26.2

For the entire week before this marathon I was sure I wasn’t going to complete it. This conviction was more subconscious than anything—I don’t think I ever outright told myself or anyone else that I wasn’t going to make it. But as I cut back on my running and upped my carb intake and did all those things I was supposed to do the week before the race, I sort of felt like it was all in vain. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel capable of making it. I had put in all the training, and I trusted that it was enough to get me through all 26.2 miles. But what I didn’t trust was that my injury from last year wouldn’t spring itself on me on the day of the race and keep me from reaching my goal.

Two weeks before the marathon I had set off on a normal run and had been forced to turn back just over a mile out when I felt the same shooting pain in my hip that had put me completely out of commission for over a month last year. I caught it early this time and I forced myself to rest it. But I couldn’t walk comfortably for two days, and I could feel it on the last few runs before the marathon. I had visions of setting out at the starting line only to limp off the course a mile or two, or even five or six, into the race. This hip injury was the only thing that could stop me, and I had no control over it.

But I still prepared as though I were going to run and complete the marathon. I ran four miles on Monday and five on Wednesday and that was all. I tried not to think about running 26 miles on Saturday, and therefore successfully kept my stress level quite low. On Wednesday evening I joined some ward friends for Ultimate Frisbee in the park and had a blast until about half an hour in when it suddenly struck me that this was probably not such a good idea—what if I accidentally sprained my ankle or twisted my knee and sabotaged my marathon in exchange for an hour in the park? I couldn’t get the thought out of my mind, began playing more and more conservatively, and finally left for home before the game was through. That was the last of my physical activity for the week.

My parents flew in on Friday morning and I met them at my grandma’s house up in Bountiful after lunch. My dad did a 200-mile bike race with my brother last year, and so he knew enough about distance training to tell me periodically to go sit down and get off my feet (which is not my natural inclination). We went to dinner at the Old Spaghetti Factory, where I forced down more pasta than I had an appetite for, but certainly didn’t stuff myself. Back at my grandma’s house I picked out a DVD and we sat and watched until I excused myself at 9:30 to get ready for bed. I was in bed by ten, my alarm set for four.

All the marathon training guides say that it doesn’t matter if you don’t sleep much the night before the race, that you probably won’t sleep much the night before so you might as well just anticipate not sleeping. They say you’ll be fine running on a lack of sleep so long as you slept well the night before that. I wish I hadn’t read that, because it meant that when I went to bed on Thursday night I knew how important it was that I get enough sleep that night, and subsequently took several hours to fall asleep when normally I drift off within twenty minutes, and slept fitfully for most of the night.

But maybe that was a good thing, because by the time I went to bed Friday night I was tired. I did my best to forget that I was running a marathon the next day, and when I awoke at 2:30 (it’s not unusual for me to wake at least once in the middle of the night) I was surprised to find that I had just slept for four and a half hours straight. It took a little longer to fall asleep the second time, but I was out, and had been for awhile, when my alarm went off at four. I’m still surprised by how well I slept (although I attribute it partly to being at my grandma’s house—I always sleep better there than in my own bed).

My parents were up at four as well. They ate breakfast and I forced down a couple cranberry breakfast cookies, and then we got in the car and drove about an hour to the start of the marathon. They dropped me off in the dark and I pulled on a long-sleeved shirt and found a spot by one of the fires that were scattered throughout the parking lot of a little camping store where they had set up port-a-potties and an aid station and a drop station for unwanted clothing. A runner standing next to me crouched down to get away from the smoke and I crouched down next to him. He struck up conversation—he was an Ogden native, at the marathon for the second time, although this time he was just running the relay. I told him that this was my first marathon, and he asked if I was nervous. I thought for a moment, then replied (truthfully), “No, not really. I’m just not really thinking about it at all.”

It was true. I had not had one nervous moment all week. It may have been because part of me expected my hip injury to keep me from finishing, but I think it was also because I didn’t fully comprehend that yes, I really had made it through my training this time, and yes, I really was going to be attempting to run 26.2 miles that day. None of it felt entirely real, and so I didn’t feel much of anything (nerves or excitement) other than some vague anticipation.

