Surviving My First Marathon- Part 3

My brother insists that he was signed up for this marathon without fully agreeing to do it. My memory is not the best, especially when there’s a possibility that I’m wrong, but I do know that when he called me in January to tell me that he was free to help me out the weekend of my first marathon, I did what any good running partner would do.

I signed him up.

“Look! Can you see him?” he said suddenly, jolting me out of my reverie as we approached mile marker fifteen. I squinted past him to see what he was pointing at and could just make out the red and blue flashing lights of a police car.

“What is it?” I asked, thinking someone may have been hurt.

“It’s the leader of the marathon,” my brother replied. “He’s on his way back already. That’s amazing!”

It was definitely amazing to me that three hours into our run the leader was almost at the finish. Our attention was diverted by the man running towards us, a police escort behind and beside him. My eyes burned suddenly with the beauty of it. He was complete grace in motion, each of the defined muscles in his legs moving with incredible strength and magnificence.

Soon after that, more front runners of the race breezed by us. It gave us a momentary boost to know that eventually we would be following them to the finish line.

We plodded along. I won’t dredge out each arduous mile, but for the next several we did our five minute/thirty second pacing strategy, diverging from the main road a few times to follow the course as it zigzagged around first a lake in Allenhurst, and then a park near Ocean Grove.

We saw Tillie as we ran, the grinning face a historical symbol of Asbury Park; we trotted past the Stone Pony and then the Convention Hall, which had been almost completely demolished even before Sandy; we saw the lake where my dad used to bring my mom paddle boating when they were dating; and we were happily distracted with memories of our childhood when my parents would bring us to the shore to visit where my dad grew up.

It continued to be a mental challenge as more and more runners passed us going in the opposite direction, calling out encouragement to us as we cheered for them enthusiastically. I was envious that they were almost done but it made me that much more determined to be following them as soon as possible.

We completed each mile together, me usually trailing behind him by several feet because I have a slightly slower pace.

Step by step, breath by breath, mile by mile, we ran on.

Every few blocks there were groups of spectators, and I looked forward to seeing these strangers because not only would they yell out my name as we passed but because some of the signs they were holding up made me smile or laugh and distracted me from the monotonous plodding of my feet.

‘This parade stinks!’

‘Why do all the cute ones run away?’

‘Run first, beer later.’

The people and their signs were motivating and encouraging and it added to the air of camaraderie all around us. People who run marathons and people who support those who run these distances understand the mental and physical commitments that have been made to get to this point.

It gave me a good feeling to know that soon I would be part of an exclusive group of people who can say they have run a marathon.

When we made it to the turnaround an hour later, after three and a half hours of running, the sun burning down brightly and the sea air invigorating, we high-fived each other and the people around us as we rounded the orange cone.

“Just around the bend,” I said, mentally preparing myself for the next few miles.

He laughed. “Sure it is.”

My quads, knees, and shins felt fine, but it was becoming uncomfortably apparent that I had chosen the wrong sports bra for this event. As I ran, I alternated holding my arms underneath my chest so the muscles wouldn’t pull so painfully.

“There will be no mention of this after this race, do you understand?” I told him sternly.

My brother’s innocent face is pure genius.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, pretending to sound wounded that I would even doubt his ability to refrain from teasing me about it.

Since my granola bar and apple early that morning, the only things I had consumed were a few Shotblox, which are concentrated cubes of Gatorade, and my water, which I had been refilling at each water stop. Although I wasn’t particularly hungry yet, ominous rumblings were coming from my stomach.

The continuous jolting motion of jogging is a strain on every single part of your body, which I knew from previous runs. I had even read stories about people whose insides completely gave out on them as they ran but they finished their races anyway, unmentionable substances running down their legs.

I did not want that to happen to me!

When he noticed my discomfort, my brother handed me a salt packet and told me to eat it. Within minutes, I felt much better as the electrolytes in my body balanced out slightly. At the next water stop, I ate half a banana, forcing it down and willing it to remain in my stomach.

As the miles continued, I felt more and more drained. As my mind grew wearier and I thought longingly of my comfortable couch at home, I doubted once again the wisdom of thinking this whole marathon thing was a good idea.

The only things that kept me going were the increasing mile markers bringing us closer to twenty-six and the comforting thud of my brother’s sneakers in front of me. If he wasn’t complaining, then I wasn’t going to either.

The longest I had ever previously run was 20.5 miles, so once we reached mile 21, my brother took another picture of me, this time in front of the mile sign. I love that picture because not only was it the furthest I had run so far in my life, but because it meant that we were only five miles away from finishing.

We continued on, my legs on auto-pilot as mile marker 22 came and went. I positioned myself slightly behind him so that I could keep his continually moving orange and white sneakers in my line of sight.

We were almost there!

Suddenly, I felt sharp pain in my right knee and I gasped, feeling it buckle slightly. I wobbled, not sure if it was something serious or not.

It’s all mental, I reminded myself. I knew there would be ice at the finish line, and Motrin, and plenty of time afterwards to heal my body and rest.

Soon after that, around mile twenty-four, it felt like someone was stabbing my inner thighs with a red hot knife. I bit my lip as the pain consumed me.

…to be continued…