On Saturday, May 1st 2010, I finished the Illinois Marathon. Here is everything I can remember about that life experience.
Overall
I finished in 5:28. That’s 5 hours and 28 minutes. Never in my wildest dreams did I think it would take me that long. I started out with the 4:45 pace team. 4:45 was an aggressive time but I sincerely believed that if I worked hard I could finish between 4:45 and 5:00. 5:00 was my drop-dead, almost-taking-it-easy, there-is-no-question-I-will-make-this-time pace. 5:00 was practically my long slow distance TRAINING pace, and believe me, I trained slooooooooow. Not ‘slow’ relative to a faster runner, slow relative to me. So, what happened? How did I work so hard for so many weeks and feel my body get so strong and finish at a time almost a half-hour after my fallback? Well, I’ll tell you. Following is an almost mile-by-mile review of my first marathon. If you want drama, read miles 10, 14, 25 and 26. That’s when the juicy stuff happens.
Start corral, and final potty breaks
(dedicated to: Beth and Nando)
This is the largest “team” I’ve ever been a part of, in terms of people I know running this race. There is a group of 11of us running the half and full marathons. Pre-race we all mange to find each other fairly easily, which doesn’t happen too often. Tim, the overall coordinator and common thread between most people, has us meet at the ‘farthest East port-a-potty.’ Although it sounds funny to say, these are brilliant instructions.
In our group there are three first time marathoners, all women, two half marathoners, and six experienced marathoners. The six experienced runners are all trying for a less-than-4-hour run. We take turns standing in line for the port-a-potties then one of the late-joining runners invites us up to her hotel room to pee. Her hotel is literally on the start line. It’s the most bizarre hotel placement I’ve ever seen. A long line of us troops upstairs to take advantage of running water and a flushing toilet. Ahhh, heaven.
After that we re-collect for one last round of well-wishes then head off to the start line. I am told I will kick the race’s ass. While I’ve felt capable of this feat before, I have never once felt as though I had that power for this distance. But I appreciate the confidence and spirit.
Here are a couple general observations about the race: a) it’s small and b) I like the town spirit. I can compare this event to ‘Go St. Louis’ which I’ve participated in twice. It’s not just a race – it’s a community sponsored party. Instead of hearing “go runners!” you hear “go Champaign-Urbana!” The local radio station has a team of hosts covering, each sounding a little thrilled and amazed to be doing something they haven’t done before. Local shops are out in droves. Families line the street with small children who have likely been brought out just as spectators, not necessarily as cheerleaders for relatives. These two small, central Illinois towns are clearly thrilled to have us here, and have turned out with signs, billboards, ti-shirts, balloons, bullhorns, cow-bells, pom-poms, soaped windows, and thousands if not hundreds of thousands of volunteers. I am reminded of how wonderful this kind of community spirit and generosity feels.
As I stand in line for the start these are some of the thoughts in my head: I haven’t corralled up for a race by myself in a long time. I haven’t stuck myself immediately behind a pacer since my first run. I haven’t been this warm at the start line in a long time either. The weather looks like it really wants to rain. It still smells like rain, as is has since last night. I am standing by a number of people who say this is also their first marathon, and we all wish each other well. We joke about crawling to the end, but vow that we will get there somehow.
Eventually, the gun sounds. At least we assume it sounds; we’re far in the back and can’t hear anything. But after several minutes the wall of people around us begins pressing forward. Unlike the Shamrock Shuffle, an 8K I ran a few weeks ago, everyone knows to save their energy until they cross the starting pads. No one dances in line trying to run early, which is probably due to a combination of the weather and an understanding of the energy needed to get through this distance. It only takes about 5 minutes or so to reach the start. I’ve been in races where it took me upwards of 30 minutes. Again, this race is small.
Miles 1-12
(Mile 1= me. Miles 2-12 openly dedicated).
The woman holding the 4:45 pacing sign managed to cross the start line waaaaaaay ahead of me, and most of her eager followers. It’s a pain in the butt to try to catch her. She is also running way ahead of pace. Even when I finally catch her around the second mile she is pushing too hard. It takes her until mile 4 or 5 to realize this, and she slows way down, thus confusing almost everyone following her. She calls out to all of us to stay behind her otherwise we’ll burn out, and I can’t help but think she’s also reminding herself of this too.
