Another 26.2
Over the course of the past 17 years, my body has done some amazing things. Most of all, my five beautiful children- including twins! Running the gamut from unmedicated birth to epidural to C-section; months of bed rest, and 75 pounds gained and mostly lost. And I'd be lying if I said I hadn't taken a beating from all this, as much as those five beautiful, miracle faces are worth every bit of it. Add to this professional inactivity. And then professional activity. Moving from state to state. There were also the postpartum hypertension, migraines, exhaustion, postpartum depression-(so difficult to recognize for what it is when it engulfs you-nobody wants to talk about or is too ashamed to admit. I was. Am still.) I look at my melasma-stained reflection and feel I'm looking at a corpse. Where did I go? It hurts everything just to get out of bed some mornings.
Interspersed between these pregnancy adventures and beautiful chaos of the life they brought, have been my marathons. 19 of them so far, the most recent of which was this past weekend-my second Chicago. The last time I'd run this windy city race was my first Boston qualifier, ten years ago. I'd thought 20 might be a good number to bow out on. I'd fantasized that I would qualify for Boston again, and then round out my marathon days with a 20th overall, and fifth Boston- one last "chasing the unicorn".
When I was younger, I was a chubby girl with glasses- and in my arts high-school, I came dangerously close to failing gym. Gym class, mind you, was designed for sedentary music and visual arts students and consisted of dodge-ball and tag. Dancers got enough exercise already and didn't have to partake in this assigned humiliation. The teacher who almost failed me was perpetually pregnant (for three years straight) and "coached" us, out of breath and annoyed, from her chair that she could hardly sit up straight in- legs diagonally angled off both sides, making way for her gigantic tummy.
The fact that I ever even took up running is something of a mystery to me. I don't think I'm really a runner.
These races have never been about the sport of running, or bragging rights, or competition. It is the challenge and discovery that keep me coming back. Each time I face that 26.2 miles ahead, I know I will take a new lesson home. This is my Siddharthamoment. Sometimes I don't know what I've learned until after, sometimes the enlightenment hits me right at the start. I know that I will not enjoy it, no matter how hard I trained. But somehow my soul needs it anyway, in a way that I can't explain even to those closest to me.
I've grown weary of the comment I so often hear non-marathoners (including my own husband) throw out, "She must be crazy!"
Each time I run a race, I am inevitably moved, in a profound way. In a way that makes me gasp for air in a half-sob, half-kick in the chest.
I am moved by the human struggle that surrounds me. And the determined perserverence. A race of nearly 50,000 people. We may have been really excited to be here, doing this, but we are all miserable. And we all knew we would be. And we all did this, are doing this, on purpose. To face that nearly impossible thing and do it. To reach within ourselves and find the strength we never knew we had and make it to the end.
Those who think this sounds crazy may think so because it sounds like self-torture. But it is not about self. Not all the time. No matter how we got here or why, in the end it is about who we are with one-another. In a race like this, many are running in memory of someone, in honor of someone else, maybe for a charity and maybe not. Many are running for the first time, just to see if they can do it. Many are running because they do love it and maybe it isn't as difficult. I don't encounter many of these if they do sincerely exist ( - I'm probably just running too far back.)
Whatever the motivation, nobody knows how the day will unfold. I've seen the best trained athletes fall down, writhing in pain, unable to finish. I've seen CPR performed and ambulances more times than I care to remember. I've been vomited on from behind (just the outside edge of the splash, but still, it was gross). I've seen marriage proposals and even a wedding at Heartbreak Hill. I've seen breast cancer survivors running for other breast cancer patients. I've seen people run what they'd intended to be in honor of a loved one, when by the time the race came it was in memory. I've seen a man push his adult son with cerebral palsy in a chair, just because it was his son's wish to complete a marathon. I've seen people double back to help-nearly drag-others across the finish line so that they could realize their dream. 12,000 volunteers screaming for hours until their voices are gone to complete strangers, "Don't you even think about quitting! YOU CAN DO THIS!!"
