Author: Wil

Two years ago, I wrote an entry that endures as one of my all-time favorites.
It’s timely and topical, and (most importantly) frees me up this weekend to hang out with my wife.
Longtime readers will probably remember this, and I hope that new readers enjoy it as much as I do.
Have a great weekend, everyone.

Fireworks
(Originally published on July 5, 2002)
When I was growing up, my family spent Fourth of July with my father’s aunt and uncle, at their fabulous house in Toluca Lake.
It was always a grand affair and I looked forward to spending each Independence Day listening to Sousa marches, swimming in their enormous pool and watching a fireworks show on the back patio.
This fireworks display was always exciting because we were in the middle of LA County, where even the most banal of fireworks

Anne really wants to blog about the marathon . . . but she’s working this morning. I’ve finished my laundry, washed the breakfast dishes, and fed the dogs, but I really don’t feel like mowing the lawn right now. So until she gets the time to write, I’m going to share two miles . . .

At the pre-race dinner, John Bingham said, “At some point tomorrow, you’ll know that you’re going to finish. It may come at mile 5, it may come at mile 26 . . . but you’ll know. You will also have some miles that are great, some miles that are not so great, and some miles that are just awful . . . ”
At Mile 9, I knew I was going to finish: the weather was great, I felt great, and we’d just finished the only tough part of the course. Mile 16 was the first “just awful” mile for me: my quads ached, and my arms felt like they were made of stone. A wind had picked up, and it was blowing smoke and ash from a fire in Mexico right into our faces. By the time we crossed Mile 17, I started to get scared that I may not finish. Maybe I’d spoken too soon at Mile 9.
“It may help to have a mantra,” John Bingham had said, “to get you through those awful miles.”
I recalled my mantra from the Avon 3*Day: The pain is temporary. The memories last forever.
It didn’t work. The pain may have been temporary, but it was climbing up my legs and spreading across my lower back.
You can do it, Wil. You can do it.
No luck with that. I didn’t know if I could do it. I called my own bluff and folded that idea.
Just keep going.
Wait a minute . . . that may work.
Just keep going. Just keep going.
Yeah! That works. Nothing to really think about, nothing to trick myself into believing. It’s just a simple but effective motivation in three short words.
Just keep going. Just keep going. Just keep going. Just keep going.
I looked up at the horizon, relaxed neck and shoulders, and just kept going. I filled my conscious mind with my new mantra, and let my subconscious mind find a way to let my body continue moving forward. After a few minutes (I think) I put myself into a sort of trance.
Just keep going. Just keep go–
” . . . doing?” Anne said, from down a long, metallic tunnel. I barely heard her over the thumping of my feet on the ground, and my heart and breath throbbing in my ears.
“How are you doing?”
Just keep going. Just keep going. Just keep going. Just keep going.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
No.
“Yeah. Let’s just keep going.” Just keep going. Just keep going. Just keep going.
Mile 17 wound around the North side of Mission Bay, and through a residential neighborhood. Several families were out on their lawns, cheering us on. Children ran into the street and offered high-fives.
Just keep going. Just keep going. Just keep going. Just keep going.
After a few more minutes, the road passed between two tall apartment houses, and I discovered that I’d been staring at one of those blue reflectors in the middle of the street — the ones that we always drove over in high school (a stupid-but-incredibly-entertaining practice we called “Smurfing.”). Next to the reflector, was a small laminated piece of paper with a paper clip at the top. I immediately recognized it: I’d seen several of my fellow participants wearing tags like this on their shorts, with the names of people they were running or walking for.
I stopped at the reflector, much to the consternation of the woman who almost ran into me.
I crouched down, and picked it up. My legs were so tired and sore, I felt like one of those dreams where no matter how hard you try, you can’t move more than a few inches. I looked at the tag:

The pain is temporary. The memories last forever . . .
If Kris can take 100 days of chemo and radiation, I can take a few more tough miles . . .
In Memory of Dennis T . . .
Just keep going . . .
Just. Keep. Going!
I stood up.
“What are you doing?” Anne said.
I showed her the tag I’d picked up.
“Someone was walking or running for these people, and it didn’t seem right to leave them here on the ground. I’m going to take them with me.”
“Okay,” she said.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“Okay. Let’s just keep going.” She said. I hear that women have been trying to find ways into their husband’s heads for centuries . . . maybe she’d done it!
I stood up, and clipped the tag onto my shorts.
“Yeah. Let’s just keep going.” I said. Was she really in my head?
You’re one hot mamma! I glanced at her, but she was focused on the horizon.
Hey, baby . . . huh huh huh.
“What?” She said.
“What?!” I said.
“Why are you staring at me?”
“Uh . . . I don’t know.”
Whew.
When we passed mile 18, I looked at the clock, and realized that mile 17 had taken us almost 18 minutes — our longest mile, yet.
“Let’s see if we can take some time off this mile,” I said. Maybe having an extra five sets of feet with me helped, or maybe it was some natural athletic rhythm that I didn’t know about . . . but I began to feel better. My spirits lifted, and my legs started to feel better.
“I can’t think about taking time off,” she said. “I just need to keep going.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling myself,” I said. “Just keep going. Just keep going. Just keep going. Just keep going.”
“I’ve been telling myself that if Kris can do 100 days of treatment, we can do a few hours of walking.” She said.
“I’m going to talk about the areas of my body that feel great,” I said.
I mentally scanned my body, starting at the top of my head.
“The breeze on my face feels awesome,” I said, “and my right forearm is nice and relaxed.”
I reached out, and took Anne’s hand.
“Now, my hand feels great,” I said, as we neared a water station. A volunteer handed me a cup or water, and a cup of Gatorade.
“Thanks for being here,” I said, as I took one cup in each hand.
“I am the Walrus, and the grasshopper hops to the East!” he said with a waggle of his gigantic, elephant ears, and a spin of his propeller cap. I was a little delirious, so maybe he said something different, like, “You’re welcome,” and tipped his baseball cap . . . I can’t say for sure.
I gulped down the Gatorade, ate a Clif energy shot, and sipped the water. We were nearing mile 19 . . . and getting closer to the mile that would make 16-18 feel like an afternoon stroll through the park.

I’ll be on the David Lawrence Show again tonight (this time in studio) at 9 pm PDT. I’ll be talking about gmail4troops.com, including some stats about what we’ve done so far. I hope that I will be able to share some of the comments I’ve gotten from servicemen and their families, too.

Quick announcement:
Anne had lots of Marathon stuff written up (we compose everything offline in Textedit) and the fucking computer locked up. Like a bonehead, I’d forgotten to save it (along with some other important stuff) so it was lost.
I tried cashing in all my computer geek points to resurrect it, but it was DC 45, and all I got was a modified 8.
So that’s been set back at least a few days. We both know how many of you guys who supported us and Kris are looking forward to the story wrapping up, but I hope you’ll bear with us a little bit longer while our Real Lives take up most of our attention.

It is absolutely killing me that I can’t talk about playing in the WPT Hollywood Home Game last night.
I’ll have to save the specifics for the forthcoming story (working title: “lying in hollywood”) but I think I can safely say (without violating any of the NDAs I signed) that I had an incredibly good time, and that everyone involved in the production of that show: the Travel Channel execs, the series producers, Mike, Vince, Shana (sigh) and all the poker pros . . . every single person there is So. Freaking. Cool.
It’s a classy production they’re running there, and I still can’t believe that I got to be part of it. I can’t wait until I get to play with them again!