SMILES, SIX HOURS APART 26.2 MILES OF RUN-DMC, EDIBLE GEL AND `WALL' CLIMBING.

Byline: Evan Pondel Staff Writer

My body is cursing me.

I crossed the finish line of the Los Angeles Marathon about two hours ago, and I'm sitting in a rather uncomfortable hotel chair with a large bag of ice strategically placed on my buttocks.

There's nothing glamorous about a marathon.

Sure, at the beginning of the race, everyone is all smiles. Your socks are clean, and the only sweat forming on your brow is from prerace excitement.

Then reality sets in, and you realize mile 1 just passed, and you have 25.2 more to go. Yes, those two-tenths of a mile mess with your mind like peanut butter on a bologna sandwich.

This is my first marathon, a goal I set back in October after a friend of mine suggested I train with him.

Just start slow, he said. See how you feel after running for 15 minutes.

I felt like death, and my cholesterol was nearing what I scored on the SAT. (I didn't do so well.)

OK, so maybe training for a marathon would get me in shape. I needed motivation. I needed a cause. I needed Team In Training, a non-profit organization that raises money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. They taught me to run, and in return I raised money for blood-cancer research.

The fund-raising wasn't so bad. Even people I didn't know chipped in, thanks to friends of friends, and their friends, too.

I suppose the most difficult aspect of this whole marathon experience was running. So prepare yourself, because it might get a little gory.

The first six miles were easy. I was chatty and perhaps cheerful, annoying all of the serious runners around me. After several high-fives and a few dirty looks, my running partner decided to use a port-a-potty. That meant I had to run alone, at least until he caught up.

I took a deep breath, a swig from my water bottle and carried on for the next four miles.

Oh wait, my knee just asked me to retract that statement. Yes, I carried on, but with pain starting to form just below the knee cap.

Never mind the pain. Run-DMC is blaring from some dude's front porch. And Run is rapping about Kentucky Fried Chicken. Time for a little snack.

I reach into my fanny pack (no comments, please) and pull out a 1.4- ounce packet of edible gel. All of those super concentrated energy bars having nothing on these gels. It's like comparing the Smurfs with The Incredibles.

One shot delivers about 110 calories and some of those electrolytes that make your sweat glands say thank you.

Mile 15 finally arrives. I'm still alone. And then I see my sister holding my six-month-old niece on the sidelines. If the world is a strange and foreign place to a baby, I can only imagine what was running through her head when she saw her uncle bobbing up and down with power gel on his chin.

During the next four miles I hit what is known as 'The Wall.' It's a figurative place that most endurance athletes confront on a regular basis. It's a literal place that an inexperienced marathoner such as myself can only describe with the help of several expletives. Without going there, my muscles began to spasm, my feet were beyond numb, and unlike singer/songwriter R. Kelly, my body was telling me no and my mind was telling me yes, you can do it.

Mile 25 was now in sight. I started to laugh about the pack of Elvis impersonators I saw earlier in the day. I started to laugh about those marathoners who would discretely relieve themselves curbside. I started to laugh about the limp I had developed and the blood that was showing through my tennis shoe.

Wait, that's not funny.

I could barely muster enough energy to chuckle, let alone move my legs. Another gel and three gulps of water later, the final stretch appeared.

The yellow finish line flashed a time of 6 hours, 6 minutes. My eyes began to well up as an official placed a medal around my neck.

And the city I grew up in hugged me with a cool breeze, unencumbered by the 26.2-miles worth of perspiration covering my body.

Evan Pondel, [phone]

evan.pondel(at)dailynews.com

CAPTION(S):

photo

Photo:

Staff writer Evan Pondel, center, realizes the physical pain and emotional high of running a marathon.

Edna T. Simpson/Daily News