Nine years ago I ran my very first marathon, and after the race I wrote a short story about the experience for a feature writing class I was taking at the time. This is what I wrote then. Enjoy.
"For my sweetie. To get in shape. For charity. For the cure.
There are many reasons why people start running for exercise. Some of these reasons are health-related, like lowering cholesterol, preventing diabetes, or keeping heart disease at bay, as well as reducing stress, or “finding time for yourself” in an overworked, fast-paced society. Most people, though, start running to shed some of the excess pounds that have begun to make of America an obese society. Whatever the reason that makes people lace up their running shoes and get going, the benefits of running can be as much spiritual as they are physical, and the impact does trickle down to all aspects of a person’s life.
In my case, it all started with a dare.
Just a little over a year ago, my uncle dared me to join him and walk the New York Marathon, an event he participates in almost every year. One evening in one of his customary visits to our home after finishing the classic New York race, my uncle, who at the age of 65 has been running marathons for as long as I can remember, started joking around and, knowing well that even walking to the corner is a great feat for me, dared me to ‘just try,’ and maybe we could walk together in the race the next year. I told him that I just might take him up on his word, and that he would be very surprised. After making this fateful statement, and for months to follow, my uncle, along with my aunt, father, mother, brother, husband, and any other human being that has known me long enough to know that there is not a single athletic hair in my body, took it as a running joke. Let’s all poke more fun at the chubby little lady.
I know that I am no Marion Jones, and that my exercising history leaves a lot to be desired, but really, must everybody laugh at my naiveté? So, I started thinking, what if? While walking on my treadmill, a Christmas gift from my husband that has been collecting dust bunnies in the dark corners of my basement, I fantasized about crossing the finish line, while everybody cheered me on, clearly awed at my endurance and speed. Of course, the fantasy lasted about five minutes or so, the length of time it took me to feel out of breath. But surely I could shape up… I still had about a year to get in tip top shape for the competition. I vowed to exercise every day, and to go on a diet, and to drink more fluids, and to do all those things my fitness magazines told me I should do to turn my rather round physique into a lean, mean muscle machine in “just 4 weeks.” But, oh, the lure of prime time TV and potato chips are so much stronger than I! If I was to succeed in avoiding the ridicule that was sure to follow if I admitted defeat, I needed some strong motivation, and fast.
And then it came to me in the form of yet another fitness magazine article. A structured program to turn most couch potatoes into first-time marathon walkers in just four months. Not only did I have a step-by-step approach to achieving my goal, but the testimony of the writer who swore by it after having tried it and succeeded at walking the Honolulu Marathon! So there was my motivation. No, not the program. The trip to Honolulu! I called my uncle and double-dared him. I told him that I was definitively going to surprise him, and that he could count on my finishing a marathon even if it was the last thing I did. The only condition, though, was that New York be replaced by Honolulu. Even he could not say no to Hawaii.
Just to make sure I would not back out at the last minute, I purchased the tickets, booked the hotel, and registered for the race as soon as possible. With finances and a nice vacation involved, even my husband got into the marathon groove and registered too. We were ready to start the long road to success.
For the next few months, both my husband and I got into a disciplined routine of five short walks during the week, and increasingly long walks during the weekends. At the beginning it was hard to make myself follow the training, but having my better half training with me made it easier for me to stick to the program. Little by little I began to notice changes in my body, not to mention my attitude. Not the kind of oh-my-gosh-lookit-yah kind of changes, but the more subtle kind, like being able to walk at gradually faster speeds on my treadmill, or an increased level of energy throughout the day, or actually looking forward to the weekends’ long walks.
At the same time that we made progress in the exercise front, I started looking at that other aspect of wellbeing that we all dread to talk about. Yes, I am talking about the “D” word. Diet. Not the “Starve Yourself Silly” diet, but the mindful eating that comes with truly analyzing what your body needs and finding it in nutritionally sound choices. I started to see the importance of food as fuel for my workouts, and making smarter choices became easier with time. So, not only did I start losing the extra poundage, but the added benefit of having a lighter, better fueled carcass to drag along in my walks was a complete bonus.
Before we knew it, we were investing in heart monitors, power gels, designer running shoes, and other little gadgets to make our training more efficient. We started alternating walking with ever-longer running segments. We browsed the Internet for hints and advice to increase our stamina and endurance. We were, in one word, hooked. As the date of the marathon approached, we fine-tuned our workouts, and planned the race to minute details -- where we would meet at the end, what time we were planning on making, how we were going to run, and what not.
The day of the trip arrived without my even noticing. We found ourselves at the airport waiting to board on the airplane that would take us from Chicago to Honolulu. While we waited, a very cheerful lady, wearing a bright yellow shirt and overalls walked around the waiting area, with a list on hand, asking people if they were part of “the team”. We were puzzled by this and wondered if we would find out what “the team” was. We found out when she came by our seats and asked us the same question. We said no, and in return asked her what was “the team” all about. As it turns out, it was “Team in Training”, a group of people who pledged to run a marathon to raise money for leukemia. I vaguely remembered to have received one of their brochures in the mail. I also remembered to have tossed it out without second thought – yeah! like I was ever going to run a marathon.