The first mile of a race is always a jumble. You never run at your settled pace since you’re fighting everyone else (who are also fighting each other and you) to get into a comfortable position. The mile 1 marker comes before you even know you’re running. I try to think of some profound thoughts as keepsakes for myself but come up dry.
By mile 2 the grit is setting in. By mile 3 most of us are covered in sweat. Not “sweaty,” but literally covered in it, head to toe. At the first water stop my cup is only about a quarter full, which is much less than I need but I figure it’s early on and the crowd is thick so rather than trying to grab another I’ll just deal with it.
I remember almost no scenery from this early part of the run. I know we were running along residential and small business streets. At one point I do remember running along the street where Emily and I watched Mark run last year. It’s an adorable street with a Starbucks, Dunkin’ Donuts, cutely-named bar or two, etc. I remember last year being lucky enough to watch the winner run by, and crying. I told Emily how important and cool it was we got to see the winners. Winners astound me with their physical abilities. They always make me cry.
It is difficult to stick with the pacer. It means I’m not inside my own head, but am instead constantly watching her. I don’t like this. I don’t like it so much that all other distractions are really making me mad, including the cheering spectators. I ask myself harshly what the hell is wrong with me, since ANY race spectators deserve THANKS, not anger. I don’t know if I’ve spent too much time running by myself on back roads or what, but I have a serious problem with the early spectators. I hope I never feel that way again.
At mile 8 I remember thinking there are 18 more whole miles to go, and feeling a little scared. At mile 10 someone calls out “10 whole miles gone!!!” to which a runner responds “only 16 more to go!” A marathon is a long, long way.
Very shortly before that mile 10 exchange there had been a water station, which everybody walked through. This is rare. Typically some people walk, some people keep running, some people skip the water altogether. But everybody, en masse, slooooooows waaaay down and walks, savoring their water for several feet. Around this time I feel hurt. I am hurting. I ran 10 miles just two weeks ago in a taper at just about this pace, and felt awesome and refreshed. Maybe it’s the distance stretching out in front of me which is affecting me so much, but I am hurting. Not quite physically, but psychically. I’m blocking out all of the people cheering, blocking out the other runners, trying to focus on the pacer, and am not happy. Between miles 10 and 11 I walk for the first time. It’s only a little bit – maybe a minute or two – and I’m angry with myself for doing it. My feet cramp, which has never happened to me before. I vow to drink Gatorade at the next stop. If I recall correctly, the additional electrolytes should help prevent cramping. I am concerned that I feel no joy during this race.
Around mile 11 – just after the mile marker – there is supposed to be a cheering crowd of people I know. I am wearing a jacket around my waist which has my inhaler, two packages of shot blocks, and two Clif bars. This is much more food than I will need but my sweet husband wanted me to be safe. The jacket is weighing me down and the food is banging into my legs with each running step. I decide to throw the jacket at my friends. I fish out one Clif bar and plan to take another hit on my inhaler then be done with it. At the mile marker I slow down to a regular walk, searching for them. Nothing looks familiar. I scan both sides of the street looking for a recognizable face, house, or inflatable rally monkey. Nothing. I do see the first runner down of the race, being helped into an ambulance by EMT’s. I join those around me in staring at him with sympathy. He looks young – maybe 30s – and fit with a long, lean body. It’s surprising to see someone of that age and build down so badly so early in the course.
By mile 12 I realize I am not seeing my friends (turns out we missed each other due to the distracting ambulance) and I feel deflated at the thought of having to keep my stupid heavy jacket. I am personally pissed off at each food item in my pockets. I open up one of the Clif bars to eat it just to get it out of my pocket and choke on the first mushy bite. The peanut butter tastes drier than normal, and my mouth is too dry to properly chew it. About a block later I see a trash can and throw the stupid thing away, relieved that my pockets are a little lighter.
