Marathon Sunday
I take a picture of the sunrise out my window, for Ryan, and for myself. It’s still dark enough outside the street lights are on. I wake up at my alarm—no need to snooze. I’m too excited. Check my phone—Ryan is 26 minutes into his 26.2-mile marathon, his first one.
Good morning, I think, snapping the photo. He’s keeping a good pace, and in a brief flash of anxiety I worry I’ll be so long getting ready I’ll miss him. It will not take two hours to get out the door, I remind myself.
When I do step outside (an hour and a half later) my first thought is, Wow, it’s humid. And hot. Not ideal marathon weather but—I check my phone—Ryan is still keeping his pace. He is running 7:29-minute miles, which I have learned (from him) is good. I can’t remember what he’s going for or any of that jazz, but I can remember that 7-minute miles are fast and his current pace nets out to just over a three-hour marathon, which is impressive.
To be clear, marathons at all are impressive.
The first person who ever ran one collapsed and died after doing so, right? Or at least that’s how legend has it.
It’s quiet in the Grove, still early for athleisure activities on this hot and humid Sunday. Some boys run by, in the wrong direction. A few folks are setting up camp at the one intersection, where I’ll be decamping myself in a few, since it affords not one but two views of the runners as they loop around the block and then back the last 10k or so into the city.
As I pop over to Panther for a pour-over, I spy a few multi-thousand-dollar bikes in the rack outside the coffee shop—unlocked, of course. Of course. I get inside and am so giddy I can’t help but brag. In front of me in line a few people are wondering what’s going on, what with the barriers in the street and all, and I say, ‘It’s marathon Sunday today!’ reasonably certain the pun will be lost unto them. ‘Oh…’ they reply, unimpressed and turn back to order their coffee.
Ryan is keeping up his good pace, approaching Mile 18. We are just past Mile 20. When I grab my coffee and situate myself right where I want to be, he is approaching Mile 19. It’s just after 8:30 in the morning.
I chat up the people around me, asking whom they’re cheering for. There are babies with red cow bells. ‘My friend Ryan is running,’ I say to one of them, who has been exploring new sounds slowly, ‘When he runs by, will you help me cheer for him?’ The child with the cowbell smiles and nods shyly. Eventually I get the whole group surrounding me to agree to cheer for Ryan.
But something is wrong. I’m not seeing him. I double-check the tracking app, not sure whether it’s a live app or how it works or what. It’s saying he’s passing us, but I’m definitely not seeing him. I would see Ryan, right? I’ve been checking and cheering on every person who’s passed, but he is not one of them. I start to worry, but don’t move, briefly recalling what you’re supposed to do when you find yourself lost in the woods. Stay put.
Eventually I see him, bobbing along, and get everyone to cheer. He blows kisses with both hands and keeps going. I’m so excited and cheering so loudly I forget to take pictures, but that’s why I’m situated where I am—to duck across the sidewalk and get some good ones of him running down the back stretch. I proceed to do so.
When I see him again, though, he’s not running—he’s walking, staying towards the side of the road. I duck under the caution tape and jog down the street in my sandals—slap, slap, slap, slap—to walk beside him.
‘I got this,’ he pants, and I concur.
‘You got this!’
His breathing is good, and I walk alongside him as he starts repeating mantras. I realise he is probably in if not a dark place and if not the zone, whatever lies in between. He does got this, for what it’s worth, but needs a breather. I’m not really sure how to support him in a moment like this, so I just walk alongside him. Eventually I spy a water station and wonder whether he needs water, and we agree we’ll walk to it together. A focal point. A next destination.
I can’t remember any of his mantras, but I repeat them back to him as he reiterates them.
We get to the water station, he hydrates a bit while continuing to walk, and seems in better spirits.
‘It’s all downhill from here!’ I encourage him, not really sure whether this is true, but it’s Miami, right? it’s flat. When I’ve looked up biking directions to the WeWork downtown, there are a few options, the shortest with elevation but the others fairly flat. Whatever, positive vibes.
‘You got this!’ I remind him, as he sets off, and I remember to sling my camera back around.