The pre-race Honolulu experience is somewhat of a blur in my memory. Although the astonishing Hawaiian landscape passed before my eyes with mesmerizing beauty, all I could think of was race day. I would have time to admire the views later… I was so excited I could hardly sleep the night before.
On race day, we were up at 3:00 am. My uncle, my husband, and I, along with about 20,000 other people started gathering at start line. It was raining and cold, but the mood was festive and upbeat. People of all sizes, shapes, and colors came together in one big party, everybody waiting with exhilaration for the gun to go off. At 5:00 am the signal was given, and an undistinguishable swarm of cheering bodies began moving through the still-dark streets of Honolulu, like a giant snake slowly slithering away into the horizon.
The rush of adrenaline kept us going for the first eight miles. We were making fast time. Throughout the race we came across two distinct groups of people representing two charities: one was raising money for AIDS research, and the second was the one we had already met at the airport, raising money for leukemia. They had an amazing support system, with group representatives stationed along the race course giving their runners water, fruit, and, even more important, words of encouragement. For the rest of us, mere mortals with no higher purpose other than to achieve a personal-best goal, there were just the water stations. I clearly remember thinking “and what about me?” “Who will cheer me on?” By the time I reached the half-race point, I had slowed considerably, and lost my husband in the process. I was able to keep up with my uncle, who is not as fast as he used to be in his younger days, but still very fast. But soon I lost him too. My morale started to decline just as I began to feel the pain in my right foot. It felt as if someone was hammering a big rusty nail through my heel. The pain started in the heel, and it soon began spreading to the plant of my foot, and upwards to my ankle. I could not run anymore. I would have to slow down and walk, as fast as possible, but just walk. But even walking was excruciating. I was sure I had somehow managed to get a stress fracture or something, and to make matters worse, there were those confounded charity people cheering, and laughing, and having a good old time. I wanted to just sit down and cry.
I didn’t sit down, but cry I did. Copiously, noisily, and drawn out.
There I was, a walking mess of tears, mucus, sweat, and mud, strolling my way through the race course. I felt no shame, all I felt was the pain in my right foot, and the outrage at the fact that all my months of preparation could very possibly end in defeat. It was right about mile 20 when I heard him right behind me. There he was, a little old man of about 75, huffing and puffing, and making his way through the crowd. He had a shirt that said he had finished this very race every year since it started in the late 1970s. He had tied jingle bells to his shoe strings. Cling, cling, cling, cling. I could hear him going just behind me, slowly but steadily, with obvious effort, but with determination. He, like myself, did not have the support system the charity runners had. He only had his determination. Cling, cling, cling, cling. He is now by my side. “I am not as fast as I once was, but this will not be the year I don’t finish,” I hear him tell a fellow runner who expressed his admiration after reading the t-shirt. Cling, cling, cling, cling. He passed me, and was now lost in the crowd in front of me. As I watched the old man go, I felt ashamed. This would not be the year I would admit defeat, either.
I tried my best to pick up the pace, but while the failure thoughts were left behind, back in mile 20, the pain in my right foot was still quite real. So I decided that I did not need to make a specific time, all I needed to do was finish. I kept going, much slower, but with an uncanny sense of relief that I did not have to beat any record. I just had to set one. My own record.
At long last I could see the finish line in the distance. Although there were loud speakers playing music at the end of the course, the last few feet play in my mind like a slow-motion picture. I can see people cheering on both sides of the line, but I cannot really hear them. I know I am walking much faster now, but I feel like I’m in a dream, moving very slowly. Shortly before I cross the finish line a Japanese gentleman steps out of the sidelines and gestures for me to smile. He lifts his hand and gives me a high five. “Well done,” he says, in halting English, “Smile, you are a hero.” I’m overwhelmed. Soon I cross the finish line, and in the confusion of people cheering and celebrating, the only person I see is my husband running towards me. He had finished a full hour earlier, and there he was, tired and hungry, waiting for me. We hugged and cried together before collapsing on the floor, too exhausted to walk. We had achieved what nobody thought we could.
We spent the rest of the day sleeping. We went to bed at around five in the evening, and did not get up until seven the next morning. As we went over our experiences, we discussed the highlights and the not-so-bright spots of the whole ordeal. Now I have bragging rights to tell anybody who ever doubted that I am a marathoner. One thing my husband and I agreed on, though, was that we would never do this again. Been there, done that. I proved myself and didn’t have to do it again. No sir. There is no way you can ever make me do it in this lifetime again. Nope.
“So, what do you think about the Ireland Marathon?” asks my uncle a few months later. Hmm!… My eyes light up. Don’t you worry; I’ll take care of this one right away. I’ll check out the hotels, the fees, the airlines. Just leave it to me, uncle dearest…" -End-
Now, we never did go Ireland, and my dear uncle is now prisoner of his own body, victim of a cruel disease that has robbed him of his most treasured pleasure. Since that time, and largely in his honor, I have become one of those people who walk for a cause. In 2009 I walked 40 miles in search for a cure for Breast Cancer, a feat I intend to repeat in 2011 (for more information, visit my avon page: http://bit.ly/bVe7GB). Also, I promised myself I would run one marathon per decade. Next year my decade is up, so it is time to plan the next big one: Marine Corps, here I come!
