Date? March 23, 2014.

Place? Just off Ohio Avenue in West Los Angeles, on the main road that snakes its way through the sprawling VA Hospital complex. Specifically, mile marker 21 of the Los Angeles Marathon, just before the Wilshire Blvd under crossing that begins the short but brutal ascent named after a century old wooden chapel that sits at the top of the hill.

Jesus Hill.

Time? Around 10:00 AM, give or take.

Situation? My second ever full length marathon, and I vowed that it would be my last.

The temperature at the start line was a balmy 70 degrees, and that was before the Sun came up. Our LA Road Runners pace leader, a multiple Iron Man veteran named Adrian, had warned us earlier in the week that despite hope that the heat wave would moderate in time for Sunday’s race, heat was the most likely condition we would encounter on race day.

He was not wrong.

The attached photograph shows me doing my best to keep a stiff upper lip by clowning for the race photographer as we all struggled up Jesus Hill. But inside, I was dying. Physically, mentally and emotionally. The temperature hovered somewhere in the mid eighties. I was out of water, and not sure I could even hold any down should it be offered to me at the despairingly few water stops along the last 5 miles of the course.

The previous year, during my first ever marathon, I wondered if I was, in fact, dying as I crested the hill and turned left toward San Vicente Blvd and the Mile 22 marker. No, I wasn’t dying, though I didn’t remember feeling as physically exhausted since a recent flu that kept me bedridden for a week. I was merely bonking.

But now, I think I was. I had never experienced the pain of pushing my body past its breaking point before, but I was suffering up that infamous hill again, telling myself that a mile and a half lay between me and the surely cooling ocean breezes that would no doubt greet all of us as we descended to the finish line on Ocean Avenue.

The breeze never came. Instead, I gave way to the pain and began to walk, my anger rising by the minute because I wouldn’t break four hours in the marathon, and because walking hurt just as much as running did. And that I still preferred walking.

I finished the 2014 edition of the Los Angeles Marathon in 4:14 and change, a minute slower than my first ever effort. I grabbed a water bottle and drained its contents, allowed a sympathetic volunteer to drape a medal over my neck, and then grabbed an ice towel and wept into it for five clock minutes.

As I slowly rode my bike home (just a few miles from the finish), I began to think two thoughts:

• I probably would have done better if it wasn’t so hot, and
• I’ll bet I can do better next year.

Because reason #3: I’m an idiot.