I watch Ryan run around the corner and intend to head back home. The only other thing I really have to do today is meet up with him afterwards, if he wants to, so now I’m back on my own for a bit. I cheer on other runners as they stride by. It’s a tough mile—you emerge from more relative shade into sun and buildings which add heat, it’s getting on in the day and it’s a hot one already, and it’s Mile 20-21 which are far to run but not as close to Mile 26 as you’d like them to be. But this has a little downhill before rounding a corner, providing optimism. I cheer loudly like the emotional idiot I am. All of the people are running so far!
I notice a man sitting on a wall next to the sidewalk and greet him. He’s got a glass of chilled red wine, so I introduce myself and sit down beside him.
‘You want a sip?’ he asks.
‘Sure,’ I say, unconcerned that it’s 9:30 in the morning. Marathon Sunday. I’m drinking chilled red wine while Ryan runs the back 10k.
Jack and I get to talking. Mostly I just listen to his opinions. He’s run marathons. Not many. But Boston. Twice. He weighed just over 140lbs then. He was a professional sailor. He moved to Miami—to this neighbourhood, Coconut Grove—in 1975. Has been a writer throughout his life—a journalist—but not anymore.
We cheer on the runners together, hyping them up alongside a cowbell across the street. In the interim between runners he passes along judgement under his breath to me.
‘You shouldn’t be able to hear their shoes slapping against the road,’ he says sadly, shaking his head. ‘Energy wasted.’ We are judging a lot of runners in this case. (I still think of Jack’s running advice every time I hear the distinct slap-slapping of running shoes.)
We are getting on in hours, and more importantly, Jack’s glass is empty. He invites me up to his apartment to have a glass of wine, with him and his wife.
I pause briefly to consider, but Jack will not harm me. ‘Sure!’ I tell him, and we walk back inside together. His building is the one next to mine, on the side I’m staying on, so I can peer down into his building’s pool from my balcony.
As we enter the atrium, and after greeting each of the lobby attendants in succession, we happen to run into Jack’s wife, Heather. She seems only mildly surprised he is bringing home a new friend. I try to give off, ‘Not interested in money or anything just met your husband on the sidewalk and he invited me up for a glass of wine just wait for the story,’ vibes, and succeed. In the time it takes to ride the elevator up together and walk down the hall, we are already fast friends. I don’t even need an apartment tour.
We sit on the balcony where we can still see the runners, Jack with another glass of chilled red wine, and Heather and I with mimosas. I have told them of Ryan, and I check my phone to see how he’s doing.
When he crosses the finish line, we cheers together to him from afar. It’s nice to be cheering him on with friends.
I stay for another mimosa, and a chat. Heather tells me about the neighbourhood and how it’s changed in the last 20-30 years. How they renovated their apartment. How she swims every day. I tell Heather last year was my first time in Miami. Explain where I work and answer her questions about AI and what it’s like in the industry right now. Occasionally Jack repeats something he’s already said or asks a question I’ve already answered, and Heather and I share a quiet knowing smile. I listen or answer patiently.
After the second mimosa it’s time to leave. I’ve got to be getting on to whatever it is I’m going to be doing today. I want to be in the area should Ryan want to get together, but I also need something to occupy myself should he want to nap instead. Heather and I exchange numbers on the off chance we have time to get together for dinner later this week. ‘Jack likes your company,’ she says. I think that maybe she does, too, and it’s nice to spread the love.
I head to one of my favourite downtown haunts, Wynwood Brewery. (Miamians would probably fault me for denoting something in Wynwood as downtown.) If nothing else, I can hang out at the bar for a few hours while waiting to see whether Ryan wants to get together. I pack my camera and my book and call a Lyft.
When I arrive, there is a Miata parked outside. Right path.
I enter and seat myself at the bar. It’s empty save two other patrons. Or four, depending on how you count it. To my left is a man on his own, and to my right is someone who has two tiny dogs. She, presumably, is nowhere to be found, but her puppies are saving seats.
