State Number 36
– Louisiana Marathon
Baton Rouge, LA
14 January 2018
Bienvenue en Louisiane! Rendezvous Baton Rouge. Son of a gun, I’m going to have big fun running
my first marathon of the year on the bayou, and afterwards, feasting on some
jambalaya, crawfish pie or maybe some filé gumbo.
Louisiana is home to some of the distinctive sounds of
American melodies, such as jazz, zydeco, skiffle, jug band and old-time music
and the unmistakable tones of some ol’ busker stroking the frottoir.
On the inside of my inner soul, I hear the melody of Garth
Brooks’ song Callin’ Baton Rouge. I may not be some long-haul trucker yearning
for ‘Samantha’, but rather an ordinary engineer on the lookout for some
southern hospitality, good food and good people. Also, one must not overlook the Cajun jingles
of the classic Hank Williams song Jambalaya
(On the Bayou). In most instances, that
song usually triggers one of those annoying cerebral redundancies.
While ultimately visiting nearly every corner of the
country has always been on my bucket list, I was never on a huge pursuit to run
a marathon in each state. In fact, it
wasn’t a thought or even a blip on my radar until just a few years ago, and running
each state is a certain way to slowly check off that bucket list item.
My wife and I frequently looked for the right time and
place to run a marathon in Louisiana. I
knew it had to eventually happen, but with fifteen states remaining, it was no huge
rush, but time was certainly winding down. I needed a compelling reason
to make Louisiana my 36th state, and after reading all the good reviews this
marathon drew, I knew this was the one I wanted to be my first ever in the
Pelican State. At the end of the day, we
committed ourselves.
Despite singing up 2½ months beforehand, the Louisiana
Marathon was to a certain extent an impulse race for us, but a far cry from the
impulsivity of Rehoboth Beach (State No. 35).
We seriously contemplated running Lafayette’s Zydeco Marathon or even the
wallet strangling Rock ‘n Roll New Orleans (not a big fan of Rock ‘n Roll
events), but something about Baton Rouge kept callin’ us. Perhaps it’s the fact Baton Rouge is the
state capital in the heart of Cajun country and we had no other reason to visit.
With a perfect opportunity to indulge myself with some
of Baton Rouge’s Haitian-Creole cuisine in chorus with some catchy Zydeco
music, or maybe even picking up a little French Creole patois, I looked forward
to participating in this esteemed and much talked about event.
Tucked away in the American South, European traditions
blend with the colorful and cultural Caribbean customs. The unique customs and influences govern the
local scene and architecture; however, after savoring the local flair, leaving the
Louisiana may be easier said than done.
The marathon brings together a distinctive blend of
runners and local francophones who all come out to celebrate a passion for
running in their energetic and effervescent community. It’s no wonder why it’s called the “Louisiana
Running Festival.” Laissez les bon temps
roulez!
I grew up in a smaller-sized city in the upper
latitudes of northern California.
Traffic and parking were never an issue and dealing with big city
traffic, especially in an unfamiliar locale, can rub me the wrong way.
The Los Angeles basin has the dubious distinction of having
some of the worst traffic in the country.
Unfortunately, every so often the corridors leading to my marathon
events requires cutting through some of the worst traffic LA can throw at
motorists. Sitting in traffic gridlock
can be mind-numbing to say the least, so I divert my boredom and aggravation
towards listening to stimulating talk radio, watching my surroundings, the
drivers around me and following their actions and movements. These various little tricks have taught me
ways to “remain calm” when stuck in snarled traffic. The best way to beat the stream of
traffic? Drive to LAX in very wee hours
of the morning and catch a flight before the dawn of a new day.
We departed LAX on a 2,275-mile Southwest flight
during the early morning hours of 13 January arriving at Louie Armstrong
International (MSY) around 1430 Saturday afternoon following a brief stopover
in cold snowy Nashville (BNA). Following
a slight delay in BNA waiting for the flight deck crew to arrive and a wash-down
with de-icing agents, we arrived at MSY without much time to spare for our
drive to Baton Rouge.
We comfortably seated ourselves in a rental car
exceptionally crafted by Nissan (coincidentally, a Rouge) and proceeded in a westerly
course along I-10, the southernmost cross-country interstate freeway linking
Santa Monica, CA with Jacksonville, FL. Unfortunately,
the freeway is one of the top drug and human trafficking corridors of the
United States, so vigilant driving was paramount to avoid raising any
suspicions a state trooper may discern.