Miles 13 & 14
(Mile 13 = Tyra, Mile 14 = BJ and Tariq)
Between miles 10 and 14 I alternate walking and running. It’s probably about a 50/50 deal. Just before mile 12 the marathon and half marathon courses split. I semi-choose, semi-by-rote follow the full marathon course. I am slightly jealous of those running the shorter race, but I didn’t sign up for the half.
Mile 13 is dedicated to my friend Tyra. Tyra always amazes me with her positive attitude. I’d thought this would be a good mile to make hers since at mile 13 I had expected to be happy. 13 miles is something I am very used to. It’s a challenge for me, but it’s one I’ve managed several times before. I make a decision while running to try to feel happy. Along this stretch there are not a lot of spectators and I recall a lot of sunshine. I recall running as though I was just gritting it out; just trying to stick out the miles, fighting to find a pace that felt at all comfortable and not torturous. Somewhere between 13 and 14 I took three breaths on my inhaler, hoping that would make the running more comfortable. I realize again I am deriving no joy from this at all; not even any satisfaction from my effort. Mile 13 is hard.
At mile 14, I deeply fear I cannot do it. Meaning, I feel in the core of my being that I am not going to finish this race. The 5:00 hour pace group – which consists at this point of a single sign holder and two runners – passes me. I feel defeated and pissed. I am so miserable I want to cry, but don’t want to dehydrate myself or lose my pride by doing so. I walk, and have a pull-no-punches talk with myself. I consider back-tracking along the course, finding the half/full split, and finishing along the half marathon route to have at least accomplished SOMEthing. I consider trying to cut through side streets and find the stadium and just sitting in the bleachers. I realize that what I am doing right now isn’t even something I want to be doing. Not only am I afraid I’m not going to finish, I don’t WANT to keep going anymore. I see parents with adorable daughters watching the course and I think about my Emily, and how today we could be riding her bike in the driveway instead of my being stuck here. I tell myself to buck up, that THIS IS THE RACE, that this is the event I’ve been expecting since November. I remind myself today is my one shot, my only go at completing this distance since I’ve already sworn I would never do it again. I try running and realize that, if it’s going to be this awful, then I can’t do it. What I’m feeling is different than standard fear or nerves: it’s sick and horrible. I hate it, and I hate myself for feeling it.
So – I can’t do it. I consider what that means. I have 12 miles to go at this point. 12 miles. That’s 1 mile less than a half marathon. I like half marathons. When I consider that distance, I recognize that in fact, I can do 12 miles. I am still standing, therefore I know I can. I have 12 miles in me. I think about the race, and how I felt when I registered. I felt overwhelmed and terrified, to the point where it took me weeks to even TELL people I’d signed up, because the distance felt so frightening. I think about the charity for which I am running. I think about my friends and family, who I harassed and begged for money – for their own, hard-earned money – and who so optimistically and generously gave to me. And I think about that goddamned half/full split again, and my thoughts when I ran to the right rather than along the shorter straight-ahead route. I think:
I didn’t come here not to finish.
And this thought, this short, clichéd, grammatically poor, action-movie, Rocky-Balboa-esque thought, is what carries me through to the end of the race. But I don’t realize that quite yet. No, first I have to figure how, exactly, I’m going to get through the remaining 12 miles.
And then, like a school kid realizing the secret to a word problem, the answer hits me. I’m going to walk. For the rest of the race, I will walk. Not run. Not take walking breaks. Walk, as quickly and powerfully as I possibly can.
Since I’ve started running training, walking has felt like a cop-out to me. Walking, even speed walking, isn’t as much of a challenge as running. Running kicks my butt but makes me feel powerful. It’s been a long time since I’ve derived satisfaction from walking. But then another realization breaks over me, and brings me such joy I can liken it to religious insight:
I haven’t felt this way since my first race.
My first race: the Go St. Louis 2008 half-marathon, which I entered with the intention of walking. I was scared but hopeful, and when I finished (having unexpectedly run almost 5 miles of the course), I felt amazingly proud of myself and like an Olympic athlete.
