Who Let the Dogs Out? Woof!

The Marine Corps Marathon is known as the Marathon of the Monuments and the People's Marathon, and it's all that and more. It was also a place to be on Oct. 22 where no one cared that the Yankees and Mets were playing in the subway World Series. It was a baseball-free zone, where running reigns supreme.

Because this was MCM's 25th anniversary, the Department of Defense (no one else would have the guts) -- with no objections from Bill and Hillary -- decided to accept 25,000 runners (or walkers); that was about 10,000 more than usual. Although the official results beg to differ, it seemed like all 25,000 showed up on race day, and maybe more.

Lorrie Marnell, Phyllis Radke, Sally Rusby and I were four of the lucky ducks who squeezed into the entry pool, thanks to the fast fingers of computer whiz Marnell, who entered three of us last spring before the MCM website crashed, burned and closed with no more vacancies in a record 96 hours. Thanks to speed dialing from T-burg to Horseheads, Sally's husband Frank also broke the code and put Sally into the pool too. We were off and running.

One lone male, Tom Nix (not to be confused with the cowboy), was also supposed to go with us, but when he realized he'd be traveling with the original Charlie's Angels, he feigned a stress fracture and stayed home in Ithaca.

Despite the fact I had a triptik done at AAA, we ended up in Northern Pennsylvania on the slow boat (Route 14) to China. It's a place where cows roam free and people drive 20 mph. "Where's Rt. 81?" I asked navigator Phyllis, when I finally decided to pay attention and drive from the back seat. She informed me we were never going to be on Rt. 81, or, as it turned out, any fast and direct route to Washington.

But eventually we saw a sign that said "Hershey Park," and impulsively decided to take a side trip and hop aboard the free candy tour. We jumped into a moving cart, and rolled around the factory, seeing how Peppermint Patties and Kit Kats are made. We even had our photos taken, which we didn't buy, and we got free candy as we exited the tunnel. Of course, Sally, Lorrie and Phyllis bought a lot more of the candy to haul home. It was the childhood we never had -- thanks Lorrie!

But let's just say, that the Hershey exit was the beginning of the trip from Hell. Love my gal pals, love the marathon, but being lost for hours and hours inside a car was not a picnic. Blame it on the sugar, perhaps? First, we took the wrong exit, and ended up in downtown Baltimore, in front of Camden Yard, late Friday afternoon. Some angels in another car directed us out of that area, and back on the expressway -- heading into Washington, DC on the wrong side of town. So, we hit the Capitol at a peak hour, and drove back and forth over bridges, under bridges, by landmarks, around and around monuments, by cemeteries, down one-way streets -- heading east, then west, then north, then south. Thankfully, no cat fights ensued and Lorrie was able to do some impressive stunt driving all around Washington without getting a ticket. Sally, up to her ankles in soy beans (FYI: pre-marathon/post-menopausal snacks), which had spilled in the bottom of Lorrie's car and were sloshing back and forth, was often heard to utter: "I'm getting too old for trips like this!"

About 3 hours later and pitch dark outside, we found the expo (still no Days Inn in sight), and hurried inside to pick up our registration. No big hassles, except we discovered the Marines had put all the runners into three corrals -- random and unseeded -- color-coded red, white and blue. There was no way 25,000 runners could just go at the gun, so they copied Boston's staggered start system, but neglected to think it through in terms of performance. Thank God for the Chip. Sally was in red (first to go); Lorrie, Phyllis and I were put into blue (the caboose). Lorrie didn't drive a zillion hours to be stuck in the back of a mega-marathon and get a slow start, so she immediately decided to fix this error of judgement. Some Marine, who had heard the same story from other runners all day, sent Lorrie to the trouble-shooting office, where she could plead her case.

Lorrie ended up in line with a guy with his foot in an orthopedic boot and holding one crutch. He was also trying to change his corral, probably to the one Phyllis and I were assigned. Lorrie was awarded a little sticker that would enable her to get up on the red front line. Phyll and I decided to stay in the blue wave and go last. We were sardines packed in a can -- hold the mustard.