A few miles outside the cypress dominated bayous along
the northerly side of I-10 near the city of Gonzales stands a large Tanger
Outlets billboard featuring a girl wrapped in white clothing wearing nothing
but a smile with her pearly whites grabbing everyone’s attention. For some unexplainable reason, that sign
reminded me of the 1965 Del Reeves hit Girl
on the Billboard. “I bet it wouldn't
take her very long to get gone; if someone would pull a dirty trick and take
her [outfit] away.” I wonder if the
advertiser intentionally designed the billboard to convey a subliminal message
alluding to that song.
Like most regions of the United States, January is climatologically
the coolest month of the year and Louisiana can seem to be generally mild
compared to other states. This year,
southern Louisiana experienced one of the coldest on record. It
certainly was not comfortably cool, but rather uncomfortably frigid. My kind of running weather. As long as the forecast did not include snow
mimicking conditions we experienced at Garden Spot Marathon (State No. 22), I
looked forward to a great marathon.
Back in January 2014, my wife and I had the pleasure
of flying into MSY en route to our first double marathon challenge, Mississippi
Blues and First Light Alabama, ugh, (State Nos. 8 and 9, respectively). We spent the night in nearby Metairie in the
intervening time to experience and absorb the hospitality, esprit de corps and
magic of the Crescent City prior to traversing Lake Pontchartrain on our northward
journey to Jackson, MS.
Experiencing the “magic” of southern Louisiana is a
great feeling. In my eyes, it appears to
be a different kind of magic – the magic of the residents being grounded and
coexisting with real life and struggles from their unfortunate confrontations with
natural disasters. From what the drive-by
media wants you to perceive about the state’s natural disasters (Katrina sadly comes
to mind), it’s easy for outsiders to see New Orleans becoming a netherworld making
it easy to dismiss the realities and hardships these residents face. To them, it’s a real, and better, magic.
I find southern Louisiana an exciting place due to its
uniqueness and energetic atmosphere; a place with tons of history, attractions
and friendly people. It has its share of
spiritual curiosities and everyone can’t avoid being immersed in its
charm. Louisiana is an epicenter of
unique culture. It’s magical, more
importantly, it’s genuine.
Regrettably, I failed to take it upon myself to sample
a slice of the colorful Mardi Gras delicacy, king cake, during my prior visit
to the glitzy Big Easy. I saw it in the
airport, I saw it in stores and I saw it in the numerous boutique shops up and
down Rue Bourbon in the heart of the French Quarter, but, somehow for some
reason, I just looked at it as I walked on by, not unlike someone who had a
loathing for desserts. I love desserts,
and this time, I wasn’t about to let this tour “dans le sud” deny me the
opportunity to sample that famous and widely held regional confectionary treat.
Acquiring a whole cake and taking it back home with me
will guarantee I will acquire the plastic baby hidden inside and will be a
self-proclaimed “king” for the evening with luck and prosperity bequeathed upon
me. Unfortunately, with that decree, I
may be held responsible for hosting the next Mardi Gras party. Perhaps I will play it safe and just purchase
a cake for next year as a standby, but I seriously doubt anyone would know.
Following an eighty-minute drive out of MSY, without a
whole lot of time to spare, we arrived at the expo venue held at the Baton
Rouge River Center perched atop a bluff overlooking the Mississippi River
waterfront, a stone’s throw from the state’s old capitol building, which bears
a remarkable semblance to a medieval castle.
Much to my surprise, the expo sported a small number of vendors on the
expansive arena floor probably due to the late hour of the second day. Packet pick up was easy and convenient. Unfortunately, race tech shirts were
unavailable and runners were informed that their shirts will be mailed to
them. What a disappointment!
The River Center complex houses a large exhibition
hall, performing arts center and room for large-scale sporting events, concerts
and conventions. The weather was just
too blustery and cold for any outdoor activities such as the Louisiana street
food festival, a visit to the USS Kidd, the Belle of Baton Rouge Casino or just
walking the park grounds adjacent to the Mississippi.
We hopped in our car and checked in to our hotel located
a few miles from downtown off I-10 and had a bite to eat at a Mexican
establishment near the LSU campus. The
place was packed with LSU fans decked out in their traditional purple and gold enjoying
their “illegal burritos” before heading off to a basketball game against SEC foe
Alabama.