A tired-looking high school band dressed in blue volunteer shirts (that were a lot nicer than the t-shirts they gave the actual runners) showed up while the sky was still dark. A tuba player began running scales and I thought of trueblat, and then thought that I would have to mention that in my blog when I wrote about the race later that weekend :). They started playing for us a little before six, and though it effectively blocked out the sound of any announcements that were made over the loudspeaker, I kind of enjoyed the atmosphere that they brought to the waiting area. I ate a Luna Bar, drank some water, put my long-sleeved shirt in a drop bag to be taken to the finish line as soon as it got warm enough that I could stand in short sleeves without freezing, and waited.

They called us to the starting line at about 6:20. I was one of the first there, but I stood back about 30 feet and let other runners fill in in front of me. When I’d ran my half marathon last August I’d gotten as close to the front as I could and spent the whole first mile being passed by everyone. For the marathon, I didn’t want to feel pressure to start out faster than I needed to, and so I hung back.

At 6:30 they let the wheelchair racers (about four or five of them) start first, and then about 30 seconds later they began the countdown and I started to feel excited for the first time as we all chanted, “Ten, nine, eight…”

And then we were off.

My hands were freezing for the first couple miles, but I felt very relaxed, and enjoyed the view of the canyon, and was surprised every time we hit a mile marker. The first one appeared sooner than I expected. Shortly thereafter we passed a green highway mile marker that said Mile 26. I thought that was pretty funny.

For the first half of the marathon the miles just flew by. My parents and grandma and brother were waiting to cheer me on at mile eight, then they passed me in their cars and took pictures and waited for me again at two or three more spots before traffic was diverted outside of Ogden Canyon. Other people—volunteers, friends and family of other racers, and several locals who had stepped out of their houses to watch the race—cheered us on from the sidelines, and smiling volunteers and excited kids, and even a few local football players, cheerfully manned the aid stations, and there was just a great atmosphere. The route was beautiful. We started up a canyon, then ran through farmland, with horses trotting up to fences to watch us pass. At mile 14 we began the one uphill stretch in the entire race before dropping into Ogden Canyon for the last leg.

That uphill stretch is about where I began to slow down. I’d been holding my pace at about eight minute miles until the hill, and although it wasn’t a particularly grueling hill, it was long and in full sun (it hadn’t even occurred to me to wear sunscreen). I kept reminding myself that we’d already passed the halfway mark, and that once we got to the canyon it would be downhill almost to the end. Of course, by the time we finally began to run on a noticeable down-slope my legs were tight enough that I hardly noticed the difference.

At mile 16 I overheard a racer say, “Single digits from here,” and that made me happy because the thought hadn’t even occurred to me.

At mile 18 I realized that I only had eight miles left. “I run eight miles all the time,” I thought. “That’s no big deal.” And I felt optimistic.

At twenty miles I tried to pretend that I was running a 50K instead of a marathon and had 10 miles to go instead of six. (It didn’t work.)

Running a marathon is largely psychological. Sure, you have to put in the physical training. But part of it is knowing what to think about, and especially what not to think about. I spent quite a lot of the marathon blocking thoughts that I knew were counterproductive. At the beginning, every time I thought about how many miles or how many hours I had left I would immediately shut off my mind or try to think of something else. By the end I was trying very hard not to focus on how I was feeling, but at this point I was allowed to think about how much I had left, as long as I thought about it in a positive way. Eight miles was no big deal because many of my regular runs are close to eight miles nowadays. Six miles was no big deal because that’s currently my minimum running distance on a weekday. Four miles was no big deal (never mind that at that point I was running farther than I’d ever run before in my life) because on a normal day I hardly feel like I’ve run at all if I go four miles. This is what I told myself.

At the end of the canyon, with about three and a half miles to go, my family met up with me again, and my brother jumped in the race. “Keep talking to me,” I told him as he ran alongside me, “even if I stop responding.” I had made it to that point just a little faster than they’d expected, and my brother was impressed that I was still able to talk to him—that had to be a good sign, he said. I admitted that my energy level was just fine. My legs, however, were killing me. Those last three miles were the longest miles I have ever run. I couldn’t believe how far apart the mile markers were, when they had seemed so close together at the beginning of the race. We ran through the dinosaur park and continued along the parkway until we were directed off it and onto Orem city streets about a mile before the finish. We turned a corner and up ahead we could see crowds of people and a large red gateway that marked the finish line.