We finally found our hotel at 9 p.m. (we left upstate NY at 8:30 a.m.!), and settled in to rest. No more expos, we'd spend Saturday goofing off and touring the sights. So Saturday, after a brief jog, getting locked up in Fort Henry, getting lost looking for lunch, shopping for gazing balls for Lorrie's rock garden and being entertained by two hilarious homicide detectives from Louisiana, who had the room beneath us (assistant editor's note: gee, Diane, this needs a whole story to itself!), Phyllis and Sally took a nap, while Lorrie and I headed to Constitution Ave. to view the monuments on foot. Our favorite: Lincoln's Memorial. Then we drove back to pick up Sal and Phyll, drove back to downtown Washington, and did it all again. After everyone was satisfied, and we'd taken 100 laps of the White House and the Jefferson and Lincoln Memorials in the car, we got lost again looking for an Olive Garden that didn't exist. Good night.

Race morning, we rode the hotel shuttle to the starting area near the majestic Iwo Jima Monument, where our driver promised to pick us up post race (ha, ha). Otherwise, we had another post-marathon mile+ walk on the highway back to the Days Inn. Entering the holding area, "Ready to Run," by the Dixie Chicks was blaring out of some loud speakers, and Marine personnel were everywhere helping everyone. Marines were directing runners to the correctly colored wave areas, so when we expressed the desire to go pee over an embankment in the Red Zone, a line of shoulder-to-shoulder Marines blocked out way.

"Please," I pleaded with one Marine. "We'll come right back to the blue zone after we're done." He wouldn't budge.

"Ma'am, do you see all those porta-johns," he pointed out to me. I said the lines were miles long, and the race was soon to start. Phyllis stepped up and whispered something in his ear. Right away, he let us pass. What did Phyllis say? Use your imagination.

Phyllis and I went back up to a side hill, and waited for our turn. The cannon boomed (bye, bye Sal and Lorrie), and we waited and waited and waited -- 18 minutes went by until we actually hit the starting line. All around us were runners in pink hats, and signs that said "5:30." Phyllis thought that meant 5:30 per mile pace. Nope, it means a 5 hour, 30 minute marathon goal. We were charter members of the Penguin Brigade!

MCM is known to have the largest number of charity runners and walkers, and I think it's true. They have every right to be there, but they should have been seeded in the back. In the blue zone, runners were walking and running in one minute intervals, 4 to 5 abreast, and right down the middle of the road. Everyone else had to abruptly go around them to continue running. Many were dressed as if climbing Mt. Everest, with backpacks and waterpacks and tights on what turned out to be a day with temps in the high 70s. I didn't really train for MCM, so I wasn't in a hurry. But I realized that Lorrie, who did train, had the right idea.

But the Blue Wave was a fun place to be. No one was worried about splits or pace or even their times. People were polite, inspiring (there were runners with no legs), and water stops were social hours, not mosh pits like they are in NYC. The Blue Wave was a friendly place to be, where camaraderie was No. 1, and helping a first-timer finish was a No. 1 priority. The Blue Wave had a sense of humor. Every time we'd go under an overpass or through something that would cause an echo, someone would sing out, "Who let the dogs out?" and 100 of us would sing back, "Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof," complete with the Baha Men's hand gestures. This went on until the later miles when no one felt like singing.

Meanwhile, I had become a toxic waste dump by the halfway point: I had gels, snot, sweat and poop all over my hands and clothes, but I was still gaining ground on the Penguins.

By the time Sally, Phyllis and I had finally finished -- not together but very close in time -- Lorrie had run the race in 3:19 -- a top 10 F35 finish, dined and danced with Bill Clinton, then returned to help us get our bags and food. Despite the fact Sally ripped the hide off the bottom of her foot with her orthotics, and ran the final miles on the side of her foot, she also finished in the top 10 of her age group. We hauled Sal off to the medical tent, then hiked back along the highway to our hotel -- greeted by waves and toots of congratulations from passing cars, and pointed our car back to New York. Yes, in the right direction!

-- Diane Sherrer