Surviving My First Marathon- part 2

Thud, thud, thud, thud.

My feet plodded along on the pavement and my head spun as time seemed to slow down around me. Behind me I could hear three women laughing and joking about who was going to call in sick to work the next day. The water in my hand sloshed and splashed with each step I took.

We were surrounded by runners while everyone found their pace. I tried to focus on the road before me, and how much it meant for me to complete this marathon, not only for myself and for how far I’d come, but for my children; my students; my family and friends who had shown me so much support when I needed it the most.

To our left was a cemetery, to our right the racetrack. I wished desperately for the impetus to shake off these negative feelings and suddenly it was there, right beside me where he always was.

“Just breathe,” my brother ordered, the familiar timbre of his voice a comforting reminder of the many miles we had logged together. “My legs feel weird during the first mile, too. It will pass.”

This was his eighth marathon and he was running it not only with me, but for me, to show his support and his belief in me that I could accomplish this.

And just like that I was freed from my semi-paralysis.

Air filled my lungs, and my feet regained their instinctive rhythm. I looked down to see the muscles in my quads flex powerfully as I took each stride. Excitement bubbled up inside me again, and I met my brother’s eyes, seeing the same confidence and desire to finish that I felt.

I beamed at him as my Garmin beeped.

“That was a mile?” I asked incredulously.

He grinned back, the worried look on his face vanishing. “Feel better?”

I nodded. I could do this. It was only 26 miles…the time was going to pass by whether I was running today or not, and I’d much rather have the time pass while I was running.

Ahead of me I spied an older woman, her gray hair partially hidden by a baseball hat as she trotted along. If she can do it, I thought, I can do it.

Along the side of the road, spectators waited, cheering the runners as they passed, whether they knew them or not. Suddenly someone yelled, “Go, Sharon!”

Startled, I looked up. I had written my name on the front of my shirt at my brother’s suggestion, and I smiled gratefully at the stranger, feeling renewed energy in my limbs.

One mile became two, then four, then six, and my body was finally remembering what it had known all along. This was what I had trained for, this feeling of confidence and strength as the streets took us further along the course towards our final destination.

My lungs inhaled and exhaled rhythmically, my arms swung at my sides, and my legs, strong from months of training, moved me forward.

It felt great!

By mile eight my legs were on auto-pilot, willingly giving me what I needed. We were doing intervals of running for five minutes and walking for thirty seconds, which was how I’d trained. Sweat pooled at the base of my spine and on my neck as I ran, quickly whisked away by the morning breeze.

Running is mostly an individual sport, but there are benefits of running with someone else.  Having company makes the time pass more quickly, helps to take your mind off any discomfort, and gives you a motivation to complete the task.

There is always something to talk about as we run. As the miles flew by, my brother and I analyzed and reflected, laughed and teased, shared memories and playfully argued, and passed the time so that before I knew it, we were coming up to one of the hardest parts of the race- where the course split.

He had warned me about this particular spot, because he had run the half marathon here a few years earlier. The half marathon and the full marathon run the same first twelve mile course, albeit an hour apart, until suddenly the road splits and the sign points to the left for the ‘halfs,’ and to the right for the ‘fulls.’

Some people who had already finished the half marathon walked by us on the way to their cars, their shiny new medals dangling from their sweaty necks.  We yelled our congratulations and they cheered us on.

As we approached the sign, I watched as many people turned left and just a few went to the right. I couldn’t believe I was going to be one of the ones turning right today.

“Let me get your picture,” my brother urged. “Go stand in front of the sign.”

I posed in front of the sign, smiling brightly. I wasn’t tired yet and I still had plenty of energy.  I waited for him to put his phone back into his bag, taking a swig from my water bottle.

“You sure you don’t want to go left?” he asked. “We could just call it a day now and no one will ever know.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. The thought of stopping early hadn’t actually entered my mind until he’d said it.

“You’re not funny,” I told him. “We’re doing the whole thing.”

“Just checking to see where your mind is,” he replied, laughing.

We broke into a jog again, reaching the turn point and heading to the right. Spectators cheered for us as we ran by, some yelling out my name. My brother would chuckle every time. I loved my shirt!

A few streets later, I heard someone else shouting my name. When I turned, I saw two of my friends from work, twin sisters, waving at me gleefully from the sidewalk. They had already completed their half marathon, the first for both of them. I hurried over and hugged them, quickly introducing my brother as I jogged in place.

What an energy boost it was to see them!

With renewed vigor, we continued on the route, journeying through the side streets of Long Branch and admiring the beautiful homes and lawns, as well as surveying the damage wrought by Sandy. The amount of spectators wasn’t as heavy this far along the course, but the ones that were there gave us some much appreciated encouragement.

Around mile fourteen we made a right turn and began to run on the main road that would eventually bring us to the turnaround point. We took a short walk break through the water station so we could eat our gels and drink water.

“Almost there,” my brother said, gulping Gatorade. He was still going strong, despite the fact that he’d run two half marathons the weekend before.

“Almost where? What mile is the turnaround?” I asked, trying to picture the map of the route. All I could remember was a long, long, path that went below Asbury Park before heading back in the opposite direction.

“Nineteen,” he replied, casually crushing his empty paper cup and tossing it in a trash bin.

And we were only at fourteen?

Suddenly the next five miles,and the twelve miles after that, seemed very daunting. The road ahead looked never ending. The sun had broken through the clouds a short while ago, and the pavement seemed to shimmer in the morning heat despite the cooling breeze from the ocean.

How was I going to make it?

…to be continued…