a little later.

And then back to City Hall where the homeless, with banners and now somewhat organized, smiled back at the runners.

The race, actually, is not unpredictable. Burke says, “It’s very deliberate. It’s such a sprawling city, we couldn’t get to all the neighborhoods, but we could get to a lot of communities. We had to make a lot of turns, but we worked it out.”

At mile five, the course acquired the spice of Mexico, as it would periodically. A mariachi band played but soon the course turned altogether Chinese as it wound back on Broadway. A three-headed dragon greeted the runners there, in front of Hong Ning Co.

The runners, of course, are not especially aware of the changing scenery. Second-place finisher Ric Sayre says, “You’re kind of concentrating, straight ahead.”

However, Maria Trujillo, the third-place finisher in the women’s race, heard much cheering in Spanish. “The Spanish speaking people encouraged me quite a bit,” she says. “There were more than I expected, a nationality at every turn. I notice the dragon, the music.”

At mile six, the course takes a major upgrade on Sunset. At the bottom of the hill, on a concrete wall, someone has painted, “Hell is not a myth.” A Buddhist temple sails by. A Mexican neighborhood, a Chinese neighborhood. Art Boileau catches the press bus and inquires of a small pack of three ahead of him. “Who’s the guy in blue?” he wonders. The boys in the bus shrug their shoulders.

Boileau, who is worried about Brazilian Eloy Rodriguez who had run a blistering marathon in Australia, soon catches that pack and runs the remainder of the course, more or less untested. Runner 7180 is never seen again.

The course goes into the Echo Park District, at least some spectators along the course all the way. Mile stations, where volunteers lean out to give runners cups of water, are more crowded. At almost every mile a high school band pipes up at the first runner’s appearance.

Men in wheelchairs are passed, two men running backwards are passed. A man is pushing a baby in a high-tech baby carriage and two nuns applaud the effort.

Up to Hollywood, where a woman sprinkles gold dust onto the road. Car washers, their business shot for the morning, stand on the roof. A woman emerges from Launderland, in curlers, bewildered by the hub-bub.

Then abruptly, down Rosemont. The homeless had their look, now the homed. Gated estates, huge pillars holding up the roofs, are now being passed. In front of a huge brick Gothic mansion, an extension cord leads from the front door to the lawn, where a television is on. The spectators here are holding drinks for themselves, toasting the runners with Bloody Marys.

On Wilshire, it gets politically active. A sign reads “Russia Get Out of Litvania.” Picket signs read “School Board Rapes Neighborhood.” Runners, by and large, are unmindful.

Then into Koreatown, where the English appears on storefronts in small print only. At mile 20, a Guatemalan contingent is heaving a sign about. Down Crenshaw and it gets decidedly soulful; a dance seems to be in session at one corner. Runners pass unnoticed.

Now the high school bands begin to proliferate. Also marketing efforts. A sign says “Ceramic Here Good Buys” before a stand of urns. A lady models a very strange hat along the route. There is a table full of them behind her.

At mile 23, fans begin to throng meaningfully. Signs like “Too Close to Quit” begin popping up. The race is largely over but they don’t know it. Boileau is ahead by at least 1,000 yards. We scoot by Boileau to beat him to the finish; we also pass by the legless Bob Weiland who began the race Wednesday, using only his fists. Squinting straight ahead as he heaves himself forward, he is getting the biggest cheers of all.

At the finish, with the USC band playing the “William Tell Overture”, Boileau calmly breaks the tape. He is barely sweating, certainly not breathing hard. Less than a minute behind, a runner throws up on the finish line; towels are called for.

Nancy Ditz races in soon after to claim her second L.A. Marathon. Silvia Mosqueda, last year’s “woman in green” when, as an unregistered runner, she gave Ditz fits for 19 miles, finished a little later. It was her first-ever marathon, and was run a day after she won both 800- and 1500-meter races for Cal State Los Angeles. This time, though she still gave Ditz fits and led for 23 miles, she has a number.

What did she think of her first marathon. “It was OK,” she says unenthusiastically.

The runners keep coming in, thousands of them, returning on their race through many lands, over a world compacted into a marathon course. Somewhere, a dragon was still raising its three heads and a mariachi band played.