This marathon was another first race for me. My first race I’d ever entered honestly not knowing whether or not I could cover the entire distance. This race was my very first full marathon. And, no matter how I got there, the achievement was in covering the miles. I didn’t have to do it as a winner, or do it pretty, I just had to do it. I had to reach down, pull out those miles which were buried somewhere inside me, and finish. Upon realizing this, a sense of blissful relief washed over me, and I launched into my personal Act II of the race.
Miles 15-19
(Miles 15&16 – openly dedicated. Mile 17 = Aaron. Mile 18 = Stephanie. Mile 19 = Linda Waco)
Mile 15, I am walking. To address my cramping feet – which on and off cramp for the remainder of the race – I have ingested both Gatorade and water, and now take 1 shot block. I take it with a cup full of water, like I’m supposed to. My sides have also been cramping throughout the race, and I managed to run thru the pain in the earlier miles. But now, shortly after my decision to walk, my entire mid-section cramps. And stays cramped. For approximately 6 miles. No, that is not an exaggeration.
When I say “cramps” I mean “turns as hard as a rock from my chest to my groin.” Every inch of my abs freezes up. Literally, the last time I felt like this, I was in labor, having my child. If I stop and think about it, the pain is almost excruciating. So, I don’t think about it – as much as possible. I feel thankful that I am already walking and settling into a pace, because if I had been running then this probably would have sent me to the sidelines, crying. A race official passes me on his bicycle on the sidelines and asks if I am okay. By this point I have heard at least one other ambulance, and am picking up from the officials that this is not a good day. I smile and give him a thumbs-up because I feel strong in my decision that, unless my body physically brings me down, I am stomping out this mother.
At mile 17 there is a water station and I take Gatorade again, hoping this will help with the cramping. It does not. This is so frustrating that I consider asking the next person I see to tell me on the fly if they think I need more or fewer electrolytes. Since the next person I see looks like she’s 12, I skip this idea. I also think of Aaron, who chose this mile because he wanted a prime number. This calls to mind a couple other memories of Aaron. In one, he is talking to me on the phone after our friend Mikey died. Mikey has been on my mind a lot over the past couple days since he attended grad school in Champaign-Urbana, and so I feel like I’m in “his” town. In my other memory, Aaron, Don and I are sitting around a large dinner table with other friends for a post-college group meet-up. We are joking about another friend who would only get tires installed on his car as long as they were non-religious, anti-tract-housing tires with hot sauce on top. We are all three cracking up, throwing out more descriptors, wiping tears from our eyes. It’s a great memory. At mile 17 I have 9 miles to go, which is a beautiful cubed number. I wonder if Aaron realizes that although 17 is prime, 9 certainly is not. Although, to be fair, he didn’t get his first numeric choice.
Miles 18 and 19 come along. I see another runner, this time a man who looks to be in his 40s but also in very good shape, being taken away on a stretcher. I also see a different ambulance driving by with sirens. The sirens make me almost physically ill: it is a tough, tough race. I have never, in any event, seen this many runners down. It is a horrible feeling.
I am in a pack of people now, and we all stick together more or less until the end of the race. However, I am the only consistent pacer. Everyone else is alternating running and walking. They run past me, throwing sweat and puffing with exertion, and after a few blocks I pass them as they slow to a hobble. I am grateful again that I a fairly fast walker. I’m not a race walker per se: there is a technique to race walking I’ve never been taught and which I have not mastered on my own. But I am a naturally swift, steady walker and my legs are powerful from 20 weeks of training. I have been holding at between a 13 and 13:30 minute pace since I started walking and feel as though I could keep it up forever. It is a challenging gait for me but conservative enough that I know I can sustain it in this heat. I give major applause to every person who runs by me, and send out wishes that they be able to start again once they stop. I wonder if I am annoying them each time I pass. I feel happy and strong. I feel like a different person than I was a few miles ago. At mile 19 a young college-age-looking guy with a beard volunteering at a water station gives me a happy yell. “YEAH!!!” he yells. “YOU ARE DOING THIS! RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW – YOU ARE!!!” This happens to be exactly how I too feel at that moment, and he secretly becomes my favorite person on the course. I feel so honored he gave up his time to cheer me, and everyone else like me, on.
