Just this past August, I found myself sitting on a park bench with a pool of neon green vomit between my legs.

It all started a year ago when I was badgering my son-in-law, Mario, to quit smoking. After some back and forth, he challenges me to run a marathon with him if he gives up smoking. I’d sworn off marathons years ago, but how could I say no?

Well, I had to up my weekly mileage, and find some mojo which at 61 years of age, had begun to dissipate. With a little bribery, I get my wife, kids, and grandson to serve as crew.

On the day of the big race, I slog down some Peet’s coffee and homemade granola (Because I live in Berkeley). At the sound of the starting gun, I shuffle across the starting line. I’m not trying to win; I just want to… not hurt myself.

Mario and I begin reeling in the miles, sharing electrolytes and encouragement. Everything’s perfect…until the dreaded 20-mile mark when I start feeling nauseous. Too much green Gatorade? I urge Mario to finish strong, but the mensch is reluctant to leave me. Finally, he takes off.

Well, I jog… (and walk) the final miles, making sure I have enough juice in the tank, so I’ll appear strong and vibrant to my family.

A hundred yards to go, and someone’s pulling up beside me. I know it’s not Mario. His pink lungs carried him across the finish line 20 minutes ago! I look down and see my six-year-old grandson grinning up at me, reaching for my hand. And I start feeling all emotional…

You see, these fleeting moments can become… magical when you have family or friends to support you. But after the race, I just needed a quiet place to sit down… and do some puking. There are some things you just gotta do by yourself. 

With a perspective, I’m Fred Brill.