We were exhausted from our cross-country flight and it
was just too cold to be outside, so we turned in early and relaxed in a warm
room.
During my fifty-plus marathoning experiences, and I
believe most runners would agree – whether its nerves, excitement, a new
environment, being many miles from home or whatever –most marathon events don’t
allow their runners to get much sleep the night before. Assuming that
there’s no bus transportation to the start, the typical race starts between 0600
and 0800, which leaves some of us eating their ritualistic pre-race meal
between 0400 and 0600.
Most of us need some time to wake up, wipe away the remnants
of the magical dust left by the Sandman, and clear the “I-just-got-up” haze before
breakfast, so we end up setting our alarm clocks between 0300 and 0500.
If you’re a night owl like me, getting to sleep before 2300 is a rarity, which
sometimes means, if you’re lucky, just four hours of shuteye before tackling
the 26.2-mile monster. Acclimating to a
two-hour time differential between Central and Pacific Time Zones throws in an
additional element to the circadian rhythm equation.
My iPhone alarm sounded at 0430 as I woke from a
semi-restful sleep surprisingly, but somewhat blissfully, refreshed. I was ready…ready to tackle the monster. I chowed down my pre-race glucose producing breakfast
consisting of a banana, granola bar, and a Whatchamacallit candy bar. It may not be the best breakfast prior to an
endurance event, but for me, it works.
Getting into downtown Baton Rouge in the early Sunday
morning hours went, surprisingly, without incident. After researching the best possible parking
areas fronting River Road near the Pentagon Barracks Museum (the original
grounds of the LSU campus), we circled around the north side of the capitol
building finding a premium spot not necessarily close to the start line, but
rather close to the finish festival area.
We walked a short distance through the sub-freezing temperatures to the
starting corrals on North 4th Street near the Louisiana State Museum
in the umbra of the state capitol building’s protuberant tower shortly before
the 0700 start. We toughed the frigid air
and left our jackets and other apparel in the car in order to avoid a drop
bag. Standing among all the runners
seems to raise temperature a bit, so the bite of the cold wasn’t too bad.
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| Drone-like view of downtown |
Clear cloudless skies dominated the climatic
conditions with only the brightest of stars visible through the light pollution
emitted by the buildings and lighting fixtures throughout the Baton Rouge’s
downtown environs. The air was cold –
around 23° F,
not an average January day in southern Louisiana. I admit, it was cold, but I revel running in
cold temperatures.
After the presentation of the colors and the singing
of our great National Anthem, it was game time.
Let’s do this! I reached into my
pocket of goodies, pulled out and put on my game face and situated ourselves
near the 3:45 pace group. With some much
improved training under my belt, (even with the weight-gaining vices and
proclivities of the Christmas season) I was ready to take on the day with a
good feeling complete with a positive outlook, something I had lacked during my
previous two marathons of 2017. As a
farewell to runners, the race organizers couldn’t resist playing Garth Books’ Callin’ Baton Rouge. I was pumped and ready.
I was uncertain if I was going to set in motion the
same “Operation-Let-No-One-Pass-Me” I employed at Rehoboth Beach. However, if I pick up the pace too much or
too hastily, one, or both, calf muscles will cramp causing substantial pain and
discomfort causing me to limp and hobble across the finish, leaving a lasting
and long-term impression on spectators.
That fear crossed my mind as I huddled in with the crowd of runners.
At 0700, a loud canon sounded setting in motion the seventh
running of the Louisiana Marathon. My race
strategy was simple, but not really a recommended approach. Go out fast and bank some time to utilize for
the later phases of the race. I
anticipated crossing the half-marathon split in under two hours. With that said, I must sustain a sub 9:10 per
mile pace.
The first eleven:
The marathon began in the shadows of the tallest capitol
building in the United States, thence south through downtown’s North 4th
Street; thence easterly across the North Boulevard overcrossing after Marathon
Mile 1.
For some reason, the “lady hump” of the overcrossing
left an indelible impression in my memory banks, probably knowing that I will
have to negotiate that hump once again on the rebound, sans fresh legs. From what I knew of the race course, conquering
“the overpass” can be one of the toughest parts of the course. First half complete – would I have enough leg
to finish the second half?
