And there I sat, Peas & Carrots wrapped around my ankle, oatmeal in hand, wondering if everything I'd been working for was just ruined and feeling utterly numb no matter the answer to the question. I simply came to find, as I sat there, that there was no "little fighter" left inside me. I was emotionally and physically exhausted and not at all convinced I was ready to run 26.2 miles the following day.
Throughout the day, my runner friends sent their well wishes and luck - each reminding me to breathe and "enjoy" every moment. But one of them actually said it: "Run Happy." And as I sat on a stool stirring my risotto, like the 5 year old I'd suddenly become, I realized it had been a very long time since running made me the slightest bit happy. Between the visits with nutritionists, speed workouts, 800's, hill workouts, 4AM wake-ups, dehydration, heart burn, 5 - 20+ mile runs in July and August, and the pure ache in my joints, there was no time for happiness. So I cried again.
Hours later I would fall asleep for about 6 hours, wake up at 3AM, hobble downstairs with Charlie for coffee, oatmeal and half a plain bagel, and say to him, "OK buddy, this is it. Our last long run." The house would be dark, quiet and cold. The task at hand, even more so as I realized I was truly not ready.
And with that cheery thought, I entered the Black Corral with the timidity of a shadow. I stood quietly with tall, skinny, serious looking strangers grouped together by prior achievement and present aspiration staring at the 3:35 Pacer Balloons wondering whether I belonged and deciding I didn't.
At 6:50AM, 10 minutes before the official start of the marathon and 12 minutes before my corral would eventually cross the start line, I decided I had to pee. Again. With that, I was pushing through the crowd to find myself in a small park with a lot of other nervous runners peeing behind small trees and playground equipment. Rushing back, feeling lost and confused, I reached my corral just as the Rocky song pushed us over the start line and into the marathon without so much as a "Good Morning."
Luckily, adrenalin took over and I felt no pain in those first 8 miles in 64 minutes. I felt nothing. No excitement. No joy. No fear. Nothing. Pain and nausea ultimately set in and the next 16 miles were a blur of my screaming family, strangers, signs, music, distress, self-doubt, and the ultimate realization that I was in the middle of something I could not smile my way out of.
At mile 18, I cried as I passed my dad and told myself there was no stopping beyond that point. No more choice. No more wavering. I'd won a few battles but not yet the war. What kept me going in those last 8.2 miles was not the crowd or the other runners; it wasn't the music or the thought of seeing my family at the finish line; it wasn't even the party waiting back home. It was the ridiculous amount of calories and carbs I'd consumed; how unhealthy I felt in that moment; and how far I'd fallen out of love with running. It was in this very basic struggle that I found my answer.
I am not - nor will I ever be - a Boston Qualifier. It is not for lack of trying or training and it is not because I've abandoned my raw hope for greater things. It is simply because I don't want to be one. Somewhere between not quitting at mile 13 and not quitting at mile 18, I started to notice all of the things I'd been missing when I started running faster in 2012:
- The way wet running shoes squeak in a chorus of biting notes;
- What numb hands feel like;
- Expectant looks on the face of a crowd;
- Hunger;
- The subtle incline just past Boathouse Row;
- The average age of a volunteer: 16;
- "Worst Parade Ever" signs;
- The way runners thanked volunteers along the way;
- A flock of geese, 30 strong, lounging by the water;
- The overall embrace of NYC Marathoners;
- Leaves crunching underfoot;
- The smell of a fireplace somewhere off in Strawberry Mansion;
- The sting of the cold air; and
- The satisfaction of a deep, cool inhale.
And then...the Girard Avenue Bridge took me by surprise. Out of nowhere, it rose up and gave me the strength to keep going hard until the end. This structure has been the symbol of every end to every hard workout I've had in the last 3 years. Passing under it during my second Philadelphia Marathon was a revelation both physically and mentally. Left behind would be the tunnel vision, training schedule, pain, angst and competition. Ahead would be home. A place where running settles me down and reminds me that "if you get lost, you can always be found."
More than a month after this experience and rounding out an 1800+ mile year, I can say I'm ready to start fresh and focus back on the journey, wherever it may take me. But my bones will remind me that "as we roll down this unfamiliar road; and although this wave is stringing us along; just know you're not alone; 'Cause I'm going to make this place your home."
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