Place It on The Strip, and They Will Come.

mie Brier and I were considering which fall 2005 marathon to run. Late

November or early December was appealing because I train in Dallas, Texas. Arnie trains in the much milder Santa Barbara, California. A later fall marathon would enable me to avoid running 20-mile training runs in August heat. Little did I know when we were selecting a marathon that the temperatures in Dallas would remain in the upper 90s throughout most of October. Dallas is the poster city for global warming.

Our marathon selection came down to Sacramento or Las Vegas. In about as long as needed to read a list of the cities hosting marathons at that time of year, we selected Las Vegas. I am sure Sacramento’s nightlife is exceptional, but, hey, Vegas is Vegas.

A week later, Arnie and I had invited guests to help us during the marathon weekend. Arnie’s support crew included a group of friends with whom he had an annual Vegas trip until he married. They were trying to recapture their testosterone-fueled youth. One of them is a Detroit bail bondsman; another is a stockbroker who wishes he were in the adult-film business; the third is a California Republican politico; the fourth, David, who was also running the marathon, is a top-notch criminal defense lawyer in Detroit; and the last one owns a truck- and bus-washing business. My guest list was a little different: my 74-year-old mother. Lest anyone think that I am a total nerd, I did not even think of inviting my 91year-old mother-in-law.

There was some logic at work. First, my kids were studying for finals during the first week of December. My wife had to stay home to ensure that our son did not turn his normal study break into 15 minutes of studying for every hour of Xbox and to keep our daughter from her vice—HGTV. Second, my mom can party.

NIGHT LIFE IN VEGAS

On our first night in Vegas, Arnie and his cronies went out for steak. Arnie and David ate the petite 8-ounce steak. Carboloading works only when you dine with

runners. Arnie’s group then hit the bar scene. Mom and I had pasta and then went to the Broadway show Avenue Q.

On Friday, December 3, Arnie, Dave, and I went to the expo. The expo was well stocked with the essentials. I picked up sunglasses (I had forgotten mine), throwaway gloves, and tearaway pants. A showgirl and an Elvis were chatting up the runners. Joan Benoit Samuelson and Bill Rodgers gave talks. My favorite was a speaker on racing mechanics. Imagine the first-timers who think they need to completely change their gait the weekend of the marathon.

My favorite booth was for a charity fund-raiser. The day before the marathon, the Junior League sought to set the Guinness record by having 5,000 Santas run the SK. (Quick! Who held the old record?) The Junior League gave participants their own Santa running tights. I read the next day that it didn’t meet its record goal by about 400 Santas. Maybe next year the Junior League will try leprechauns on St. Patrick’s Day.

On Saturday night, Arnie and his friends were supposed to have dinner together with my mother and me. Arnie’s friends objected because they thought my hip mother would cramp their style. Even though it was doubtful that any of these middle-aged Don Juans ever had any style, we encouraged them to eat dinner on their own. Mom and I had an early Italian dinner at the Luxor buffet—all you can eat, mediocre food, the kind of food that my 15-year-old son loves.

I awoke Sunday morning for the big day. I went downstairs at 5:00 A.M. to get a cup of coffee. The line looked like the port-a-john line 10 minutes before

A Who needs reindeer for these Santas?

race time. The line snaked all the way back to the registration area of the hotel. It turned out that only one of the two coffee shops was open, and only one person was working at it. The Luxor had no bananas or fresh bagels. I inquired of someone working at the front desk whether more help was available for the coffee line. She said no, but I can talk to the head of food and beverage. I asked “What would that person tell me?” She said that that person would explain why no more staff was there.

This type of response was standard for the Luxor all weekend. When I checked in, I asked what was planned for the marathon runners, and I was told, “Nothing, why?” Apparently, to be an official marathon hotel does not take much more than to be the official chewing gum of the Olympics.

I walked over to the Mandalay Bay to meet Arnie and Dave. Dave was representing a client in a murder case—Dave said it was self-defense—when he asked the judge for an adjournment until Tuesday so he could run the marathon. Unfortunately, the defendant’s bail bond was revoked, and the defendant would have to spend at least an extra few days in prison so Dave could make the marathon. This is exactly the type of prioritization of which we runners need to be mindful.

CAFFEINE AND PRIORITIES

We walked from the Mandalay Bay to the Convention Center. The Convention Center had four or five coffee areas with virtually no lines. The head of food and beverage for the Luxor Hotel could learn a lot from the organizers of the marathon.

We walked toward the starting line. No matter how many times Arnie has urinated before the start of a race, he invariably needs to do so again within five minutes of race time. The man has a bladder the size of a thimble. Dave and I joined him, and we urinated on palm trees. After we finished, one of Las Vegas’s finest yelled over at me, “Hey, you in the white pants, stop right there!” I was the only one wearing tearaway paper pants. I stopped. He walked over to me. “Do you know it is against the law to urinate in public?” I said, “Sorry, I did not.” (I went with the strategy that whenever an officer of the law asks if you know you are committing a crime, you should say no.) The officer said, “Where are you from?” “Dallas.” “What would happen if you urinated in public in Dallas?” “Before the start of a marathon?” I asked. “Yes.” “Nothing, I’ve done it before.” At which point, the officer calls over another officer who says, “Maybe we should make an example of you.”

At this point, I was thinking that these two officers had apparently lied on the questions designed to keep sadists out of the police academy. Of course, I did not say that. Instead, I said, “I’m sorry, officer. I did not mean it.” Iam not sure how “T did not mean to urinate” fit, but I was grasping at apology straws. The uromisitisis episode of Seinfeld was running through my head. One of the officers said,

Fireworks light up Las Vegas Boulevard at the start of the race.

“OK, beat it kid, and don’t let me catch you urinating again.” Needless to say, he did not look like he could catch many people.

I hustled over for the start of the race. Las Vegas has a corral for under-four-hour marathoners. Thankfully, my 3:50 from Tucson in 2005 enabled me to avoid the packed area for the other runners and thereby find Arnie and Dave.

The race started, and we ran north up Las Vegas Boulevard. For six minutes after the start of the race, there was a spectacular fireworks show. Las Vegas’s finest can take a lesson from the marathon organizers on how to make out-of-towners feel welcome. This was the first year that a course ran down Las Vegas Avenue. In prior years, the marathon organizers would bus people 26 miles out, and they would run 26 miles into town. Dave ran the marathon last year and said that there was a head wind the entire way. He wanted to come back to run the new course.

The Vegas organizers billed this year’s marathon as the “New Vegas” Marathon because of the new course. It was an incredible thrill to run up the Las Vegas Strip. The first race entertainment was also on The Strip. At mile four, there were dancers dressed as cowgirls. We missed the scene at mile five where apparently two runners were married and 18 renewed their vows.

After The Strip, we turned and ran through old downtown, past the Fremont Street Experience, the Golden Nugget, and Binion’s Casino. We turned north again and then west toward the foothills.