Mrs. S: "Are we REALLY going to walk 13.1 miles in the rain?"
Sday: "I say, we gotta at try it. We'll regret it if we don't." " But if you don't want to, I understand. I'll go by myself."
Mrs. S: "If you're gonna do it, I'm gonna do it. I just wanted you to know it would be OK if you didn't want to."
Before I could comprehend the surrounding situation, there I was. The start line, nerves abundant, my stomach tying itself into a plethora of clove hitch knots. We tried to stay dry until the last possible minute wearing our heavy duty foul weather rain coats made to withstand hurricane force rain. Alas the start gun sounded and we ditched our coats into the truck that would carry our belongings to the finish line to be picked up... if we ever finished. The nerves settled as we slowly began to move foreword in a cattle herding like mannor. Thousands of people slowly swarmed around us as we moved across the start line and turned East toward the reservoir. The rain persisted relentlessly It was within the first mile that the last two inches of dry clothing was encroached by the soggy fibers surrounding it. There was no escape from the cold, fat rain. There was no escape from myself.
Slow and steady, very very slow and hardly steadily Mrs S. and I rounded off the first few miles along side the grey dreary reservoir. I watched as literal sheets of rain crossed over the vacant waters. I walked a lot, even though I was trying to walk the least amount possible. Walk, jog, walk, jog..... we continued across the damn. And finally the sweet relief of turning down the canyon. I needed every degree of decline the road ahead of me had to offer, flat terrain might has well been up hill because I was in such pitiful condition. The boost of energy that running down hill gave faded and Mrs. S and I began to separate.
We continued to leap frog past each other as we'd experience moments of numbness that allowed us to jog a little faster, only to tire out and require a rest. Mile 3 ---- Mile 4 ---- Mile 5 ---- Those numbers seemed so insufficient as I knew I wasn't even half way. To say I was waterlogged was an understatement. The skin on my fingers pruned so deeply they were colorless. The rain ever steady and the altitude of the canyon left my limbs so numb beyond function. I couldn't feel the buttons on my ipod to change the song, my shirt kept riding up but my hands were useless to grasp the fabric and readjust. The sensation of total numbness one feels after going to the dentist had overtaken my legs, and if I slowed down to walk the cold deepened the numbness. So we continued on.
Mile 6 and 7 were brutal and I questioned myself. I tried to hold focus on any part of the beautiful canyon to distract my mind from telling my body to stop. Hundreds and hundreds of people had now passed me, there were few left behind and I was discouraged. I used my teeth to open a caffeinated GU pack and I heaved it down with a few gulps of Gat0rade at the mile 7 aide station. I fumbled with my ipod until I found enough control in my fingers to press the button until a suitable song turned on off I went. Magic mile 8 and 9 felt incredible My body so numb I was actually able to run without pain, and my mind had finally remembered how to fight to keep running despite it's innermost voice suggesting it stop. I smiled, I looked around at my surroundings, I looked at my Garm1n watch and although my pace was something most would joke about... I felt it. I felt what it was like to run again. To really run. I shuffled along and the endorphines rippled through my body as I relished in my "runners high" for those two miles. "I'm finally running again!" I thought to myself.
Then mile 10 decided to show up, and with it - the lead marathon runner. He flew past me like weightless gazelle, his feet hardly spending more than a millisecond on the pavement before springing his body foreword. Three strides and he was gone. The words "Keep Running" on the back of his shirt were hardly in sight long enough to read. Yet they provided some sort of a twisted mental ploy because I realized "I'm not running. That's running. I'm just a fat girl shuffling along at a pace most humans can casually walk." And there it was, the endorphin rush dissolved, the rain stopped, and the temperature began to thaw my frozen core. The thawing process was painful, my nerves began to register the pain I was enduring with each jolting impact of my steps. The beautiful canyon now behind me as I entered the tunnel that passed under the road before heading into the lonely parkway along the river. Mrs S too far ahead for me to see. I was alone, and I had nothing left. I gave mile 9 everything I had.
The pain increased and I could hardly run. Limping and frustrated, more and more marathoners passed. More and more half marathoners passed. The tempo of my walk now so sluggish that each mile was taking almost a quarter of an hour to complete. Mile 10-11-12 were as mentally as painful as they were physical. I caught up to my partner and she encouraged me to keep going. I tried to run a few steps at a time, 20 steps and then walk. Every few feet required a mental argument to "JUST TRY TO RUN A FEW MORE STEPS." More walking... a lot of limping and finally mile 12. One more to go. One simple mile I told myself, fifteen minutes! I tried again to jog and I physically couldn't.
I remember a sign a man was holding at the last corner before the straight away to the finish, it read "I've never been so proud of a complete stranger!" At that point I was trying so hard not to cry. I was a hot mess of emotion. I had gone 12.75 miles and I had never wanted to quit anything so bad in my life. I was literally hobbling down the center of the road - I was the least healthy person among thousands of people I had seen that day. People wearing shirts saying "I have cancer and there is hope" were faster than me. The self loathing hit an all time high and I didn't want a single one of those people lining the streets ahead to see me. I just wanted it to be over. Each block passed and that last mile lasted almost 20 minutes. One single city block left to finish and I couldn't bear to walk in front of all the spectators. So I hobbled, my right foot stung with the sensation of breaking bones each time I tried to push my body foreword. My left hamstring felt like a piece of string cheese shredding and pealing apart into oblivion. I stared at the ground because it was too embarrassing to look at those people in the face. They weren't sure if they should cheer or be as disgusted with me as I was, so we silently agreed to just avoid my awkward display of "finishing."
3:25:45 read the race clock. I stepped over the finish line and I sobbed and it felt so so good.
Racing has a weird way of forcing my brain to wander into the darkest, deepest corners of my mind and face my demons. (believe me, I use the term "racing" loosely. I'm referring to doing a really long hard distance or event that pushes your body harder than on a normal workout) Sometimes I have a hard time letting go of things that no longer serve me. And racing is one way that I had discovered how to dig deep enough to let go of those things at the finish lines. I let go and I cried, and then - I smiled. And the beast inside me stirred once again.
No more no-shows for this girl.