By this time, I am smiling at and thanking the spectators, occasionally cheering with them. A couple people recognize Team Hole in the Wall as a charity and yell out that it’s a great cause. I smile and wave and get tears in my eyes. At mile 19 I think of my relative, Linda Waco, who did the breast cancer 3 day charity walk. It’s a walk I very much want to do some day. I think that I know how she might have felt along her course: proud and tired and elated and exhausted, all mixed in together.
Miles 20-24
(Mile 20 = Linda Matula, Mile 21 = Jeff G., Mile 22=Michelle K., Mile 23 = MJ & Don, Mile 24 = Jenn & Rex)
Mile 20. We’re passing through a winding subdivision and some very nice houses. Not too long ago we passed a sign someone had placed in their yard saying “Mile 20 is 2 blocks ahead!” At this point every ounce of motivation helps. Almost immediately after we hit mile 20 a nice suburban woman yells “You’re almost there!” If there is one request I think any racer could make of any spectator, I think it would be that they never yell “you’re almost there!”
Around mile 14 or 15 I had a conversation with two nice young men about what constituted “the home stretch.” One asked the other “mile 20? Is that the home stretch?” The other answered “6 miles to go? Maybe. Maybe 24?” I answered “25?” and then a couple of us said at the same time, “Nah. 26.” “When you see the stadium” one of them said. I laughed “the last .2. At the last .2 you can honestly say you’re at the home stretch.” (Please note, these sentences were more or less gasped out in between breaths. None of us are just milling around). I happened to see them at the feeding station once the race was over and found out they finished about a minute ahead of me. I’m probably more than 10 years senior to them and most likely trained harder. I’m guessing they ran pretty much for the hell of it. They were super friendly and we all congratulated each other – it amazes me the types, the many, many different types, of people you meet in a race.
But, back to my point. Spectators, we love and appreciate you (if we’re in nasty moods that’s OUR ungrateful problem, not yours). But please, please – unless we can literally see the finish line, we are not “almost there.” Unless the next mile is literally around the corner and we are literally 10 feet or less from the corner, the next mile is not “just up ahead.” We know how far we have to go. We are all in a place inside our heads where we’re gutting out the pain and calling on our inner stamina. We know we need to keep gritting on through and we’re not “almost there.” Please don’t say we are. It gives us false hope, and that hurts.
At what was probably mile 21-ish Thin Lizzy’s version of “Whiskey in the Jar” comes on my ipod. I’d started playing music somewhere into My Own Personal Act II. I’d been holding on to the idea that when it came to the last 6 miles at some point I’d try running again. Since this is one of my favorite songs, it seems like a fine time to try.
I run as best I can. My stomach is finally less solidly cramped than it had been. It still hurts, but I breathe through it. My feet are burning. During the race I’d been cognizant of my feet pounding much more so than normal, even in my still fairly new, very comfortable, specially designed running shoes. I normally train on gravel and asphalt and was surprised by how hard my feet were hitting the ground. Throughout the race they went from plodding to pounding to hurting to all out burning. My right foot in particular is very painful. My lungs are burning, and my left shoulder is twinging in pain. But I manage to run for the entire song. I check my pace at a couple points and see I am running right around 12 minute miles. 12 is slow for me – it’s a very, very slow run for me. But it was the best I can do.
After the song ended I begin walking again. I hear yet another ambulance siren. When I first stop running I can only walk about a 15 min/mile, and I calculate that the little bit I gained by running I would lose by the crash and slow walk after the run. I work my pace back up to 13:30 min/miles, but this is getting more difficult to sustain. I have to push much harder now to keep it consistent. I tell myself if I can keep it between 13:30 and 14 then that is fine, I just need to keep pushing.
I noted that the song came on my ipod “at what was probably mile 21-ish.” I’m not certain about that, though. See, the distance between mile 20 and the next mile marker seems interminable. I’m experienced enough to know what a mile feels like. I may not be able to tell to the exact tenth, but there is a big difference between one mile and two. After awhile I joking wonder if I’ve passed mile marker 21 and not realized it. A little while later I think– no, seriously, did I miss the sign? A while after that I see the next mile marker. Squinting, I realize it says mile 22. Yes! Vindication – I had indeed missed the orange balloon signifying mile 21. Thank god. I know I am fatigued, but if I am mistaking one mile for two then I am in big trouble.