This past weekend, I did not re-qualify. I did not blow my PR away. In fact, I barely finished upright, and it was my worst time ever. EVER. It was a beautiful day, perfect marathon conditions. I'd eaten bananas, cliff bars, water, gatorade- I was ready, besides the fact I hadn't trained enough. I just felt crummy. My stomach kind of hurt, my feet felt heavy, and by mile 10.5 I started to cramp. Charley horse kind of cramps in my right foot and left calf. It was the only race I've really wondered whether I could actually will my unwilling body to finish. Laura and my friends Elisa and Bob would be at the halfway point. I knew I had to at least make it that far and try to muster a comfortable-looking smile. I couldn't quit before at least seeing them. So I trudged on, thrusting my legs forward from my hip sockets, like Frankenstein. When I finally saw them, I did feel better! Yeah! I saw them! They were there! Cheering for me! Laura's sign said "You got this, MOM! We believe in you!!", Elisa, my friend of 25 years, had woken us all up at 4:00 AM with "Chariots of Fire" blaring throughout her house speaker system. Bob, her husband, had grilled filet mignon and salmon, mashed potatoes, and pomegranate/candied pecan salad the night before- drove me into the city at 4:30 in the morning. Who does that??? I HAVE to keep going.
This pumps me all the way to the mile 14 marker. That's just .9 miles. At this point, if I step just so, it will be all over, so each step is gingerly placed. Another mile. If I can get to 15 then maybe I can just think about 20. If I can do 20 I can probably do it. Still, it is hard to imagine another 12 or so miles of this cramping. I eat a banana, and then another, and then an orange, and then another cliff bar. and then another banana. Gu. Gu. Now I feel sick. Quieting the voice inside, advising me to ask these nice volunteers if they are surethey don't have a fever? I just wipe any potential Ebola or enterovirus off onto my shirt and gulp down all the charity potassium I can find. Mile 17. 18. 19. What the hell, potty stop. This last few miles might take a while, and this is the one aspect of my discomfort that I can control. Massage-limp-massage-limp back to "running" pace. People around me are having trouble, too. One woman's mother, who had been in the crowd cheering her on, was now holding her weeping daughter up by the elbows, "You can DO this, honey, I KNOW you can!" I almost trip over the man in front of me who stops suddenly in his tracks, letting out a loud "AAAHH!" Mile 20. OK- so now if I just can get to 24. The last two I could walk if I need to. Then I consider that walking might actually be faster than what I am currently doing. Nope. Not doing that. I'm going to run. Just get to 24. The next 3.8 miles take about ten hours, especially since my iPhone is now dead and even Jack White can't help me now. Just me and the voices in my head. I try to quiet these by talking out loud to myself, "OK, OK, OK, OK- It's OK, just another mile and then another and then another...." I look up and see a spectator holding a sign, "Just A Shit Load of Miles Left." I give her a thumbs-up, because she is right. A veteran in a wheelchair holds out his hand for a high five. He's way up on the sidewalk. I wince-tiptoe delicately to him and slap his hand-"Aatta girl!" A teenager holds up a sign, "GO MOM! BTW: WORST PARADE EVER!!!!" Mile 21. Mile 22. A runner is carried off to the left of me. A herd of fast, happy looking runners sprints past me. An older gentleman shuffles ahead of me, his T-shirt Sharpied on the back, "49th Marathon." Mr. "I've run maybe 3 or 4 of these so therefore I must be awesome and also I'm faster than you" high steps past us both, like an antelope, saying "Great Job- Hang in there!" I ignore his condescending tone. So does "49th Marathon" man. He probably means well, but I am not in the mood. 23. 24. In my peripheral vision I see the company I currently keep. Strained faces. Struggle. I hear out-of-breath whispers, "wecandoit... wecandoit... iknowwecandoit". Friends are running arm-in-arm. The first .1 of the last .2 is uphill. Seriously??? And then, at the top, I hear a gasp, a small disbelieving voice, "i can see it! i can see it- its the finish-look, it's there!" Tears. Silence from us but louder from the spectators. Louder. Some run faster toward the strip but I know I can't- I just limp and propel my lower body ahead. One leg at a time. And when I do finish, when I finally cross that line, my eyes fill and my throat chokes- almost unable to breathe. Unable to believe that my body did this. That I could do this.
As we are funneled into the finishers area (ironically, now it is hard to stop running), the woman next to me suddenly leans over, grabs her ankles and starts sobbing. I know exactly how she feels. Every finish is a victory. Every finish makes me emotional, but this one, my worst time, was my best race, because I never in a million years really thought I could pull this one out. And yet I did. One sign I'd seen earlier in the sidelines read "Do Something Epic." This is when I remembered what I used to know but forgot a while ago. Every single step IS epic. To be savored. Enjoyed. Celebrated. The best things in my life have come from difficult journeys.
I have a feeling 20 might not be my last.