Running Through Heartbreak

Four hours, fifty-six minutes, and twenty-one seconds. My humble goal was to run a sub-five-hour marathon, and by some miracle I did it. Now, for my loyal readers, I present to you a full-scale, nine-months-coming, Flying Pig Marathon Race Report.

The Morning Ritual

I woke up at four AM to see sheets of rain pouring from the sky. Lighting hurled itself sideways in the clouds and thunder grumbled softly. I was anxious, but oddly calm. I dressed myself, putting a layer of Bodyglide on my feet to avoid blisters from the wet weather, and slowly ate a banana and a bagel with peanut butter. Up went the hair, on went the visor. (I never wear visors, but I forgot my hat!) I met my uncle and my dad at 5, and we drove as far as we could through the rain, parked the car, and walked to the starting corrals.

It Begins

I placed myself a little in front of the five-hour pacers. It was a tight crowd, easily as packed as the Disney Half. Music blared from speakers and huge spotlights waved into the dark sky. Adrenaline pulsed through the crowd. The rain poured down.

Announcements were made. The Flag was raised. The Star-Spangled Banner was sung. The countdown began. Three. Two. One. The airhorn blasted the starting note, and a great cheer roared up from the crowd, and we began to walk, then jog, then run. A lump formed in my throat, tears welled up in my eyes. A great wave of emotion rose inside me. There was the starting line. I was across it. I pressed the lap button on my watch. I had begun the first mile of my first marathon.

The First Ten

They were a breeze. I ran them easily, slowly, at my planned 11:30 pace, gliding up and down the hills, up again, to the top of Eden Park. It was difficult to stay slow, as I knew it would be. Even in the rain, everyone in Cincinnati came out to cheer for the runners. The crowd support was absolutely incredible. People stood under umbrellas and screamed, waving signs and blowing horns and clapping. It was difficult to keep from soaring, from letting loose and flying down the road, riding the adrenaline of the crowd. I met a sixty-five-year-old man at mile two. He was running his first marathon. Inspiration was everywhere, wonder was everywhere, elation was everywhere. We were runners. We were racing. We had trained for this. Our calves were steel, our minds fortresses, our feet feather-light.

The rain certainly added its perks and drawbacks. It felt pleasant and cool in the warm weather, but it turns out that my shirt wasn’t made to get completely soaked. It kept rolling up my backside every five minutes, and I kept having to reach behind me and pull the sodden cloth down. My visor was a relief to have, as it kept most of the rain out of my face. You could hear everyone’s feet, squishing along the road. Bodyglide is a wonderful invention.

After we left Eden Park, the Half-Marathoners separated from the Marathoners. It was a profound moment. We literally split down the middle: Half-Marathoners turned left, Marathoners turned right. “I’m turning right,” I thought to myself. “I’m turning right. I’m turning right.” And then it hit me that I had a very, very, very long way to go.

The Next Ten Miles

The biggest climbs were over, and I began, as planned, to quicken my pace. It was at mile twelve that time began to weigh subtly heavier. Minutes ticked by at incrementally slower rates as my body began to feel the road more, to notice that I wasn’t planning on stopping anytime soon. At mile 15 I hit a very tiny wall – nothing new. Even on my training runs, I found mile 15 difficult to get through. Some phantom pain always raises its head, only to go away at the next mile.

The crowd was still excellent, but my rush of excitement and elation had dissipated. Miles sixteen through eighteen passed uneventfully. I concentrated on keeping form, keeping pace, each mile a couple of seconds faster than the last. The hills did not stop, either. I was prepared for them, but I think they still took a little bit more out of me than I had expected. There was one that was so long I thought it would never end, and one that was so steep, I actually exclaimed, “God! Give me strength!” out loud when I turned the corner and caught sight of it.

It was at mile twenty, after a mile-long, nearly barren stretch of interstate highway had ended, that I felt my legs and body begin to wilt. They didn’t want to run anymore. It was another mini-wall, a little worse than the last one. My brain was still on, my heart still full, but my body finally began to sag. Twenty was the longest distance it had ever had to deal with, and I was about to force another six miles on it. Six miles! It was sweetness and fear in my mind, all at once. So close! Only six! And so, so, so far. Just so you know, everyone who warns you to be prepared for those last six miles is right.

