I can't believe it took me so long to reflect and gather my thoughts about participating in, and completing my first full marathon. But I suppose that later is better than never.
The event really started the evening before, when the San Fernando Valley Team met in the hotel lobby to walk next door to the convention center for our Inspiration Dinner. When we arrived at the convention center, we weren't allowed inside, though clearly there were many people already there. We stood, peering in through the windows for what felt like an hour (though it was probably only about 20 minutes), and at one point we recognized some of our mentors, team captains and coaches waiving to us. When they finally let us through the doors, we walked straight into a celebration. A path from the door we entered to the exhibit hall that housed our dinner formed on either side by cheering mentors, team captains, honored teammates and coaches. We were literally welcomed like champions from the people who got us to that point. Thus flowed the first of my tears that weekend.
The dinner itself was exactly what it claimed to be -- inspirational. We cheered the 10 most successful individual fundraisers (the top one raised over $100K), were given advice, were privileged to learn from remarkable survivors and had some humor and pasta in the mix. It was an early night because we had to meet our team at 4am the following morning. Yeah. 4 AM.
So I lay my necessary race-day items on the sofa before going to bed. I didn't fall asleep right away because I was so nervous. I don't know why I was so scared. I wasn't worried about my time since I knew that I wasn't competing for an award. But I was excited and concerned that perhaps I wouldn't finish within the time limits. I didn't know if I would be able to spot my cheering parents or husband. I didn't know if I could finish the race or if I would fall short due to injury or just plain exhaustion. I didn't know if I was strong enough.
I woke and dressed in a daze and managed to meet the gathering sleepy team in the hotel lobby. While in the lobby, our team manager informed me that I was selected as a mentor for the winter session and she'd be in touch later during the week!
We were warned that it would be cool before the sun rose, and that we should bring clothing that we would discard but that would keep us warm pre-race. One of my friends had a fleece dress thing that made me look fit for a barnyard, but was surprisingly toasty. It came in handy. We filed downstairs, got into buses that took us to Balboa Park (near the zoo) and the starting line. Our team did a warm-up, checked our bags (containing our protein bars, flip flops, etc) into UPS trucks that would transport our items to the finish line, and hung out until it was time to go to our respective corrals.
I was assigned to Corral 22. My friend CJ was also at that Corral and we shivered together awaiting the push of the crowd. There were supposed to be 1000 people assigned to each corral, so it ended up taking about 10 minutes to get to the starting line. We stood with all sorts of people, including several versions of Elvis and some cheerful superheros.
We started the race at a walk. It was crowded and people were swerving around each other, but I could just feel the excitement like an electric charge somehow in the air. Everywhere I looked, people had a bounce in their steps and a smile on their faces.
Within a mile or two, CJ and I caught up with some of our other friends, coaches and captains who had been in lower Corrals. Together, CJ, Leslie and I walked the first several miles, enjoying the cool breeze, the rising sun and the walk from Balboa Park to downtown San Diego. Preparing to see my husband at Petco Park, I had not expected to run into my parents before that point. But I looked up and saw my smiling mom and dad, camera in hand, waving and cheering me along the route at around the 3rd mile. I felt amazing. Energized, comfortable, and now as if I were doing something spectacular.
I was feeling the extra high from seeing my personal cheering squad when we finally rounded Petco Park, and my parents and Noah were waiting for me. I ran off course for a moment to give them each a hug and kiss, still smiling like a giddy fool and running back to re-join CJ and Leslie.
Shortly thereafter, CJ, who had trained at a much faster pace, decided to run, and Leslie and I continued to power-walk. I still felt strong, but was scared to really run because I didn't want to end up separated from Leslie (who didn't train to run) and I didn't know if I would have the stamina to finish all 26.2 if I did.
We walked past our hotel and the waterfront where I had previously vacationed and dined with my in-laws. I recognized a famous statue, saw the parked cruiseliners, enjoyed some good bands every mile or so. We passed cancer survivors who had signs and clapped for us and let us know how much they appreciated what we were doing.
When we passed my parents and Noah once more at mile 7, the initial excitement and novelty had worn off and I was starting to feel like I was working. Still, I felt strong and positive and supported. And I had Leslie's company.