In this heat I really just want an IPA to nurse, but there are no IPAs in Miami. I debate whether I’ll be dissatisfied with a hopped pale ale.
The bartender mistakes my long reading of the draught list as inexperience and offers to suggest something to try. I sigh and debate for just a moment whether I’m about to say what I’m thinking.
‘Thanks, I know what I want, you just don’t have it.’
At this I pique his interest. ‘What do you want?’ he asks.
‘I’m from New England,’ I explain, ‘And all I want right now is an IPA. But there are no IPAs in Miami. At best all you have is hopped pale ales.’
At this he laughs. ‘Thanks for shitting on our beer!’
I laugh alongside him and offer in some protest, ‘I’m not shitting on them; it’s true!’
‘Have you tried Laces?’ he asks.
I sigh. It’s perhaps their flagship. At least, I see it on tap many places. (Perhaps La Rubia is their flagship?) It’s actually my preferred walking beer of an evening, from Monty’s. I do like it, it’s just not what I want right now. I tell him, ‘Yes, I’ve had it. I like it! But it’s not an IPA. It’s a hopped pale ale.’
At this he laughs again. He is forced to agree. I’m not trying to be an asshole, just honest.
‘Do you like sours?’ he asks me.
‘Yeah, I was debating between the Tamarindo and the Marionberry. Tamarind is my favourite Jarritos flavour.’
‘You want the Marionberry,’ he tells me. I am thinking of how Ryan suggested finding marionberries in the Pacific Northwest, but we never did come across them. Marionberry feels right for the occasion.
‘I’ll take it.’
I tuck into the bar while he pulls my beer. I explain what brings me in today. ‘My friend ran the marathon this morning! His first one!’ I am bursting with pride, ‘And I’m waiting to see whether he wants to get together, or just nap instead.’
‘Really, this guy just ran the marathon,’ the bartender notes, nodding to his right, my left. I talk with the guy a bit, about how it’s hot, what it was like to compete. He’s from the south somewhere and has come down for this, driving home today. He wishes my friend well before grabbing some beer to go and heading out.
I like it here. I remember the first time I came, last year, after having done a Wynwood Walls tour and feeling a bit lost alone amongst crowds at an outdoor food stall pop-up. I walked into the bar and my eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was cool inside but not cold, and there was a woman bartender. Their beer is good and somewhat cheeky. They are Miami’s first craft brewery.
I talk a while with Alex, the bartender. He knows Idle Hands, as it were. I explain how I heard of Wynwood Brewing in the first place.
‘You came at a good time,’ he says, and adds in response to my confused look, ‘We’re closing next Monday.’
I’m a bit gutted at this, but I suppose there’s nothing I can do but be grateful they’re still here today to provide a space for me to feel comfortable and safe while I wait for Ryan.
When my glass is empty, I scrunch my mouth to the side, debating what to drink next. Something light. They don’t have any super low ABV beers, but I need something sessionable. I’m debating whether to try the Tamarindo or just stick with this Marionberry. Or get something that’s not a sour.
Alex slides a tasting glass in front of me. ‘Tamarindo,’ he says.
‘Read my mind.’ I take a sip, ‘O yeah, Marionberry was the right call.’
‘I know!’ he kids.
‘I knew you wouldn’t lead me astray!’
‘I wouldn’t!’ Then he adds, ‘Well, except with the Laces.’
We settle on a sour for my second beer. I should really be heading out to find something to eat if I’m not going to meet up with Ryan, but I don’t want to rush Ryan. It’s about him today. Partway through my second round he texts that he’s just woken up from a nap. Beautiful. He and his girlfriend Sarah can meet me wherever I am. I text him the address.
I scheme with Alex what their first rounds will be. The one with toasted coconut, for Ryan. Marionberry mixed with a pale ale for Sarah, a slightly less strong sour. It’s not on the menu, but Alex and I were playing around with tasting a mix, and I will happily drink whatever friendly bartenders place in front of me.