Right at mile 22 is a misting station. Blissfully I pass through it, the cold water shocking me. A young girl who keeps trading places with me (she passes me, I pass her, repeat) says: “Less than 4 to go, right?” I cheer and pump my fist in the air. I love, love the camaraderie of races. I love it at all points through the event, but there is something particularly poignant about the tail end. We are all in this together. We are all miserable and hurting and eager to be done, but we are cheering for the people around us as well.
Somewhere around this point in time, a blister on my left middle toe bursts. Burning pain consumes my toe, gently spreading across the top of my foot. Were I doing anything other than plowing through the last few miles of my first marathon, I would stop whatever I am doing and probably yell obscenities. Instead I think “Ow” and “I didn’t think that would actually happen during the race.” I hope my toe won’t get too much more irritated or infected, and then don’t have the energy to think about it anymore. Then, my right shin starts to sharply burn. I have never had shin splints, or any problems with my shins. I get really pissed that I might start having them now.
Goddamn it, I tell my shin, (possibly out loud, I am honestly not sure). Goddamn it, I do not have time for you to hurt too. I’ve never had a shin problem and don’t know how to help you out. And I’ll say right now that you are NOT bringing me down. I didn’t come here to not finish. So if you want to hurt that’s your prerogative, but I am not going to fuss over you. You are getting ignored, start right now. Burn away, I don’t care.
I swear, after I get done telling my shin off, it actually starts to hurt less. In retaliation, though, my left shoulder twangs like it is getting pinched out of my socket. So I tell my shoulder that it isn’t even heavily involved in the forward motion, so it can shut up too. It doesn’t listen as well as the shin.
At mile 23 the course crosses back over itself – with mile 19 being on one side of the street and mile 23 across the other. I jog through this, as I have every other intersection during the entire course. I figure that since I am capable of running for short bursts then I can try to get across intersections as quickly as I could. Quite a bit of this mile is along a several lane road, with orange cones set up to section off the racers. We are squeezed down to pretty much single file, and passed by yet another ambulance. Everyone walks at this point. Everyone. The road goes slightly uphill, and in between the heat, the traffic, and the slight climb it feels as if there was a group consensus to say screw it and walk. Since I had been walking and holding a steady pace I actually end up passing several people, which has to be done on the grassy shoulder and is tricky. People in cars honk at us and roll down windows and cheer; kids stick their heads and arms out of windows and “WOO!” us. I admire their ability to encourage such a sweaty, red, beaten-down bunch. I hope none of them are discouraged from trying this on their own one day.
My other significant thought from the latter half of mile 23 is: thank you, little baby Jesus, for creating shade trees. The combination of cars and sunshine of the first half of this mile was causing my vision to waver. Ever since my first race I’ve worn a baseball cap for distances. I’m not a baseball cap kind of girl, but I’ve grown a decent collection that I use just for running. They have prevented headaches and dizziness on more than one occasion. But this late in the course I am incredibly grateful for the shade given by the overhanging, mature trees and their beautiful full branches.
Mile 24. This is Jenn and Rex’s mile. Jenn made a joke that at mile 24 she had no expectations that I’ve ever have both feet off the ground at the same time. As a joke back to her, I plan a jump for some point during this mile. Exactly at the mile marker there is an arrow on the ground indicating the course turns to the right. I try to leap like a gazelle over the head of the arrow but instead trip-hop over it almost as though I’m stumbling. It’s a testament to how tired I am, and I feel foolish and embarrassed by my lack of grace. But I find having the silly joke motivating, and it makes me smile.
We are back in a subdivision. I know the steepest, longest hill of the course is waiting on this mile. Luckily, my training run has an almost-as-long and even steeper hill. I climb the hill, even bettering my pace back up to 13 min/mile. I feel immensely proud of myself. It occurs to me that for 4 miles now every step I’ve taken is farther than any step I’ve taken before, since my longest training run has been 20 miles. This thought overwhelms me and I almost sob. I have to breathe slowly through my mouth to calm down. My brain goes haywire during long distances, but I’m going to save crying like a fool for the finish line.
