Roamin’ Holiday

Running is the best way to see the city, and doing it as a honeymoon doesn’t hurt, either.

ou know what they say: “When Yi Rome…” And as I mingle

with other runners at the start of the marathon and ogle the ancient architecture of the Coliseum, I plan to do just that. Romans and visitors alike join in the countdown and then take off to the spirited command Andiamo!

So begins my Roman holiday—or at least my modern adaptation of the romantic 1950s film classic. While Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn motored around the city on a motor scooter, my current version will propel through the streets on foot as I soak up all things Roman.

The course is a treasure trove for history buffs, and it doesn’t take long before my head is spinning. First we run past the Forum, the ancient center of the city, where political, social, and commercial life once prospered. Then we run past the Tomb of the Unknown

A Andiamo! The start of the race where the author begins her roamin’ holiday with thousands of other runners near the Coliseum.

Soldier and the grandiose marble compound often referred to as the Wedding Cake due to its cakelike shape. It’s really a 19th-century monument to Victor Emmanuel IL, first king of a united Italy, but being a newlywed, I find its name amusingly

appropriate and of course think it was

plopped on the route just for me.

© Jeffrey Aaronson

You see, not only have I come to Rome to run the marathon, but my husband and I have also come to the Eternal City for our honeymoon. After I finish the race, he plans to swoop me up like a modern-day Audrey Hepburn to go create Roman Holiday Il—at least the romantic part.

Eo * * Early in the race I douse myself at a sponge station. Training in frigid Colorado temperatures all winter has made my body think the mid-60s is a tropical heat wave. I’m happy to be melting, though. I’m glad to be here at all after nearly missing the race altogether due to snowstorms and numerous travel delays.

Luckily we touched down just in time for the prerace dinner, something I had been looking forward to for weeks. After all, if you’re going through one more carboloading pasta dinner, what better place to do it than in the country where spaghetti has been perfected to an art form? I was not disappointed.

Eo * * After snaking our way along the Tiber River and passing one historic building after another, I realize that while the landmarks are stunning, it’s the feel of this marathon that makes it unforgettable. I decide to stop cataloging the monuments in my head and instead drink in the flavor and charm of the race.

It doesn’t take long before I’m literally drinking in the uniquely Roman aid-station convention—acqua con gas (sparkling water)—which I choke on, of course, recovering about a quarter mile later. Parisians are known for their good humor, serving wine and cheese at some of their aid stations, but Romans obviously have a more slapstick approach. This gag has to be designed to see how many turistas they can punk. And boy, did they get me good, sending those bubbles right up and out my nose.

As we cross over Ponte Cavour and head toward the Vatican and Piazza Pio XII, cruising past a service that is underway makes me feel—how shall I say it?—not very pious. This is the first Sunday-service marathon I’ve ever experienced, and I hope the Big Guy is OK with it. Who knows? Maybe the pope is sending a cheer our way, or better yet a prayer (I’m hoping for

Neptune, god of the
sea, presiding over the
Trevi Fountain, Rome’s
1762 baroque masterpiece
in Trevi Square.

a PR, after all). If he’s like other spectators along the course, though, he might have his mind on other things.

Italians are absorbed in their Sunday-morning routines, casually strolling, shopping, and going about their business, only occasionally stopping to look and half-heartedly clap or quietly offer a Brava. I laugh out loud when a couple and an elderly woman cross the street among throngs of runners—barking what must be Italian cuss words, hands gesturing in all directions—because nobody is stopping for them. I imagine the hurled insults to be akin to, “You stupid #!@#!, your mama is as big as a pizzeria and she never taught you manners!” The Italian language is so beautiful, though, that even the most abusive words sound like opera to my ears.

As I’m waxing on about all things beautiful in Rome, I look around and wonder: Is it just me, or are ALL Italians extraordinarily gorgeous? People-watching in this race has reduced me to a junior high school girl who can’t shake that ridiculous gaga look off her face. Packs of tall, dark, handsome men zoom by in racing-team formation, and my eyes follow their backsides. Dear Lord, get me to mile 17 where my handsome hunk of a husband is waiting with refreshments. I’m looking at Italian butts, and I’m on my honeymoon, for God’s sake! 1 hope the pope doesn’t catch on to this.

It’s a good thing the views are so invigorating along the course because the crowds are thin. It seems marathon-crazed fans have yet to hit Rome as they do in New York City and Boston.

