It’s all about the journey for him

There he was, tugging the brim of the white cap atop his head, a cap that obscured two ominous scars -- grinning.

It was Sunday, just before the start of the 23rd Los Angeles Marathon. Craig Chambers had run in all of them. Now, for the first time, he would walk. All he could do was walk.

I stood near him, determined to match each of his steps for 26.2 miles, determined to get to know him along the way and provide support. I’m a good athlete. I played college tennis, a bit in the pros, and I regularly jog around Silver Lake to keep the pounds off. Walk a marathon? I thought it would be a snap.

It figures, knowing what I now know about the man, that despite the cancer that is at war with his body, Craig Chambers would end up supporting me.

Unless you are a serious jogger or you shop at Phidippides, his venerable Encino running-shoe store, you probably don’t know of Chambers. But you should, if only because he can show us what pushing limits looks like.

Chambers took up running in the 1970s, and distance runs quickly became his way of life. For five years in the ‘80s, he ran from his Santa Monica home to work each weekday -- 13 miles -- and back when the day was done. Along the way he also plowed through runs all over the world, more than 200 marathons and ultra-marathons in all, some of them in the worst conditions a human being can withstand.

He never focused on speed. He focused on enjoying the journey and bringing others into the running fold.

Chambers admits that he never paid enough attention to guarding himself from the sun. Maybe that is why cancer came in 2005. Hunting it down, doctors have taken half of his liver and half a lung, and probed his brain with lasers. Chambers has stage IV melanoma. It is terminal.

If the statistics are right -- and with someone like Chambers, you wonder -- this would be his last L.A. Marathon.

There was no time for sadness now. It was Mile 1 and we walked toward the Greek Theatre, surrounded by a half-dozen of his friends: runners he had long mentored and encouraged. Among them were a zookeeper, a paralegal, a retired actuary and Chambers’ girlfriend, Kathy Kusner. They have a nickname for Chambers -- Moose -- and on Sunday they wore white shirts with red letters: Moose Crew.

“Moose! Moose! Moose!” people shouted from the sidewalks as we passed them.

At the start, during the cloudy morning, our pace was slow and steady. Chambers was not sure how far he could go. And me? Well, my legs were loose and I felt great.

We walked and talked. I discovered that he loves cities, loves Los Angeles. Between pauses to gather his breath and clear his mind, he spoke admiringly of L.A.’s diversity, its energy and neighborhoods.

“I am just so happy right now,” he kept telling me. “I am just thrilled, thrilled to be here.”

He said this as he looked down Hollywood Boulevard. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “This is just great.” It became a mantra.

Mile 8. Mile 9. Hancock Park. Koreatown. The sun rose. He still looked good, looked chipper.

My shirt began dripping with sweat. We passed under the Santa Monica Freeway.

I asked him about the cancer.

With an air of detachment, he told me he chooses not to dwell on his illness. Surviving this, he said, is like surviving a long-distance run. You go about it methodically, steadily. “You run 100 miles and you don’t know when you start that you can do it . . . but you do . . . the limits are not what you think. You just keep on going.”

We walked down Central Avenue, once the heart of black Los Angeles, now tattered. He is a quiet man, an introvert, but I noticed as we walked that something about him makes people feel comfortable and good. Little kids, grandmothers and teenage boys held out bananas and slices of oranges. “You go, Moose! You go, Moose!” they chanted.

Chambers gave handshakes, high-fives and smiles.

Mile 17. I found out that he loves Obama and Chalmers Johnson, J.D. Salinger and Kierkegaard. I found out about the time he has spent jogging in Watts and on Skid Row, befriending addicts and lost souls, just because he loves meeting people from all corners and befriending people he’d normally never know.

I thought of how I had never met anyone quite like Craig Chambers.

Mile 18. Mile 19. Mile 20. Even though I was only walking, I could feel it: the proverbial wall. We pushed through Los Angeles at its industrial best: strip clubs and abandoned buildings and low-slung factories. My feet felt as if I were walking on hot coals. I was lightheaded. I had not eaten enough, had not drunk enough.

Craig, how do you deal with the pain?

“You’re going to be fine,” he said. “You know, I biked across Death Valley and back. Two hundred miles. I stopped in the middle of Death Valley to do a 10-mile swim in Furnace Creek. Then I ran over 100 miles back the length of Death Valley. The air that comes off the asphalt was 180 degrees or so. . . . Walking this long is harder than we think. Come on, you’re doing fine.”

My hamstrings stiffened. It felt as if the veins in my legs were filling with cement instead of blood.

He wasn’t having an easy time of it, either. Sweat now poured off his cap. Now he walked with a slight tilt to the right. “It’s good . . .” he said before pausing, “that it hurts a little. You want to test yourself. You’ve done really well today.”

The finish neared. We walked past old downtown buildings that are now lofts, past bums and hustlers. We were nearing nine hours on the course and I felt like heading to a pay phone to call a taxi.

But I looked at him, this man with cancer who might not make it to next year, and I got goose bumps.

He became reenergized as he saw the sign that read Mile 26. He no longer leaned to the right. There were just a few steps more.

The Moose Crew surrounded him, clapping and patting his back.

Craig Chambers crossed the finish line looking as spry and lively as he had all day: back straight, gait smooth. He looked as if he could just keep on going.

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Kurt Streeter can be reached at kurt.streeter@latimes.com. To read previous columns by Streeter, go to latimes.com/streeter.