I’m passing by a traffic controller, turning a corner. Just before I spot the next marker he informs us “it’s exactly 1.3 from here.” 1.3 miles. Like an idiot I realize that 25, not 26, is my last full mile. It’s impossible to do math when you’re this tired.
Miles 25 & 26.2
(Mile 25 = Mark. Mile 26-finish = Emily)
Mile 25. It’s my last full mile. It’s the distance around my subdivision at home. Home. My family. I try to think of Mark, to whom I’ve dedicated this mile, but it’s difficult to hang on to a thought. Mark, though, deserves recognition. When I first registered and thought I was taking on something insane, his response was “Cool, baby.” Semi-casual, semi-surprised, communicating that he knew that of course I could do it. As the more experienced marathoner in our household, he has made sure I can get in my long runs by adjusting weekend training. He enthusiastically shouted to others about my charity fundraising, drumming up support. He will be proud of me for not quitting. While it’s almost impossible for me to focus my thoughts now, Mark rightfully deserves a heartfelt dedication.
In my stream of consciousness I think of Emily, which makes me choke back a sob, so I deliberately try not to think of her. I think of mothers and daughters. I think of my mom, who this week refused to be moved to an independent living facility in order to stay in a nursing home. She’d rather remain where she is, even though she is still young enough to have other options, rather than try something new. I know I should have more empathy or at least sympathy for her, since she has gotten a raw deal in life. But the refusal to try infuriates me. I resent the position she in which she has put her children.
I think of Emily. I think of myself, of my life, of where I came from and how I’ve grown into who I now am. It hits me that decades ago, a couple years ago, weeks ago, days ago, mere hours ago during this race I never believed I could finish. I was pretty sure the last 6 miles would come from somewhere, but I had not internalized their ownership. During my first race I proclaimed that marathoners were crazy (which they are) and that I was happy and fulfilled knowing I would NEVER be one of them (which I was). But here I am. I see the stadium.
Mile 26. It sits just before mile 13, denoting the half marathon’s final full mile marker. Several people fly through my brain. Emily again, my beautiful daughter. Dena, looking at me during my first race and proclaiming “come on Amy, it’s time to run” (Dena, I am still sorry for the look of death you got in return). Alicia, who ran her first half marathon in November and MJ, who ran her first in March. Don, who seemed convinced I would kick this race’s butt. Every coworker who wished me luck. Every other runner I know in this race and the friends who came out to cheer us on. BJ, who made sure I did not give up on my first Shakespeare in the Park production and who I know would have given me one hell of a talking to several miles ago when I was questioning my ability to finish the race. Michelle Hennan, who told me that as I crossed the finish line I’d be thinking: “I can’t believe it. I’m actually finishing a marathon.”
Immediately after mile 26 the course rounds a corner and runs up to the stadium. You enter the stadium running on to the football field, like an enthusiastic college team pumped up by the cheering crowd. It may be the fatigue talking, but I swear at this point every race official looks on with something approaching awe as people drag themselves up the final drive. I am trying to beat 5:30. My right foot is on fire and both feet feel like hamburger. It spurns on a feeling of wanting to collapse, but I run the last .2 miles. I’m going to show this race that it didn’t kill me. I’m going to show my doubting self what I’m made of. I imagine, over and over again, myself crossing the line and quietly finally indulging in sobs of gratitude. It’s corny, but it’s also a profoundly private and emotional thought.
Life often works differently than the way you plan it to, though. As I plod through the dugout I hear a bellow: “GOOOOOOO AMMMMYYYYYYY!!!!! WHOOOO HOOOOOO!!!!!!!” It’s Mark, standing at the entrance, holding a video camera, waiting for me. I know that he must have been worried, since I am so far off my time. In another race, had I been so far over time, I would have felt annoyed with myself and apologetic. Under the circumstances, knowing how hard I’ve worked, knowing I stuck it out the only way in which I could, knowing that I overcame self doubt so severe that I contemplated walking off the course, I feel elated. I am finishing. I am finishing a marathon.
