She and Mom Are Miles Apart on the Race
Monday, Feb. 22, 1999
10 a.m.
Times Science and Medicine Editor Joel Greenberg is at my office door. In the next day’s paper, he says, will be a story saying that regular running may spur the growth of new brain cells responsible for memory and learning.
Researchers at the Salk Institute conducted studies on mice on running wheels. No doubt the mice wore tiny Weeboks, teeny sports bras (size 1BB) and downed post-race PowerGels (cheddar cheese flavor).
According to researchers’ findings in Nature Neuroscience, certain kinds of physical activity promote the growth of new neurons. The changes take place in the hippocampus, the part of the brain where new memories are formed. In other words, running does a brain good.
Sunday, Feb. 21, 1999
24 hours earlier . . .
I’m on the phone with my mother. After much self-debate because I know she’s going to blow a gasket, I decide to tell her that I’m running in the L.A. Marathon on March 14--five years after some rather extensive surgery on my left knee.
Ma: I thought your orthopedic surgeon said you shouldn’t run.
Me: He said it’s not the best idea, but that was a while ago.
Ma: Well, Dr. Williams, have you talked with him about this?
Me: No.
Ma: Why not?
Me: My knee feels fine.
Ma: You should call him.
Me: I don’t want to.
Ma: I thought you said pigs would fly before you ever ran in another marathon.
Me: I did.
Ma: Then why? Why are you doing this?
Me: Because I really, really like running.
Silence, followed by more silence as she is no doubt remembering with vivid detail the surgery that had me hobbling. Even after all these years, memories of her youngest daughter incapacitated for several months still seem to affect her more deeply than they do me.
I break the silence.
Me: Speaking of doctors, I’m finally making an appointment for a general checkup.
Ma: You should have a CAT scan done.
Me: Why?
Ma: To see if you have a brain.
Me: I need insults?
Ma: I’m not insulting you. I want to know if you have a brain in your head. I can’t believe you’re running in that thing.
*
Indeed, I am running in that thing.
The first and last time I “ran” in the L.A. Marathon--1993--I was hardly a serious contender, as you can probably tell by my leisurely pace: 7 hours, 27 minutes, 38 seconds.
But in the past year, even I’m shocked at the depths of my love for running. I’m not at the addiction phase, though I must confess that I’m constantly striving to improve speed, time and form. And, yes, there is that little matter of sitting by the mailbox waiting for the latest Runner’s World.
Not since my days of playing varsity tennis in college have I loved participating in a sport as much as I do running.
Every morning just as the sun is coming up, I’m happily putting on running socks, running shoes, running bra, ratty sweatshirt and gloves, and I take one of six routes around my Westside neighborhood.
It is a lovely neighborhood, but one that I rarely get to see up close because by the time I get home from work, it’s usually too dark to do any real discovering, and the weekend is so filled with chores that who has time to be Magellan.
But in the past year, I’ve not only discovered a new sport, but my neighborhood and my neighbors:
The woman in the fluorescent-green Windbreaker who flies by every day during her morning bike ride.
The guy in the red Jag who meets up with me on his way to work, usually between 6:15 and 6:30.
The dog people who gather on the grassy knoll on the beach with their big hounds and even bigger lattes.
These people and these places are my markers as I prepare for the L.A. Marathon, the physical and the mental abuse that I will be subjected to.
It’s been six years since my last race, but I clearly remember the thrill of the starting line, the exhilaration when I actually passed someone, the torture of mile 13, the feeling at miles 23, 24, 25 and 26 that the torture of mile 13 was a mere pittance, the pure joy of the finish line.
I’m certain these aren’t the memories the researchers in Nature Neuroscience had in mind as they observed the little mice running on their wheels. But these will be the memories--or some variation--of the 20,000 or so runners and walkers who will take to the streets of Los Angeles in two weeks.
We’ll be easy to spot. We’ll be the ones with frisky little hippocampi--and we don’t need no stinkin’ CAT scan to prove it.
*
Michelle Williams is editor of Southern California Living.
