Running with Alan
by MAF
I met Alan during marathon training in the early 2000s — back before anyone had fitness apps or wireless earbuds. The only motivation came from strangers yelling, “You’ve got this!” from the sidelines.
Alan looked like he was struggling — older than me, red-faced, doing that “I regret every decision that led to this” shuffle. So I ran up alongside him.
“Hi, I’m Marie—Maria,” I said, gasping for air.
He glanced over. “Alan. Wait—Marie or Maria?”
“Both,” I said. “Pick whichever one’s easier to yell when I pass out.”
And then — because I was taking a singing class at L.A. City College and apparently thought music could fix everything — I just started singing. Right there. To a man I had never met.
The only song that came to mind was Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen, one of the songs I’d been working on in class that week.
It wasn’t exactly the kind of tune that makes you want to run faster. Not Eye of the Tiger, more like Eye of the Apocalypse.
Alan didn’t know what to do. He just kept running, probably wondering what he’d done in life to deserve a stranger serenading him with a spiritual about human suffering.
We were training with the AIDS Marathon Team, which raised money to support AIDS Project Los Angeles, and our coach was this fabulously flamboyant man who’d stand at the edge of the course and bellow, “You’re heroes!” like we were starring in our own made-for-TV movie.
Somewhere between my questionable singing and his “hero” speeches, I decided to double down on my motivational efforts. I started coming up with my own sayings — things like, “Every mile is a victory over gravity!”
Alan laughed and said, “You should write greeting cards for Hallmark.”
I took that as encouragement. Sarcastic encouragement, but encouragement nonetheless.
Over time, two others joined our little crew: Johanna, calm and steady, and a handsome hairdresser I nicknamed Prince William because he looked like the royal if the royal had highlights. He’d later do my hair before the Chicago Marathon. Technically flawless. Color choice… questionable.
But it was really Alan and me who stuck together — partners through all the long runs. He had that sharp, understated humor that comes from a life in Hollywood, where he’d written for television, film, and even stand-up comedians. Once, after one of my more over-the-top pep talks, he said, “You know, I’ve worked with addicts, lunatics, and egos the size of planets… but I’ve never met anyone like you.”
Coming from Alan, that was affection — wrapped in bewilderment, with a comedic bow.
By the time we ran the Chicago Marathon, we called ourselves marathon partners for life. At the starting line, he turned to me, grinned, and yelled, “Adrian!” like we were in Rocky.
Around mile 20, he got a charley horse. I could’ve gone ahead — I was actually running faster — but I stayed with him, massaged his leg, and told him we’d finish together.
And we almost did.
But just as we approached mile 26.2, with the finish line in sight, Alan suddenly found his second wind and sprinted ahead — just to beat me.
After twenty-six miles of loyalty and gospel music, he left me in the dust at the last point two.
We thought we’d be marathon partners for life after that. We even both entered the New York Marathon lottery — and of course, he got picked, and I didn’t. Then we planned to do the Honolulu Marathon together, but life had other ideas. He had to drop out, and I went on alone.
That was the rhythm of us: start together, finish apart — but always with a good story in between.
Not long after the Chicago Marathon, Alan started writing a novel about running a marathon in midlife — a story about endurance, purpose, and rediscovering what matters when your knees and your patience start to give out. It was about a married Jewish man going through a midlife crisis — a character who looked suspiciously like him. He told me the story was inspired by our time with the AIDS Marathon Team, though he set it at the New York Marathon. In truth, it was a mix of both — Chicago’s grit, New York’s chaos, and plenty of his dry humor.
In the story, there was a woman — the man’s running partner — and Alan told me she was inspired by me. He’d send me little email updates: how the story was going, what his characters were learning, what new mess “Marie/Maria” had stirred up. It was playful and oddly intimate — creative energy disguised as small talk.
When the book came out, I went to his signing — it happened to be on my birthday — and he autographed my copy to me, in his usual half-serious, half-smartass way. I don’t remember him ever mentioning that the character sang or talked too much, but I’ll never forget reading the part where his protagonist falls for the woman he named after me.
And I’ll never forget the line where he describes her as beautiful and loud.
That was the line that stopped me.
Because that was Alan’s language — affectionate but teasing, sincerity wrapped in comedy. I could hear his voice saying it. That was the line that felt like him talking about me, whether he meant to or not.
And I’ll admit, I never saw myself as a raving beauty — but I knew that line was mine.
It also brought back that day after one of our trainings, when he pulled up beside me in his Jaguar, rolled down the window, and, grinning, suggested we go to a hotel. I’d laughed it off completely — he was happily married, and it was obviously just Alan being Alan. But reading that line — beautiful and loud — made me wonder, for just a moment, if maybe the joke wasn’t all a joke.
It was such a compliment to have inspired a character in his book — and to have him tell me about it. I even wound up on his Hanukkah list and started getting family Hanukkah cards from him every year. We used to correspond on AOL, but as the years went by, our modes of communication just changed — from AOL to email, and finally to Facebook. We never really became disconnected; we simply kept moving forward in step with the times.
Now we’re the kind of friends who occasionally like each other’s posts, but every time I see his name pop up, I can’t help but smile. I get to see his anniversaries with his wife, how his children have grown up, and now his littlest — the one who came to the marathon clutching her doll — has kids of her own who are nearing their teenage years.
It’s really beautiful.
And I have this memory summed up here so I’ll never forget it.
— MAF 💛🏃♀️