The Last Six

I heard a voice at mile twenty-one! It was my friend! Oh, sweet relief! She jumped in and ran next to me, and I said, “Oh, thank God,” out loud, and a couple of spectators laughed and clapped. B pulled off her jacket, and underneath it was a shirt with my name on it! She asked me how I was doing. “I feel crappy,” I said in a small voice.

“Good!” she answered. “That’s how you’re supposed to feel! You’ve just run twenty-one miles!”

We turned a corner, and to both of our surprises, my friend N and his wife appeared, waving their hands and screaming in the crowd. Then they jumped in next to us! I almost wept, I was so touched. N’s wife put her hand on my back and propelled me forward, and both of them shouting encouragements. By this time I was feeling generally awful. My body wanted to be done and my stomach was beginning to feel very bad. I knew I should eat something or drink something. I wanted to cry or scream, and I knew I was breathing very loudly and heavily.

“Let it out, girl,” B said, “I’ve done this before and you just need to let it out!”

“I FEEL LIKE SHIT!!!!!!!” I screamed. A runner in front of me turned around and laughed appreciatively.

Mile 23 was approaching. N’s wife had gone back to get the car, but N and B were still with me, talking, talking. Keep your form. Relax your arms. Relax your feet. There’s a landmark. We’re with you. We’re with you.

I had descended into a dark place. I knew it would happen. People had told me it would. That there would be a point during the race where I felt like I couldn’t go on. Where my body would shut down, my mind become exhausted. I felt sick and nauseous. I wanted to stop and throw up. I wanted to stop and roll into a ball and take a nap in the cool rain. I wanted to stop and cry my heart out. “Oh God,” I whimpered. How was I going to make it? How was I going to finish? How? Three more miles. It seemed a journey to the moon, an infinitely long time. Each second felt like another mile of running. And the hills! They were merciless! Even the little ones seemed like mountains.

Mile 24 passed in a slow, painful blur. I couldn’t control anything. My emotions, the dregs, the deep dark inside of me was raw and open to the world. And then I saw mile 25.

“You got this, girl, you got this, you got this, one foot in front of the other, keep going, we’re not going to let you stop…” I heard them, my friends, still running alongside me. One-point-two miles. Another hill. Another hill! One mile. Less than a mile. I was running. Running a little faster. I had it. Courage rushed back into me. I crested the last hill, and I could see it, the finish line. I gasped. “There it is!”

“Go! GO! GET IT!” And they put their hands on my back and let me go, and I knew I was going to reach it. A great surging wave of confidence crashed into my heart like a mighty prayer. I saw my dad and my uncle out of the corner of my eye, screaming. I could not turn my head. I saw my friends, my girls, jumping up and down and waving signs, yelling their heads off, smiling, go, go, go! I could not turn my head. It was there. I ran. My feet pounded the pavement. I raised my eyes toward it. It was so beautiful. I could not look away. It was over my head. The cameras flashed. It was under my feet. The crowd roared like thunder. I was done. I had finished. I was a marathoner.

Celebration

As soon as I stopped running, my body succumbed to stiffness and pain. I hurt all over. My hip sockets, my quads, my calves, my ankles, my feet. I leaned on B and could not stop thanking her. I was crying with exhaustion and emotion. We walked around stiffly, eating bananas and drinking Gatorade in the light rain. Luckily, nothing stuck out to me among the myriad of little aches, which means I ran the whole thing without injuring myself. Thank goodness.

I met my girlfriends and my family – my girlfriends were all wearing matching shirts with my name on them!!! – and we took a long, slow walk back to the hotel. Two of them had prepared an ice bath for me, in which B made me sit for fifteen minutes. I took a long, hot shower after that. It felt tremendously good.

My friends began to trickle out slowly, saying goodbye and heading to the airport. I’ve never been so touched by what they did for me this weekend. My dad took everyone who was left to a Brazilian steakhouse for dinner. It was delicious, but my stomach felt too delicate to eat too much food. Even now, I’m surprised by how little I seem to be able to eat at once. I expected to be ravenous.

Going Home

I’m in the airport now. I have ample time to write, to reflect, to think about things. I think, though, that I need a little more time to take everything in. I have a little bit more to write, and a little bit more to think about. Right now, I just feel a calm, infinite relief. I found out what I was made of. I found out I could keep going. I reached down into the dark and it was not empty. That is something I will always carry with me.