We had been warned that there would be a 2 mile steady incline at some point in the first half of the race. We knew when we found it. We entered the 163 freeway and walked against traffic (though technically there was no traffic because the street was closed). This was just after the 8th mile, and we were excited about the novelty of walking on a freeway. The view was incredible, with arched bridges, green laced mountain peaks (or maybe just hills) and road. The excitement was once again palpable. Leslie and I were not the first to experience freeway walking for the first time.
But by mile 10, there did not seem to be an end in sight and my thighs were burning. This scared me because if I felt that bad at mile 10, I couldn't imagine how I would get to, much less get through, the next 10. But our pace was strong, and we knew that the incline couldn't last forever. It was at that point that Leslie and I started thinking about our training and how glad we were that we had done much tougher hills during our practice runs. We were strong and knew we could tackle hills. But we hadn't counted on the horizontal slope of the road. We were prepared for the incline, but the road itself was curved for drainage, and we couldn't find flat footing to square our hips. That was why our hips were feeling like we had already completed more than 10 miles.
But after a few mirages, the road finally peaked and tipped for what seemed like a steep decline. The decline felt almost as bad as the incline, but at least we got to focus on different muscles and distribute the pain. But once again, the novelty of walking on a freeway was wearing off, and the course was not the bustling entertainment mecca that the beginning of the race had been. On this long stretch of road, we didn't have live bands or cheerleaders or even really spectators, unless the medical personnel count.
Between mile 11 and 12, we finally exited the freeway and returned to civilization. There, we were cheerfully greeted by cheerleaders, spectators, and finally, by our coaches, captains and mentors! They walked a little bit with us, distracted us, fed us what tasted like the creme de la creme of gold fish (ahhh salt!!!) and gave us the refreshing emotional recharge we hadn't realized we needed.
We took off, this time with a woman (Sharon Cogan) we started talking to on the route. She had trained on her own as something to acheive before her 40th birthday (that weekend). It was with her that we further distracted ourselves from our discomfort, and power-walked through the half-marathon finish point. Leslie's family greeted her, Sharon's husband surprised her, and we knew the best was yet to come...the bay.
We made the first check point (mile 13.4) with plenty of time to spare and felt confident that we could lose some time in our pace and still make the next and final checkpoint at mile 19. And as we turned the road, I saw my mom, dad and Noah once more. My mom ran to join me and I ran to join her as she jogged with me for a moment. My expression was grateful, but pained. I was already sore and tired, and I felt a blister appearing on the ball of my right foot.
The next several miles were a disappointment. From the course map I studied the prior night, I thought we would have scenic bay views for the next 9 miles. I was incorrect. We enjoyed more and more road. Even more frustrating, because we were relatively slow (but we were still on pace to finish on time), lots of the bands we passed were packing up and blasting recorded music. The cheering squads kept making running cheers, but said nothing for walkers, and we were tired and sore. Our adrenaline was gone, we knew we wouldn't see our personal cheerleaders until close to the end of the race (or in my case, at the very end of the race), and why couldn't we see the damn bay?
But we had some pleasant surprises. We went through a residential neighborhood between miles 15 and 16, and one family had prepared thousands of oranges and were handing out and cleaning the remains of orange slices. Just after mile 16, we finally glimpsed the bay and passed a really fun band that was actually still playing live music. Leslie and I started running and were re-energized once more. By mile 18 or 19, I felt like hell. My thighs burned, my blisters screamed, everything felt tight and stiff, and I was sticky. I am sure I looked about as good as I felt when we passed what looked like a row of frat houses. I looked up in time for us all to recieve an entertaining strip show from a highly muscled guy on his front lawn, cheering us on in his unique way. It was funny enough to take our minds off of the pain for another half of a mile.
At this point, we enjoyed the bay. Leslie and I had gotten really good at feeling the mile markers, and predicting them just before they came into our view. We passed our mile 19 checkpoint with time to spare (albeit, not as much time as we had previously), but that was the first moment I felt like I could really do it. Like I could really finish the race. The pressure was gone, I would be allowed to finish without a pace car picking me up and moving me to the finish line.
But it just got harder and harder. I got more and more exhausted. I needed more sleep. I needed to stretch. I wanted to stop. Everything hurt. I was tired of being tired and sore. I just wanted to be finished.
But I kept moving. I couldn't go any faster. I just focused on nothing. If I stopped, I feared I wouldn't resume, and so we didn't stop. We couldn't increase our speeds but we kept our pace, attuned with a rhythm that allowed our minds to relax and our legs to take over. I thought about one of the things someone said the previous night about when we can't walk with our legs anymore, we'll walk with our hearts.