In the beginning, I maintained a comfortable pace at around
9:00 per mile, excepting a ten-minute second mile due to a self-mandated porta-potty
stop, adequate to surpass my half goal time.
The big question, is it sustainable?
Normally, I pace 2:00 and 2:10 half marathons with
comfort and ease. I was determined and
focused on a great first half and wasn’t about to let any heal or inner thigh
pain negate my progress.
By taking the section of roadway less traveled, i.e.,
the west-bound traffic side of North Boulevard, I cranked out the first mile in
8:56. Miles two to three took us south down Park Boulevard toward City
Park where the road changed names to Dalrymple Drive. Besides city buildings in my peripheral
vision, runners now enjoyed a dog park, tennis center, a municipal golf course
and a beautiful lake setting. The large
flocks of Muscovy and other “mutt” ducks seemed to enjoy the icy waters of the
lake. My pace felt good as I cruised
behind the two-hour half marathon pace group.
Similar with the Reston Marathon (State No. 23), the sub-freezing air
temperatures caused the sweat on the bill of my cap to freeze and form icicles. The mass of the “ice” kept weighing down the
bill causing it to fall below my eyes. Some
may call me a sweat hog. Welcome to my
body.
At Marathon Mile 4, I was still solidly on pace and I
wondered if Murphy’s Law would get the best of me. I entered the campus of Louisiana State
University feeling great and looking forward to catch a glimpse of the famous
Tiger Stadium, traditionally known as Death Valley, on our running tour of the
LSU campus.
Marathon Mile 5 came as we rounded Tiger Stadium –
just if we were allowed to run around the track as I did at Drake University in
Des Moines (State No. 29). Much to my
chagrin, the miles seemed to fly by, and if that was any indication, I was
going to have a great day.
While still chilly, but certainly refreshing, there
was this bright G-Type main sequence star in the eastern sky and I wondered how
long we would stay shaded from it. Approaching
the sixth mile, holding on to my planned pace, I began to feel the deathly grip
of those sunny rays here and there. Well-shaded, the course provided respite from
the sun which can be soul-sucking even on a cold marathon day. Nevertheless, I was happy to be sporting a
pair of cheap sunglasses. If nothing else, they can hide the look of
death and despair in my eyes should that time come.
Marathon Mile 7 had us beginning our jaunt around
University Lake and into the Zee Zee Gardens area of the Red Stick and slowly I
notice my pace slipping. To my left, magnolia trees flourished and the
grassy land sloughed off into the chilly waters of the lake; and to my right,
stood upscale lakefront homes with beautiful views. Sitting in a driveway of one particular home
were an Audi and a Ferrari – I’m happy they are doing well. It wouldn’t surprise me if they also owned a
Lamborghini. I guess they park them
outside on marathon day for all to see and envy.
About this point, I knew we could begin three to four miles
around the narrowish twisty-turny local streets. With magnificent views, I wouldn’t doubt the
local residents enjoy running these streets on a daily basis. I do appreciate paths like this in a race and I
was happy to be in close proximity to these magnificent views.
With the slew of half-marathoners working with the
two-hour pacer just up ahead slowly laying down real estate between us, I was met
with a dilemma. Do I speed up to keep running
with this group or should I slow down to conserve some energy for the later miles? I know I was falling off my planned pace, so
speeding up lost out to some energy conservation. My inner voice cried out to avoid working too
hard. It decided it was time to back off
or things may go bad later.
I conceded near the ninth mile. My new goal was to finish better than
Rehoboth Beach (State 35). I joined up
with the 4:15 marathon pacer. The tall
slender bearded man, an elementary school assistant principal, kept the group
engaged with this dry humor and maintained a comfortable pace (around 9:50 – a
tad too slow for a 4:15). One particular
runner, a veterinary student at LSU, delivered upbeat and jovial conversations and
welcomed new runners into the group.
Leaving this gorgeous section of an overall wonderful
course, it was back through City Park and up a small hill (which I don’t
remember coming down, but we most assuredly had) and onto the straight city
streets. I always seem to run better on
curvy paths than on long straight paths or streets. Personal preference. At the base of the hill, the enthusiastic LSU
lacrosse team was there handing out water and electrolyte fluids.