Still, the charm of this race is undeniable as we run through narrow cobblestoned alleyways lined with warm ochre and terra cotta buildings. Rainbow-colored pace (peace) banners adorn windows and balconies all along the course as Italians gently voice their opposition to the Iraqi war, while classic old Fiats and scooters vie for parking spaces on neighborhood sidewalks.

After again crossing the river and looping around the northern part of the city, we head back toward the center, where we run through Piazza Navona. It is here that Rome completely wraps its arms around me. I remember reading in a guidebook that this is considered one of the most beautiful baroque sites in all of Rome, but it’s the vibe that captures me: people lingering at sidewalk cafes, laughing and tossing that hypnotic language back and forth between each other, not a care in the world. Of course, like all the other tourists, I’m wowed by the many classic fountains and statues, but it’s Italians-doing-what-Italians-do-best that I’m most taken by. I admire their ability to enjoy just being, rather than always feeling like they should be doing something, and I hope it rubs off on me, but right now I’m busy doing this marathon!

I know one thing for sure: When the race is over, I want to come back here and linger like an Italian over an espresso. Well, no. Let’s make that a bottle of wine. And I want to eat thin-crust Italian pizza until I can’t move and finish it off

with a gallon of gelato. No, let’s make that tiramisu. Heck, let’s make that both while we’re at it.

Oh, no. When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore. Dean Martin’s swooning voice starts wafting through my head. When the world seems to shine like you’ve had too much wine, that’s amore. Oh, please!

The Spanish Steps are next on our tour of the city. Because this is one of the most exclusive areas in Rome, drawing droves of tourists and Romans to shop in its upscale boutiques, the course is crowded here. Tourists cheer fanatically while sleek, perennially tanned Italian women in high heels saunter with shopping bags in one hand and cell phones in the other. I wonder if they’re mortified that we aren’t sporting designer sunglasses and Bruno Magli shoes.

Just down the road we circle around the Trevi Fountain where, once again, throngs of cheering tourists pack the course. This time “Three Coins in the Fountain” serenades me as I run past the giant statue of Neptune presiding over the water. Tradition has it that if you turn your back to the fountain and toss in a coin over your right shoulder, you will one day return to Rome. I make a mental note to come back to make my offering because I already know I want to return. There’s no stopping now.

Though I’ve vowed to stop logging monuments in my head during this race, I can’t help but take note when we pass the Pantheon, the best-preserved ancient building in Rome. This World Heritage Site is considered a masterpiece of perfect proportions. I’m dying to stop in and see its famous dome and oculus, but at the moment, finishing the race is more important.

© Jeffrey Aaronson

A The last uphill push to the finish line at the Coliseum.

Even though I’m enjoying the charm of running through the city on miles of cobblestones, my ankles and legs are relieved when we reach smooth roads again. Circus Maximus, a large field where imperial chariot races once took place, now sprawls out to our right. It’s getting late in the race, and I’m beginning to tire. There aren’t many Italian butts to distract me at the moment, so I start daydreaming. I see shades of Ben-Hur and picture the pomp and ceremony of the races as emperors and aristocrats cheer from above on Palatine Hill.

Only the modest cheer of a spectator lining the course brings me back to the present. I leave Julius Caesar’s heirs behind and focus on the task at hand—finishing this race. With only 10K left and the prospect of finishing at the Coliseum, my spirits are high.

Or am / high? As we cruise down a long, nondescript boulevard, a 100-foot pyramid appears right in front of me. What? What was in the water at the last aid station? Or wait—is this another Roman comedy gag? I get it. It’s a mirage. They’re making me feel that I’m in the middle of an Egyptian landscape, and they want to see my disoriented reaction. I’m not falling for this one, though. I just keep on going and pretend it’s normal to see a giant pyramid plopped in the middle of Rome. I later find out it’s a tomb from the first century BC for a judge named Caius Cestius.

We loop around the San Paolo fuori le Mura church and head back toward the Coliseum. It’s the final stretch, and I’m ready to wrap up my tour. But here we go again, those clever Romans—throwing in an uphill push to the finish, just for laughs. My loopy mind saves me from focusing on my burning legs, though, and sends me straight into the Coliseum, where I picture gladiators and animals duking it out in this ancient amphitheater. Thank god I’m able to finish before I witness any bloodshed—and in time to run a personal best, no less.

As I cross the finish line, I try to digest all that I’ve seen on my Roman holiday—so much history, so much beauty, so much humor. I can think of no better way to have experienced it, although my tired legs tell me that for the rest of my stay, I might want to motor around on a scooter with my newly minted husband the way Audrey

Hepburn did a half century ago. ME

Courtesy of Becky Green Aaronson

The happy newlyweds.