Marine Corps News Room

http://daily.stanford.edu/tempo?page=content&id=18379&repository=0001_article

By Adam Bad Wound
Wednesday, November 2, 2005
last updated November 2, 2005 12:02 AM

This past weekend I went to Washington, D.C. to run the U.S. Marine Corps Marathon. I had been training for the event all summer and was able to raise over $1,300 for a charity in the process. This was my second marathon, and I had a good idea of the amount of work and dedication it would take. Unfortunately, I somehow neglected to factor hundreds of hot Marines in my training program, so when I got to Washington, I was forced to reconcile my excitement to see them with the challenge of completing 26.2 miles while partially-dehydrated.

The only previous exposure I’d had to military men was from thorough analysis of a fine contribution to adult cinema called “Czech Point,” in which various international relations unfold alongside a semi-believable plot, sizable action, thrilling climax and a heartwarming denouement in satisfaction of a successful mission.

My first encounter with a real Marine took place at the marathon expo when I was approached by a tall, handsome man in uniform with large muscular arms sufficient to protect me from the most dangerous terrorist.

“What size are you, sir?” he asked as I awkwardly looked around to see if he was talking to someone else standing directly behind me.

“Medium,” I responded as he handed me my official marathon t-shirt.

“Good luck tomorrow, sir,” he said with a smile. I didn’t know whether to salute, shake his hand or take off my shirt (so that I could put on the marathon t-shirt, of course). I think he could tell I was nervous, so he gently placed his hand on my back and patted me exactly twice. We shared a moment. Then he quickly pushed me away so that he could help the next person in line.

It was after this exchange that I began to realize that I don’t have much contact with real Marines. In fact, as a Ph.D. student at Stanford, the majority of my personal relationships are with the written words of dead people. “I might like to get to know a Marine personally,” I thought as I reflected on the experience later on, back at my hotel.

On the morning of the race, I arrived at Arlington Cemetery at 0600 hours ready to go. The gun went off, I started running and everything was going along as planned. “Marathon schmarathon” I thought as I carelessly strode over the half-way point. My pace was right on track, and I was looking forward to finishing in three hours, 20 minutes.

At mile 18 disaster struck. My right calf muscle shot a bolt of pain through my body and I collapsed in the grass alongside the marathon route. Sure enough, I had pulled a muscle and was forced to jog and walk the remainder of the marathon. Still, I was determined to finish, even though I knew that my finishing time would be nowhere near what I wanted it to be. I felt distressfully broken, in body and spirit.

As I hobbled to the finish line, I can honestly say that I would not have made it without the support and encouragement of the U.S. Marine Corps. At each aid station I was greeted by warm smiles, cool cups of Gatorade and dozens of Marines encouraging me to work through the pain and to give it my all. They were the best cheering section a guy could ask for.

As a gay guy, I often feel justifiably angry with the military for its “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy and my own personal objection to the war in Iraq. Thus, I had taken for granted the fact that real men and women — nice people just like the ones that supported me — were sacrificing everything for me. Coincidentally, this past week marked the death of 2,000 men and women in Iraq and Afghanistan, a statistic that suddenly seemed much more perceptible. I felt guilty for my indifference to their endurance and concluded that my “isolated Ph.D. student” excuse was not acceptable. I also recognized that a disagreement with policy should never translate into a lack of support for our troops.

Following the race, I was filled with a sense of pride that I had never felt before. I was proud that I was able to finish, even if humbled a bit by my injury. More importantly, though, I felt a real connection to the men and women in the U.S. Armed Forces. They were there to cheer me on when I needed them; I will be there to cheer them on when they need me.

E-mail Adam at badwound@stanford.edu if you would like to borrow his copy of “Czech Point.”