As October came, I was sure I would run around three hours and thirty minutes. In June I’d booked a room for Friday through Monday at the Radisson Hotel in Crystal City, Virginia, within walking distance of the Pentagon, near where the marathon would start and finish. With the effort I was going to put forth the last five miles, I knew I would be in no condition to fly home Sunday night, so I was flying back Monday morning after a day of bed rest.

On Friday the week of the Marine Corps Marathon, my plane from Raleigh-Durham Airport landed at Reagan National Airport five minutes before one o’clock. The Radisson was near the airport. I checked into my room and took a taxi to the D.C. Armory near J.F.K. Stadium, where the Redskins used to play their football games. I wanted to pick up my race packet today because tomorrow the crowd would show and I didn’t want to spend all day Saturday on my feet standing in line.

When the taxi dropped me off in front of the Armory, there were two long lines at each of the two doors going into the building, and it was only two thirty in the afternoon. Last year at this same time I strolled into the Armory, picked up my packet, and was back in my hotel room in an hour. But not today. All four lines were moving slowly.

What does a group of Marine Corps Marathon runners talk about? Your best time. Your last year’s time. And making the bridge before it’s closed.

To avoid being placed on a bus ending your marathon dream, you needed to cross the bridge from D.C. to Virginia by two thirty in the afternoon so you could continue to run. If you weren’t off the bridge by two thirty, you had to board the bus and be driven to the finish line. No one wanted to be picked up by the bus.

Three of the four members of our little group had run the Marine Corps before. Only Dawn from Boston was a newbie. After thirty minutes of advancing only several yards, our group of four became two, Dawn and me, as the other two hopped to another line they thought was moving faster.

She stood about five-two with short black hair. Dawn wore a Nike running outfit—black biker shorts, a blue tank top, white shoes and socks, and a black cap with the Nike swoosh. I noticed that she wasn’t wearing a ring.

”How long have you been training?” I asked, attempting to keep the conversation going.

“For less than a year. I needed to gain control of my life,” she said, looking down at the ground.

“What happened?” I asked. I was interested in the life of the woman in front of me. She was kind of cute.

“Well, my high school sweetheart divorced me after ten years of marriage for a twenty-two-year-old college graduate who had worked in his office for six months.” Her right foot rubbed against the pavement as if she was writing the whole story on the ground between the two of us.

“After six months of sitting home by myself, looking at television and eating potato chips, I stepped on the scale and had gained thirty pounds. But it was when I saw my ex-husband and his young and fit future bride together that I decided to lose the weight and get my body back into dating shape.”

She took a deep breath. “So I forced my thirty-five-year-old body off the couch and here I am.”

“You look good,” I said.

And she did. Just a little more stuffing in her bra, maybe an increase in one cup size, and she could be kind of sexy for a petite woman. Big-breasted women appealed to me. It must have been something in my childhood; my mother is small-breasted.

“I had wanted to keep the extra fat around my breasts, but that was the first thing that disappeared with my weight loss.” She laughed.

Could she be reading my mind?

“I still have an extra five pounds,” she said, touching her butt.

Her butt looked fine to me.

I told Dawn I was a small-town detective, and she revealed that she was a high school math teacher.

From our conversation I learned that Dawn had flown in and rented a car at the airport. The closest room she could find was in College Park about twenty-five miles away by her GPS. She hadn’t decided to run until a couple of weeks ago after finishing her second eighteen-miler.

“You have never been in the area before, so you’re going to catch hell Sunday. Most of the roads will be closed around D.C. and the Pentagon,” I told her. I realized her chances of running the race had decreased to nearly zero.

As we neared the door, the marine at the entrance asked us to show our photo ID cards and our acceptance forms. I pulled out my police ID from my pocket. Dawn took her wallet from her fanny pack and pulled out her Massachusetts driving license.

“You need to show them to the marine who will issue your packets and shirts,” the marine said, allowing us into the building.

When she returned the wallet to her fanny pack, her license dropped to the ground. I reached and picked it up, glancing at her address before handing it back to her.

“Thanks,” she said.

We entered the building and looked on the board near the door under our last names to find our race numbers. As we parted to different areas of the Armory, I gave her my cell number.

She entered it into her cell and smiled.

“Call me if you run into any problems,” I said, walking away.

If I had been closer to home, maybe I would have attempted to develop some type of relationship. She was a nice-looking woman, but three years older than me. Clara was two years younger than me.

I strolled through the Armory after receiving my packet and race number and looked for running gear I might need in the future. I bought ten packets of gel and a plastic covering in case of rain and left after another thirty minutes.

After taking a taxi back to the Radisson, I was lying on the bed looking at television at seven o’clock wondering whether I should eat in the hotel’s restaurant or go out.

I’d decided to stay in the hotel and was waiting for the elevator in the hallway when my cell rang.

“Yes?” I said, not recognizing the number.

“Scott, this is Dawn. I need your help,” the shaky voice said.

“How can I help you?” I wondered if she was lost.

“There are no rooms available in College Park. The motel clerk is telling me that the nearest room is in Bowie, Maryland, and I have no idea where Bowie is or its relationship to the Pentagon for the race.”

I turned from the elevator as the doors opened and headed back to my room. “We can share a room if you bring food,” I said, not sure how she would respond.