When Ryan walks in I stand up from my stool and bounce on my toes, waiting to greet him. He’s walking so bowlegged across the length of the brewery I’m not sure whether I’ll knock him over with a hug, so I sort of hesitate. He makes his way to me and I envelop him, so so so proud of all that he’s accomplished. I know the backstory. I put all of my knowledge and pride and admiration into my hug.
Why Ryan started running in the first place. What he’s gone through to get there. What he’s learned. How he wasn’t sure whether he would make it into Miami. Where he was when he found out he could—with me, asking if I wouldn’t mind if he took a moment to do this on his phone. Training. Meeting up after miles, for walks. That I would be down here coincidentally, able to cheer him on. Where he was at mile 20, 21. Here now, accomplished.
We sit together at the bar and I ask Alex if he wouldn’t mind bringing some tastes of the beers that I have already identified that Ryan and Sarah are most likely to like best. I am especially amused when Sarah likes hers and glances at the menu, trying to deduce what it is, but eventually has to give up.
We chat for a while. When Sarah is in the bathroom at one point, Ryan tells me, ‘Sarah isn’t comfortable going out for dinner, but we can stay here for a while.’ This is disappointing to hear.
‘OK. I don’t think I’ve eaten anything today, but I did have wine at 9:30am, so I will definitely have to have some food at some point.’ Ryan laughs that big amused guffaw of a laugh that escapes him sometimes. He has heard all about my new friend Jack.
I am genuinely disappointed, though. I’d rather continue our conversation over dinner—we could take a Lyft to Sweet Liberty and I could have pickled devilled eggs! And then walk along the beach!—but understand that by not doing so, there’s a definite cap on how long we’ll spend together. I contend that this is not the best version of events, on this the day of Ryan’s first marathon, and one that I’d happened to be in Miami for. There are no pickled devilled eggs, for instance.
I do want to show him some of the Wynwood Walls before we part ways, however. He hesitates, his legs being made of wet spaghetti at the moment, but I assure him that possibly the most famous piece is just around the corner.
Before we go we settle up. I am feeling nostalgic for this place, so I ask Alex for some merch, a bright blue racerback tank top. I insist on paying everyone’s tab, but Ryan hands me some cash from Sarah to cover theirs. I squint at him in a vaguely threatening, ‘I will find a way to pay you back for this,’ way and accept it.
Alex brings me the bill, conspiratorially. He puts it down and leans in, saying in a low voice, ‘Look, I’m only charging you for one beer.’ I suppress an eyeroll. ‘You’re cute, and this is like $100 worth I’m comping you for.’
I try to effect a duly impressed look. I didn’t need this, but I appreciate it. Of course I’m cute. I don’t return the sentiment. I try very, very hard to repress my amusement at the irony of Alex acting like he’s done me some huge flirtatious favour when I’m sitting here next to my favourite bartender Ryan.
I pay the tab, plus whatever seems like a huge but still reasonable tip. The stakes of comping me practically my whole tab seem somehow lowered when they’re closing in a week. I assure Alex that I will return for the closing party next Sunday. (Appropriately, my last night in town.)
We walk out of the brewery into a pale evening light. Every time this happens I am reminded of why I come here, how much I love that it’s not quite so dark quite so early this time of year. It’s just past 6pm. Back home it’s dark. Here it’s still a pale evening.
We turn the corner, slowly at Ryan’s pace, and I explain a bit about what I learned on my Wynwood Walls tour last year, the mural behind the boombox, the boombox itself. Of course there is a photo shoot happening in front of it.
I’m still miffed that this is not the best version of events (pickled. eggs!!), but understand that there’s no point in pressing the issue. I could go get pickled eggs and walk the beach on my own, but I won’t. I’m not in the mood to be alone on Miami beach tonight. But I’m not in the mood to be alone, either.
Sarah insists on waiting with me until my Lyft arrives, which is annoying, because had I known that in advance, I would not have set my pickup location at Joen and the Giant Beetle, even though it is just a block away, but Ryan with his wobbly legs, and me not needing anyone to wait with me. I am here in this whole city by myself.
This isn’t the best version of events, but it is what it is. It makes me wonder what better versions of events await us. Maybe I’ll get to cheer on Ryan running Boston someday.