When we saw our Team coaches again, we couldn't really carry a coherent conversation. We just kept moving, just trying to finish what we started. Leslie's husband and son joined us between mile 22 and 23. I can't imagine how different our expressions were since the approximately 9 or 10 miles since they had last spotted us.
Leslie and I kept each other moving. When one of us would start slowing, the other kept pace. Neither of us could fathom finishing this race on our own. We pushed and kept pace. A sweating fading somewhat green Hulk ran by, and Superman came disheveled out of a porta-potty. I was thirsty and drank a lot of water. I simply kept moving.
At mile 24, we got a breath of fresh air. Ines, our walking coach, waited for us and joined us, proud, encouraging, and strong. We whined, she understood, she encouraged us, and we tried to match our pace to hers. She reminded us that if we didn't feel as bad as we did, then everyone would do marathons. We focused on finishing. I alternated visualizing myself crossing the finish line with flashbacks to my half marathon with Ines. I recalled during the half marathon how tired and sore I had felt at the 10th mile and how Ines kept encouraging me. I compared my recollection of that pain with the current pain, and I thought about how every step I took at this point was a step further than I had ever taken.
It was at that point that I knew that however much more pain was in store for me, I would finish, and I would not do it alone. I got teary-eyed once more and felt grateful for how far I had come and proud of how much I could endure.
And we finally approached the entrance to the Marine Corps. We were greeted by two Marines who told us that we only had a half of a mile left. We felt huge relief.
And as we kept walking, we felt deceived. There was more than a half of a mile left. The damn race wouldn't end. Where was the marker for the 26th mile? Where was the finish line? Where were the spectators? We saw plenty of people, wearing medals, walking toward us on the side of the roadway, and they were leaving...going to their cars.
And then we heard the music. We heard the beginning of Journey's Don't Stop Believing, and saw the path through a building into what had to be our finish area. We saw the 26th mile marker. We followed the path under a structure and into the finish area. We saw the finish line. I looked and saw my mom cheering me from the sideline, taking photos of me and running along the side with us. I turned to Leslie and asked her if she wanted to run, and although neither of us really had anything left to give, we gave it all, turned to the finish and ran together across the finish line.
My parents were to my right. I staggered to them and hugged them tight. I stumbled away and found the person distributing medals. It was heavy but I wasn't sure if I was just weakened. I got an official photograph, hair toussled and sweat-saturated. I grabbed a banana and some water, got directions, and hobbled to meet my extremely proud looking parents and Noah.
Together, we picked up my bag from the UPS truck, I grabbed a protein bar, checked in with the TNT booth where I picked up my 26.2 mile pin. I finally sat down, stretched slowly, debriefed slightly, and I put on my flipflops.
I was in a daze. I was there but I wasn't. It just didn't feel real. But I looked at my parents and at Noah, who I don't recall ever having seen looking at me in the way that they did. It felt like they were looking at a champion, not someone who stumbled slowly through the finish line after most of the spectators and participants had already left for the day. I remember telling them that this day, this race, and the four months leading up to it, were the single hardest thing I have ever done. I've never worked so hard for any goal. And no other goal had ever felt that good to acheive.
They helped me to the bus that would take me back to the hotel for a much needed shower and nap. I wanted some time to reflect on the event.
When we met up for dinner a few hours later, I could only really waddle. But I wasn't alone. Looking at the other people walking up and down the street, I saw plenty of other waddlers. We went to an Italian restaurant for dinner and debriefed on the marathon from the spectator's perspective and my own. I still didn't have much energy, but I had enough to really appreciate how lucky I was to have both of my parents and my husband there to share in such an important day in my life. I became someone with purpose, who could withstand obstacles and stick with my goals, and who exceeded my own preconcieved limitations. I shattered my own mental restraints on the type of person I am, the type of body I have and the type of activities and goals I can achieve. And I did so with a Team of friends and supporters, a long-distance group of family and friends, and I was able to share the culmination of that experience with three of the most influential persons who have most dramatically shaped my life. I couldn't ask for a more fulfilling experience.
I am so grateful for the many people who helped me achieve this goal, whether they offered encouraging words or planted the seed that grew to an obsession with walking and running, whether they helped me raise over $2600 to battle blood cancers or were simply there for me, or whether they walked every step of the way with me, or a few, and whether they trained me or cheered for me.
I am truly blessed.