“I don’t know if I can make it any farther,” my brother joked as we neared the crowds. “I’m going to cut out here,” and he left me to finish the last three blocks solo. I felt about ready to collapse, but with the crowds cheering me on (and the runners were spaced far enough apart that they crowds were able to cheer each runner individually) I managed to just barely pick up my pace. Ahead I saw my dad run out in front of the finish line, from one side of the crowd to the other, so that I could see him (this is very characteristic of him), and when I got close enough I watched the clock about the finish line tick off the seconds: 3:39:40, 41, 42…I think I passed underneath the red gate just ten seconds shy of 3 hours 40 minutes (which incidentally is the Boston qualifying time for women in my age group—I was quite excited to find that out later in the evening). I knew I should keep moving, but I came to a stop pretty quickly and a volunteer held me by the shoulders while someone removed my time chip from around my ankle. I didn’t need to be held up—my legs were pretty sore, but I was capable of standing—but my mom told me later that not long before I came in a woman had crossed the finish line and collapsed right there, almost before anyone could catch her. They weren’t taking chances.

My mom also told me that it was interesting to watch people cross the finish line. Some, she said, looked like they could keep going for another several miles; others looked like they had nothing left in them. “You looked like you were in the first group,” she told me, and I felt good about that because I knew that I was really in the second group (I have this tendency in everything I do to look like I’m doing better than I am). I walked with my family to keep my legs moving, drank some PowerAde, rinsed my face off in the bathroom, and then picked up my drop bag before we climbed in the car to head back down to Bountiful.

I was exhausted, but giddy in the car—for the whole day, in fact. Even now, on Sunday evening, I can’t quite believe I actually did it. 26.2 miles is a long way, and my legs keep reminding me. Yesterday I thought I was sore. Then I woke up this morning and nearly collapsed getting out of bed. Standing up, sitting down, and walking downstairs are all excruciating ordeals. I took some Tylenol before church and if it helped I couldn’t tell. I even took a (short) nap at 11:30. I never take naps, and I especially never take naps before church. I managed to have a pretty full day today, what with a ward choir trip to Music and the Spoken Word, church in the afternoon, a lengthy phone call to a friend in New York, home teaching, visiting teaching. That was probably good, because otherwise I would have just sat around all day, at home, in pain, just waiting to go to bed.

Not only have I been sore (which is to be expected) but I also haven’t had much appetite. This is somewhat surprising. I’d have thought I would be famished after running a marathon, but when my family asked what I wanted to eat for lunch after the race, and later where I wanted to go for dinner, I had no suggestions because not much of anything sounded good. I ate, but not more than I usually ate, and today I still haven’t felt much like eating. It’s like my insides are rebelling against what I put my body through yesterday.

But despite the physical discomfort, I am so happy right now! Nearly two years after deciding to run a marathon, and after an injury and several other setbacks, I finally reached my goal. It would have been great if I could have done this last year, but the victory is even sweeter having experienced such a disappointment before the success. I tried to keep my training more low-key this time around, but training for a marathon is (for me) a big deal, and by the end a lot of people knew I was doing it. I no longer have to worry about all my hard work falling through, though. I finished, I finished in good time, I had fun (I might have disputed that after mile 18 or so), I feel great.

And now I have the summer to just kick back and run for the fun of it. No worries about whether an injury is going to put me out of commission—if it does, so be it. I’ll deal with it and it won’t be the end of the world like it was last year. No worries about whether running a bit longer on a morning because I feel great is going to interfere with a scheduled long run later in the week. No worries about whether a hill run will cause my hip injury to flare up—if I feel like doing hills, I’m going to do hills. No worries about when I’m going to run my next long run, or if I’ll be able to complete my next long run. I’ll just run as much as I feel like running and wherever I feel like running and enjoy the mornings because they’re just getting warmer and brighter and summer is my absolute favorite running season.

Hallelujah, it is done.

26.2, 3:39:50, May 21, 2005.