The striking canopies and low-hanging branches of the
majestic live oaks lining the streets blocked the sunlight. Spanish moss hung from their limbs, producing
a serene and cool shade. The oaks seem
to be a staple and prized commodity of the Baton Rouge area and one can easily
conclude, the trees can be a valuable asset for homeowners. I think the large branches of the old oaks may
pose hazards to life or property if they break.
I encountered only one negative throughout the street
sections, the massive root systems damage the pavement and concrete flatwork
creating hazards for runners and I was always cognizant of my footing. The last thing I needed was a sprained ankle.
The half marathoners abandoned us full marathon folks
at Marathon Mile 11. I enjoyed eavesdropping
on half marathoner’s conversations, but that quickly ceased leaving me hanging
on what happened. Suddenly, it got
rather desolate. They had this aura of
delight that they were returning to the barn; but, for me, I looked forward to
the half marathon split. I pushed ahead
of the 4:15 group around this point.
Their pace slowed somewhat – on purpose, I don’t know, but I left
them. I accepted the fact that they
would likely catch me over the next few miles to make up for lost time.
Running down the oak lined Kleinert Avenue drew me
ever so close to the halfway point, and my only lament is the same lament I
have had with any race that goes through any neighborhood – where are all the
people?
Here, snaking through gorgeous neighborhoods, there
were a plethora of opportunities for people to come out and show some southern
hospitality. I cannot knock the race
itself nor on these particular people, either.
I presume that the near-freezing temperatures kept most spectators
indoors, possibly watching from the comfort of a chair from behind their front
windows. Yes, my body had ample time to
heat up, but standing around in the cold may not be the most desirable thing to
do and is totally understandable.
It happens in cities across the country. I just wish they knew how nice and motivating
it is to have strangers cheering for strangers.
Hats off for those who came out to brave the cold – some even enjoying
themselves in front of a fire pit – and providing many spreads of their own
treats to runners, such as king cake, cookies, pickle juice, mojitos, mimosas,
you name it. I digress.
Miles 11-24 happen:
As any runner can attest, there are many psychological
challenges of marathon running. Besides the
self-talk thoughts, the mental imagery and other visualization strategies I
employ, the one that few people talk about is seeing runners still on the “out”
stretch of an out-and-back section of the course. For me, running on the out stretch can be demoralizing
at times. It can be tough seeing runners
happily coming back as I’m grimacing and pushing myself forward seeing just how
far behind I am from the lead pack, fighting against the tantalizing desire to
stop. However, eventually I’m running
back with a smile on my face only to see the same grimacing faces I once
exhibited and knowing just how far they have to go.
Although technically an out-and-back section beginning
at Marathon Mile 11, I found this section of the course surprisingly scenic and
not what I had anticipated. I expected
to see many of the lead runners of their return trip to the finish, but that
was not the case. There was only one
particular area on Claycut Road where I witnessed the lead runners smiling at
me knowing just how far I needed to go.
Turned out to be seven miles.
The funny thing is that when you “decide” to slow
down, sometimes you don't realize by how much you are slowing. You enjoy the ease of tension and relaxation
and all of a sudden: CRAP! That mile was twenty seconds slower than my
last mile! OMG, I wanted to slow down,
not stop. I crossed the half marathon
split in a time of 2:04:21 (9:30 pace).
Not overly impressive or planned, but I was content. My aim was still set on a sub 4:30.
Shortly after the turnaround near Marathon Mile 14, I
have to admit that I saw one of the more original marathon signs I’ve
seen. The “Smile if you peed a little”,
“Worst parade ever”, “F@#k yea!” or “Never trust a fart” signs are nice, but a
little played out and overdone. I
believe any cheering is good cheering, but a variety is also good.
When I saw a sign that read, “You have ‘Les Miles’ to
run than before!” featuring a picture of LSU football coach, Les Miles, I was
impressed. Innovation, but may not apply
to all marathons.
I managed to maintain a comfortable distance ahead of
the 4:15 pacer for the next four miles until I heard some footsteps emanating
from a group and the leaders’ unmistakable voice. I made a quick backwards glance, and there
they were – just like a road bike race as the peloton swallows up the lead
cyclist. I expected it. I joined in the group for as long as I could,
but I could immediately tell the leader stepped up the pace making up time from
his slower miles. I didn’t see him
again.
I was tiring and just couldn’t hold on, maintaining a
9:55 to 10:05 pace. Even the slice of
king cake I consumed wasn’t enough to give me an added energy boost.
