It's taken me a while to finally sit down and write about my marathon experience. It's not that I haven't thought about it. On the contrary, I think about it every time I pass the medal hanging in my room, which is multiple times a day. Sometimes I look at it and feel like I didn't really earn it. And sometimes I look at it and wonder if it is really mine. It is a tangible reminder of vivid memories and feelings laced with victory and defeat to everything in between. But every time I sit down and try to put my experience into words, I find myself at a loss--grasping and waiting for words that simply do not come.I feel much different now than I did that day in September, and yet in many ways, the same. The biggest difference is that I can breathe freely now. The cough is gone. The fever is gone, and once again my lungs can expand to their full capacity to take in precious air. Such was not the case that day. Every breath I took was painful. Every cough sent me gasping for air. And every step left me wondering why I had to get sick 2 days before one of the biggest events of my life. It didn't seem fair. I had trained perfectly, without injury, logging all of the miles required of me. I knew my pace, and I was confident that I could keep it. Until I got sick. I learned all too quickly that it doesn't matter how hard you have trained if you can't breathe.
I was hoping that my illness would simply leave on race day so that I could run like I wanted to. But that wasn't the case. I struggled with every step, and by mile 17 or so, I had been relegated to simply (I hate to even say it) walking. "Walk" is a true four-letter word to a runner. I felt dejected. Defeated. I hated being back at the tail end of thousands of runners. It was actually painful for me as I watched my goal time slip through my fingers. My new goal was simply to finish ("and not die in the process" according to Mike).
I don't even know what my time was when I finally crossed the finish line. People have asked, and I honestly don't know. I don't want to know. I know that it was well over (here we go again with four letter words...) five (5) hours. But all I cared about was that I was done. The tears came freely for a multitude of reasons: because I was finally done; because I had done so poorly in my own eyes; because I was ashamed at how long it took me. The pity list goes on. But I would be lying if I did not say that from somewhere deep inside were tears of joy-- that I had actually finished my first full marathon, no matter how long it took. I knew with all my heart that I had done the very best with the cards that I had been dealt that day, even though I was hoping with all my heart for a completely different hand.
Many tender mercies were granted to me that day that I never want to forget: the wind at my back pushing me along when I could feel myself slowing down; the stunning red oak trees that lined the sides of the canyon at the peak of my favorite season; the people who cheered (even when I was...cringe...walking); and the little children who shouted, "You can do it! You're almost there!" when I must have looked like I was about to die. And I simply cannot fail to mention my impromptu "race crew"-- My sweet husband and 3 other dear, dear friends who stayed by my side on their bikes from mile 14 to 26, something they did not plan to do. They knew I was struggling when they saw me come out of the canyon, and so they rode along next to me. They talked to me. They made me smile and even laugh. They carried my water for me. They even waited in line at the Port-a-potties for me. And they kept my spirits up when I was feeling so down. And I had one friend there who ran the marathon and crossed the finish line a full hour and a half before me, and yet waited there for me to finish because he knew I would never give up. So Mike, Rachel, Lisa, Natalie, and Dave, I thank you. When I say I never could have done it without you, I mean it with all my heart. And to all of my other friends and family who were not there, but were praying for me, I thank you also. Your faith helped in ways you cannot imagine.
I swore that day that I would never run another marathon in my life. EVER! I had checked off that item on my bucket list, thank you very much. I had nothing else to prove. But as the days and weeks have passed, I have realized that I DO have something to prove--to myself: that I will not let the memory of this one day keep me from running another marathon. I want to cross the finish line running and feeling victorious. I want to feel strong. In short, I want to smile instead of hang my head. And so I will run another marathon. Not any time soon. But when the time is right, I will try again.And I will finish again.
No matter what the cost.