Mark jumps on the course to run with me, and to show off how strong I now know I am I run full out. I break into a sprint. I run so hard I pass people several strides in front of me, which I generally might consider insulting but they were in my way. I pound, I fly over the finish line, completely forgetting to look for myself on the Jumbo-tron. I almost completely blow by the nice lady holding finishers medals, since I’ve long since forgotten that there’s a medal waiting for me at the end of this race. After I realize she’s there I at first try to awkwardly grab the medal from her, but she’s waiting to hang it around my neck so instead I lean over and accept it like a real athlete.
My right foot is killing me. My legs are burning and wobbly. It hurts to breathe and even my arms are limp. Every muscle in my body aches. Mark gives me a huge hug, and I finally give in to the overwhelming day and cry and cry. I can’t even describe my pride and joy.
Afterwords
(Dedicated to anyone who has read this far)
I won’t spend too much time on the mechanics of post-race talk. However, the following things are communicated to me:
a. It was a horrible race. “Brutal” seems to be the most descriptive term.
b. Temperatures reached over 70 degrees. For the first two hours of the event humidity was over 90%.
c. No one made their hoped for/projected times. No one. Not the seasoned runners. Not even folks who were more trained and prepped for this race than they had felt for any other. Everyone was slowed by the conditions.
d. My feet hurt so much because the ground was concrete, not asphalt. Asphalt is slightly more absorbent. I’m glad that difference wasn’t just in my head.
Later we find out the male winner finished in 2:30, the female in 3:00. 2:30 is awfully slow for an elite level male runner; 3 full hours is almost abysmally slow for an elite woman. Those times are a testament to the tough conditions we all fought through. Additionally, nearly everyone I talked to stated that at some moment they considered dropping out. Not just the fleeting thought of “why am I doing this?” but serious thoughts of chucking it all and stopping. Everyone agreed that, aside from those who had experienced the horrific, unseasonably hot 2007 Chicago marathon, this race had the greatest number of ambulances and downed runners of any event they’d seen. Mark said he also felt uncommon, painful cramping that he could not cure.
Now, the day after the race, I feel good. My legs hurt like hell yesterday, but they’re much better today. They feel stiff and sore, but overall I’m okay. My biggest complaint is a blister on the ball of my right foot that is literally larger than my big toe. The middle toe on my left foot looks as though it’s been shredded, but it’s not that painful. However my right foot is so tender I can barely stand on it, and I have to walk with a limping gait along the outer rim of my foot. My blister is so hideous I had my husband photograph it: I’m proud of how ugly it is. Check out his flickr account if you want to see.
Here is the most surprising thing about this experience: I think I will do it again. All through training, through the first half of the race, I swore this would be my one and only. But in spite of the brutality of the day I managed to find my joy in the event. I realized the meanings behind “the race starts at mile 20” and the ethereal phrase “there’s something about that distance . . . .” I found a sense of accomplishment at completing a beautiful, full 26.2 miles under my own power, all in one go.
I realize that my love for running sits with the half marathon. That’s a distance I feel that I can claim and pound through at my own speed. For the marathon, though, I think I would like to experience a good solid walking time again. Or maybe even a walk/run, where there are some speedier passes just to break things up. The thing I enjoyed about this race was simply enduring it. I could see myself enduring it again.
For now, though, I’m going to stare at my beautiful medal and savor weekends without training runs. I’m going to hope my blister heels soon so I can focus on recovery work. I’m going to plan for my half marathon in August. And, in a week and a half, I’m going to Disney World. I will enthusiastically spend every single moment relaxing and watching my daughter’s head explode from the carefully manufactured fun. And I’ll casually and obnoxiously work into the conversation the fact that yeah, I finished a marathon. I never expected that I’d walk half of it. And I’m goddamned proud.
Thank you. Thank you to everyone who helped and encouraged me during this experience. Congratulations to everyone who participated in the race too. We did it. We all did it, and my sincere hope is that, like me, you feel goddamn proud. We finished a marathon. We hated it, we loved it, we kept going. I’m thrilled for each and every one of us. Thank you, thank you, thank you.