I crossed the 19-mile timing mat on Rosale Drive
clocking in with a time of 3:05:07 (9:45 pace), still eyeing a sub 4:30 finish
time. I thought to myself what a weird
point to place a timing mat. My guess is
that it was there to catch runners tempted to cut the course off LaSalle Avenue.
Beginning with Marathon Mile 20, the next four miles
consisted of a straight section of Claycut Road/Kleinert Avenue. I would occasionally see runners with the
same grimacing face I once exhibited.
This time, I had the façade of a smile.
Because of my cheap sunglasses, no one could see the despair in my eyes.
The Last Two:
Normally, my inner voice tells me to pick up the pace
in the final ten kilometers, but this time I ignored that voice and conserved
some energy combining short walking stints with some running. I was walking less than Delaware and a sub
4:30 was definitely in the realm of possibilities.
When I turned the corner onto Park Boulevard at
Marathon Mile 24, left over fencing, barricades and delineators separated the
half marathon and full marathon routes. I
situated myself on the right side all set to head back to the barn. I could hear the clanging of the cow bells
signaling supper time. It’s go time and
I felt as if I had a second wind. I
heard an animated spectator with a booming voice yelling at runners, “It’s time
to dig deep. You need to dig deep all the way to the finish!”
I dug deep into my bag of tricks, but it just wasn’t
enough. Remember the overpass? It was time to face the music sans fresh
legs. The ascent up looked daunting and
stared me in the face. It screamed,
“Just try to conquer me!” I took what
little energy I had left and tried to focus on form. I picked up my achy and tired feet and threw
them down with what felt like grace and speed, but probably looked like a
newborn calf trying to gain a foothold with the ground. I’m not in it for style points – I’m in it
for time. My running pace seemed to
mirror my walking pace – so I walked to the vertical curve’s apex. I constantly performed a myriad of math
computations in my head estimating my finish time. No matter how I calculated, barring a
catastrophe, I projected a sub 4:30 finish.
Thanks to a set of hypothetical elementary particles
mediating the forces of gravitation in the framework of quantum theory, I
picked up the pace on the descending grade of the lady hump passing block after
block – Eighth Street, Sixth Street and suddenly Fourth Street.
As I rounded the corner at Fourth, seeing the finish
line gantry in the distance, I picked up my pace with a smile on my face – only
to experience that dreaded calf cramping on both legs. That smothered the fire and my smile quickly
eroded like ocean waves washing away a sand castle on a beach. I could only manage a pace right at the cusp
of the cramping point. It was slow and
steady and the last 0.2 mile seemed like an eternity.
I fantasized that I was the leader and that I had just
passed my last competitors, throwing my hands in the air triumphantly when the
announcer called me by name as I sailed through the barn doors crossing the
timing mat with a time of 4:29:39 with my Garmin computing 26.38 miles. Fortunately, no time penalties are added to
one’s overall finish for a lack of style.
Age graded
score: 52.24%
Age graded
time: 3:55:21
Average time:
4:31:03
Standard deviation: 0:54:57
I received my sought-after, coveted and awesome
finisher’s medal, grabbed a bottle of water and a vanilla shake containing 46
grams of protein and made my way to the car to change into a dry shirt. By the way, that cold muscle-building shake tasted
really good!
After a little warm-up in the car, I looked forward to
the finisher’s festival and post-race party on the green oval near the Capitol
Park Event Center everyone raves about. Each
participant wore a wristband and awarded six menu items of their choosing –
beer, food or any combination of the two.
I got my fill on bowls of gumbo, jambalaya, rice,
beans and an alligator sausage po’ boy seasoned with a Cajun mustard, while
relaxing my aching dogs in the warm sunshine and absorbing some good blues
music emanating from the bandstand.
However, the craft beer being served wasn’t what I particularly care
for, so I stuck with water.
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| Gumbo |
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| Finished at last |
After lagniappe:
After the great marathon post-race festival, we found
our way back to the hotel to clean up and to take a much deserved nap before
venturing out to find some good food. We
settled on a burger at nearby Burgersmith.
While feasting on a bison burger complete with all the condiments,
practically everyone (employees included) at the bar and seating area was glued
to all the wall-mounted TV sets hoping their Saints could knock off the Vikings
in the NFC playoffs.
