Pushing the physical, emotional limits.

SEVERAL Business Journal staff members participated in last week's Los Angeles Marathon. Here are their observations on the journey.

'Hey backwards guy'

As the escalator carried me and a few other runners up from the subway and onto the street, the crowd went crazy. Cheering for us already? Nope. The wheelchair race had begun, and Aldo Aldana was speeding down the street on his crutches to applause and shouts of encouragement.

For about five miles early in the race, I ran next to a guy named Jesus. He was drenched with sweat, giving it his all. I was jogging along effortlessly. I should mention, though, that he was running backwards.

"Hey backwards guy," people called from the sidelines "You're going the wrong direction."

"No, I'm going the right direction," he'd shout back. 'Tm just facing the wrong way."

"He's amazing," I started telling people when they called out to him. "He's been doing this the whole time."

"Yeah, but have you seen Halle?" one man shouted to me.

"Is she running?"

"Yeah, and if you see her, tell her I'm waiting for her here. I'm her next husband."

"OK, will do."

I jogged through Mile 20 in Hancock Park, where I saw the paramedics putting a guy on a stretcher. I took that as a sign and walked the rest of the way to the finish line. Those last six miles took me three hours. So my time was about the same as Aldo's.

I think I might've beat the backwards guy, though.

--Steve Silkin, Time: 8:22

Not the Big Apple

People said I had ruined a lifetime of marathons by choosing New York as my first one in 2003.

What could possibly measure up to people hanging out of windows as you run through Brooklyn? How about teams of drummers with the energy of armies as the race pounds through Koreatown?

Running down Venice Boulevard couldn't possibly be as sweet as conquering First Avenue--unless you consider the trays of fresh-sliced oranges that Angelenos hold out at every turn.

But I was looking for salsa music I'd heard blaring out of windows in Spanish Harlem ... until I came around a turn and almost ran into a full mariachi band.

Runners on cell phones, scheduling meetings and appointments--"I'm almost at the corner of Sixth. Do you see me, do you see me?" A woman is tugging down shoulder straps as she ran (no tan lines please). A girl turned to her running partner at Mile 19, "I don't care what happens Dad, don't let me walk."

We ran through cool waves of reggae music, and I remembered now that I live in a city by the beach. Maybe I'll save the ruined marathon for next year.

--Hilary Potkewitz, Time: 4:56

Avoiding the 'Wall'

Just before Mile 8, I saw a news crew rolling along with cameras pointed to a crowd of runners. I waved, but they weren't interested in me. They, along with most every runner, couldn't keep their eyes off a runner on crutches. Step by step, he struggled as we all breezed by him toward Crenshaw Bouleyard. Almost no one passed by without commenting to him, "You're doing great."

But it was us who felt inspired.

The marathon came with a political bent. By my count Bernard Parks had the largest number of signs--he even had his campaign office along the route.

By Mile 23, heading toward the long, concrete jungle of Olympic Boulevard, I had not hit the infamous runner's "wall." I felt great, as I watched other runners fall back, walking with their heads down. I kept going with my confidence at an all-time high. I even sprinted my way to the finish line (if you call an 11 1/2-minute mile a sprinter's pace).

But I didn't cross the finish line without a sobering reality check: The announcer shouted out the name of a 13-year-old boy who had just crossed that line only seconds ahead of me.

--Amanda Bronstad, Time: 5:09

Rooting Squad

The night before the race, I went to the Carbo Load dinner downtown and sat next to a woman from Tucson. She said she "loved" running marathons. Huh? Marathons are brutal. The first time, I trained for six months and broke down at Mile 23. My goal this time was to keep running.

Around Mile 3, I fell in with a pace group targeting a 5-hour finish. The leader was spunky and led call-and-response cheers. If all went well, I'd stick with this group until around Mile 18, then fall back to finish in my target time: 5 hours 20 minutes.

It was a comfortable pace for a while, with one-minute walking rests at the end of each mile. At Mile 12, I was ahead of my target pace, but Miles 16 through 18 were a haze of starting and stopping through some of the hilliest parts of the course. Just once, I said to myself: "I'll never do this again."

From 18 to 23 I soldiered on. People were handing out cookies, pretzels, bananas, beer. I kept going. My family rooting squad greeted me at Mile 19, with a Korean lady who had come out of her house to do gardening. "Go Tony!" she yelled.

The dreaded wall never hit. With three miles to go, my 12-year-old son jumped in to help pace me to the finish. He could walk nearly as fast as I ran. By the end, though, he began tiring and I was encouraging him to keep up. It helped take my mind off my own fatigue. At the finish, he sprinted to catch up with me. We crossed the line together.

--Anthony Palazzo, Time: 5:20