It seems the longer I wait to update this, the more I have to say (and do), which is a very familiar theme for me! There was something I wanted to work out the details on first, then something else came up, and I've finally decided to tell you what I know and tell you the rest as it develops.
By now, most of you know that I completed my first marathon in the Phoenix area on Sunday, January 16, 2011 in 4 hours and 30 minutes; I am now a marathoner.
Most people, to include my mother until that day, don't know what a marathon is. Most simply stated, it's a 26.2 mile race of endurance. In the words of my mother, "That sounds impossible", is much like the reaction I often receive when telling new people about this type of event. And there was a time when I thought I would never consider doing such a distance myself. However, I've learned to never say never.
For me, this marathon represented a long-term goal, one I would have to work hard and religiously to complete. To accomplish it would require dedication, determination, and sheer willpower; strength and ability would come in time with training. It's not merely a physical test, it's also a mental challenge to not quit. This applies to the training as much as the event itself.
I worked with a coach and a team of other ladies in West Seattle for 5 months prior to my race. I ran 4 to 5 days a week, further distances than I'd ever gone before, and built up my miles week by week. And after my longest training run of 22 miles and 3 weeks to taper down and stock up my reserves, I was ready to go.
On the morning of the race, after getting settled and parting ways with my friend Tony who, along with another friend Christopher, was in a corral ahead of me, I was alone and slightly apprehensive. I doubted myself briefly, wondering what it would be like to go all the way; would that extra 4.2 miles beyond my furthest training run break me? I fully imagined I would swear off marathons after the finish line, as the training had taken more of a toll on my body than I could have anticipated and I didn't think I would want to endure that again. I tried not to worry if I had enough Gatorade; I knew I had more electrolyte chews than I needed. Butterflies wracked my stomach as I quietly waited to get started.
Waiting for the starting gun, then slowly plodding amongst my fellow runners towards the starting mat, I began thinking about a book I had finished the night before. I haven't read much for several years now outside of work or magazines, but I had recently seen a clip about a New York firefighter who had been run over by a city bus and not only lived to tell about it, but had gone on to run the New York City marathon (and complete an Ironman) after he recovered. He had written a book about his ordeal, and it came from the library just in time for my trip; it was so emotionally charged that I could hardly put it down! It's called The Long Run, by Matt Long, and I highly recommend it to anybody. It's a story of overcoming unimaginable trauma through hope and the power of determination, and most importantly not giving up. Certainly I was fortunate enough to be doing my race that day in better shape than he was, and I knew I had trained hard and was ready. With a renewed sense of purpose and a smile, I joined the cheer as my wave moved across the mat.
There isn't much to tell about the course itself; the Phoenix area is fairly flat and generally brown. Aside from the multiple bands (a personal favorite being the young group that rocked "Bad Reputation") and the cheerful volunteers at the water stops, the only other thing to take my mind off the road was the crowd around me. I had learned of a group called Team in Training (TNT) that facilitates marathon training in a group environment while fund-raising for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society (LLS), and I had sworn it off for various personal reasons, opting instead to hire a personal coach. But here I'm finally running my first marathon and my friends were out there somewhere ahead of me, and others were on the sidelines or on the half-marathon course, and countless more were cheering me on from home, yet I was by myself. I always thought of running as an individual sport, and on race day it still often is for the most part, but as I looked around, all the TNT racers, coaches, and supporters were sporting purple and cheering each other on with shouts of "Go Team!" It didn't matter that most of them didn't know each other, they knew they were part of a bigger group with a common purpose, and a very noble one at that. I decided around mile 12 that I would do another marathon, and I wanted to be part of the TNT Team. This first marathon was for me and on my terms, but I want the next one to be for a bigger cause. Leukemia and lymphoma have both played a part in the lives of people I know; my childhood friend Dawn Thompson lost her battle with leukemia right before this Christmas. My grandmother is a lymphoma survivor, though she'll never quite be the same. And having read many testimonials from other friends who have done fund-raising for LLS, there are so many more stories out there than just mine.
There were lots of fans cheering on the sidewalks and shouting words of encouragement. Some held posters, which helped break up the scenery. My favorites were: 1) Chuck Norris never ran a marathon, 2) May the course be with you, and at the last turn, 3) You're no longer a runner, you're a marathoner! Despite the lack of change in elevation, the race itself had its ups and downs for me and my body, and I just pushed through to the end, to the glorious finish line among hundreds of strangers who were clapping and shouting. For those of you that know about my bungled finish at the Seattle half in November, I held my arms high, true rock-star style, for the entire length of the chute; I wasn't going to chance missing the real finish line pose this time! There would be no royalty treatment of having somebody else put the medal around my neck, but as the volunteer handed it to me I couldn't resist telling her I had just run my first marathon. There aren't words to describe my excitement and enthusiasm at that moment, and reliving the experience brings such a grin to my face. That was one of the most thrilling moments of my life, to be cherished always.
I knew something was wrong with my foot on a training run in mid-December, but didn't want to risk an official medical diagnosis that wouldn't allow me to continue with my training and finish what I had started. It would start hurting about halfway through my run, in the arch of my right foot. So I iced it, tried topical gels, and just hoped it would improve on its own. Of course that's a foolish notion, and I'm now paying the price for it. It's been 5 weeks since my race and I haven't been able to run since. The good news is that nothing appears to be broken or noticeably torn, but rather it seems to be a strain on my tendon as a result of overuse and insufficient muscle strength in my upper legs, and not enough stretching. Translation: I won't be running for at least another several weeks, and I will have to start over from scratch. As in I will have to start by running 1/4 mile and start over from the beginning. I am disheartened but know that I am capable of building back up when the time is right.
I miss running. No other activity I can do in the gym brings me as much personal satisfaction and joy, so I've stopped everything altogether. The excuses are piling back on, as well as the pounds (thanks in part to the fabulously dangerous Girl Scout cookies my troop started pushing this weekend!) Hearing about the progress of my friends who are currently training for their own upcoming events is bittersweet, as I'm truly happy for them but sad to not yet be able to join them.
This marathon was a lesson of many dimensions, and it has forever changed me in many wonderful ways. I am determined to rebuild my ability and fulfill my promise. Stay tuned for the details on my next adventure as I pick the pieces back up and put together my plan for honoring Dawn and the others who have lost the battle. I know that I have a greater purpose to serve, and no matter the distance, it all starts one step at a time.
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