When the Vikings scored a touchdown in the final
seconds to win, the place went silent, one could hear a pin drop. Not long after, grumbling and disappointment
seemed to be the mood.
The next day, Monday, I was planning to visit the
state capitol and the neighboring grounds, but was met with disappointed that
the capitol building was closed. Whether
it was due to construction, building rehab taking place or MLK Day, we were
unable to visit the capitol – or any other building for that matter. Maybe another time.
Along the river waterfront sits the USS Kidd, a
decommissioned WWII battleship who saw combat in the Pacific theater. Passing up a tour of the ship, not a
chance. The self-guided tour was
fantastic and I was amazed to find how the sailors endured such tough lives aboard
that ship!
A delicious lunch across the river at Cou-Yon’s BBQ
waited for us. Grandpa Jones, what’s for
supper? How ‘bout a hefty sized sausage
po’boy seasoned with Cajun spices followed by a generous helping of hot bread
pudding smothered in a tasty lip-smacking rum sauce topped with vanilla ice
cream. Yuuum…yum! With a large lunch in our gullets to sustain
us for the rest of the day, we made our way back through the bayou to New
Orleans.
An excursion into New Orleans’ French Quarter was not
as inspiring as I imagined to say the least.
I was surprised of the light crowds and empty streets, considering Mardi
Gras being only a month away. Stores
stocked with Mardi Gras paraphernalia proliferated the area. There were the usual jazz bands either marching
up and down Rue Bourbon or simply jamming in the myriad of taverns, eccentric street
artists and annoying kids banging on five-gallon plastic buckets. I surmise they were begging for attention,
but the banging was enough to rattle my nerves.
The highlight of the French Quarter was the
consumption of the New Orleans’ traditional confectionary pleasures, fresh hot beignets. I’ve never had one, but those French
doughnuts, tasting similar to an unglazed old-fashioned or buttermilk bar or
sopapilla, smothered in confectioners’ sugar were delicious. They weren’t from the overrated Café DuMonde,
but from Café Beignet at Musical Legends Park.
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| Yummy treat after a hard day's work |
On this particular New Orleans visit, I purchased of a
king cake to take home (it sailed through TSA security) and to share with my
co-workers.
I consider myself a life-long student of learning and
with every marathon trip, I try to find places of historical significance. I respect and appreciate the history of our
country, the good and also the not so good events. The south saw many battles throughout the
course of our history and one of them is the Chalmette Battlefield and the site
of the Battle of New Orleans a stone’s throw from the Hurricane Katrina ravaged
Lower Ninth Ward.
Even the cold blustery day with the possibility of
freezing precipitation could not dampen my mood throughout my battlefield visit. From the park ranger’s presentation to the
informative visitor center’s interactive displays, I learned a great deal on
what actually happened during the Battle of 1812.
It’s easy to spend a few hours exploring the
battlefield, climbing the vertical staircase of the memorial obelisk,
remembering those buried at the National Cemetery or walking through the site’s
plantation home, but time was of the essence.
Time to return to the airport, but first, lunch.
Following a pizza lunch at one of Metairie’s
hole-in-the wall eateries, Mark Twain’s Pizza Landing, it was off to the
airport for our evening flight home.
With a great deal of confidence, I can tell you from my
experience as a runner that this event was unquestionably near top-notch. It may be only less than ten years old, but I believe
that the Louisiana Marathon has already established itself as one of the
must-do races in the nation. The course
is scenic and solid and the weather is usually
fairly predictable which makes for good racing.
The marathon organization partners with a non-profit
called Ainsley's Angels. Their
wheelchair pushers and athletes in chairs throughout the race were a welcome
reminder of how lucky and grateful we all are to be out there pounding the
pavement – and we must not forget that.
I learned one thing on this southern swing, that
Louisianan’s seize any opportunity to have a good time and love what’s called lagniappe – or a little something
extra. The Louisiana Marathon definitely
lives up to its reputation as a “running festival with lagniappe.” Their great
food, music, southern hospitality, the expo, unique finish festival, and all
the generous people who made this marathon a remarkable event. I have to give a shout out to all the
organizers, volunteers, spectators and strangers extending their warmth to each
participant – something not seen in most of my marathon travels. “Let the good times roll!” and roll they
surely did! Au revoir.
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| The coveted and esteemed Geaux Run LA medal |
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