There's something to be said about a friend who reacts to your broken pinky toe in a way that automatically reminds you (1) you made it through an entire year of training and a marathon unscathed; (2) using that logic, broken toes are nothing more than bruised little sausages and (3) that final chapter, like the manicure you need to tame your bloody cuticles, is way overdue.
Late or not, broken or bruised, still running and writing it down, it is only twenty days, two flights, Thanksgiving and ten runs later that I feel capable of capturing the marathon. Knowing that words will fall short, thoughts remain scattered and pain erased parts of the course completely, I am convinced that, as is the case with most Firsts, it is the brilliance and fear that make forgetting impossible and remembering an event all its own.
For me, anticipation turned to reality as I found myself straddling a fence at 5:30AM, half in the "good" porta-potty line and half out of it, praying this wasn't the moment I'd break my first bone. As leg number two came down safely beside leg number one and I joined the line of other shivering runners waiting for the blue doors to open, shit, quite literally, became real. Gone were the fantasies, whimsy and "what if's"; in their place: Race Day.
Walking through the crowds toward the Art Museum Steps, lit only with street lights bouncing off the reflective parts of other runners' gear, I was keenly aware of only one thing: the start line. Five hundred feet from where I stood on the top step, it sat, still and bright, untouched.
Insert "exhale" here.
It was on these steps that I ran injured, healed, got stronger, took boot camp classes, cried in the snow, danced in the summer, broke down, built myself back up and, on this morning, watched at least one hundred kids from Students Run Philly Style psych themselves up for their first marathon. A little behind them and slightly off to the side, I listened to those students responding to their coaches, reaffirming for the crowd that they were runners too. And in that moment their nerves became my nerves; my excitement, theirs and the significance of the challenge, palpable.
And so there I stood among thousands of runners, inspired and descending from the steps to the middle of the Gray Corral. As I turned to face the flag and mouthed the words "gave proof through the night, that our flag was still there," a game time calm blanketed the crowd.
Twenty minutes later, I was in the wave of runners shooting down Race Street, stripping off layers of clothing, dodging discarded mittens and hats and searching for that first real turn onto Columbus Boulevard where, in my mind, this pack would thin and my heart would ease itself out of my throat and back into my chest. These were intense and fast miles, through my own neighborhood, from a skittish first timer fueled by the sight of my brother's big grin at mile 2.5 and the "Run Jenny Run" crowd [parents, friends, husband and puppy all in matching Shirts: hard to miss and harder to paint with words] at mile 4.
As mile 4 fell behind me, I gave myself a lecture about going out too fast and too excited and settled into a tolerable [read: no more 7:45 minute miles, Brains of a Gnat] stride on Chestnut Street. Just as mile 7 approached, I saw my signs again, took a deep breath and tried not to get overwhelmed with the sight of all of that support directed just at me. No dice. I made eye contact with my mom, then my husband and finally my Di and my heart was back in my throat.
Miles 8 through 12, back in Fairmount Park and along West River Drive, were beautiful, quiet and calm. The crowds fell away, the pack finally thinned and that one hill as you approach the Please Touch Museum did not warrant the street cred I'd been so willing to give it. These four miles gave my mind the time it needed to convince by body that this was going to be a long race full of ups and downs - better to save the ups in our pockets, next to our lucky pebble, for later.
Coming to mile 13 and the end of the road for at least half of the runners beside me, the Art Museum at my left and huge crowds everywhere, the gravity of the next 13 miles finally sunk in. I was actually running a marathon.
Miles 13 through 17 on the Philly Marathon Course Map are, perhaps, my wheelhouse and my homecoming. These miles are where I started two years ago, where I worked my way back up last year and the beginning of almost every run I take - even today. I know every turn, tree, rock, statue and blade of grass here; I know where the good water fountains are and how far each bridge is from the one immediately before it. I have fallen in the snow in these miles, slipped on ice, waded through water and escaped the sun under trees here. The Marathon crowds didn't reach these miles, and, in a way, I suppose it's for the better. There are never crowds here. It is just the runner, her steps and the occasional duck or goose crossing the path early on a Sunday morning.
As the Falls Bridge rose up to meet me just after mile 17, I saw my RJR crowd on the way out to the turn around and again as I turned back toward Manayunk. Knowing this would be the last time I saw them until the finish line, I wanted to grab the very last hand [my Dad's], say this might have been a stupid idea, and not let go. I was terrified of the next 8 miles. And then, there she was: my voodoo warrior doll [read: incredibly athletic and saintly girlfriend who volunteer to run parts of the course with me] waiting to jump in and run the next miles with me.
And so, my little warrior doll had a conversation entirely with herself for the next 72 minutes while I took in the sights, crowds and chaos of Manayunk. And there was my brother's face again, at the turnaround that would take me to the finish line; as unexpectedly as the first time I saw it - right at mile 20.5 - as happy and bright as it had been hours before on Columbus Boulevard. And, at this moment, the wheels, as they say, came off the bus.
Past beer stands at Main Street's mile 21 and into unfamiliar territory at Mile 22 [read: the only part of the course I'd never run before was approximately 500 feet around Mile 22], I was not in pain. In fact, this is what I repeated to myself for about ten minutes, broken only by a brief choking episode; Gatorade mistaken for water will get you every time - trust me.
And there they were again: those four miles with the feeling of that first homecoming from College - safe, known and steady. The place I ran to escape and the place where everything fades but the consistency of the sun and the still water.
Mile 23 brought the milestone I'd been thinking about since mile 1. This was not yet a Marathon completed but it was now the farthest I'd ever run in my life. It was a moment among other runners likely having similar realizations, moving forward slowly and directly, barely in front of the "4 Hour Balloon," but in front of it nonetheless.
Steadiness at Mile 24 with 9:20 miles to go, the "4 Hour Balloon" began to talk - about nothing and everything - about the people waiting for us - about the people that got us to where we were - about those people who couldn't run but wanted nothing more [read: ME, November 2010] - about those that had to deal with so much more pain than what we were feeling at that moment and about what made us start this journey in the first place. Although I had to finish before her, I made sure this one balloon carrying lunatic of a runner stayed within earshot for those last 2.2 miles. When all I could say was the name of my warrior-carrying friend, over and over again, this "4 Hour Balloon" screamed for 18 minutes straight. She was five foot one and propelling runner after runner toward the finish line under their goal times.
And there it was.
As narrow of a corral as I'd ever seen in a race, lined by bodies twenty deep on either side, all screaming and shaking cowbells, waiting for their runner to cross. And there, just as I was about to make the final turn toward the Finish, slap the Mayor high five and grab some soup, were my signs - all of them. No heads or faces visible, but those neon signs that were my beacon through clouds and my north when I couldn't see, screaming "Run Jenny Run" were right there waiting.
As I crossed over [and yes I mean crossed the F over], I stopped moving as volunteers threw a medal around my neck, one of those foil blankets around my shoulders and shoved broth into my hands. In the crowd of runners and flurry of volunteers and medics, I was the totally anonymous female runner looking up at the finish line with teary eyes flashing back to her first run last December that started at 19th and Market and ended at 16th and Ben Franklin Parkway: Five Freaking Blocks.
