Ends and Beginnings...

My alarm went off at 4:45a.m. this morning, but I was awake long before that. I slept last night, but woke up at least once an hour, frightened that I had slept through the alarm, afraid that I may sleep through one of the most important days of my life. I waited for the alarm before getting out of bed, then showered, applied the slightest bit of under-eye concealer and mascara (I didn't want the mortician to be horrified if my body should arrive at the morgue later in the day), dressed in my laid-out clothes, ate half of a plain bagel and half of a banana, drank half of a lemon-lime Gatorade, and waited for Caroline to pick me up.

At 5:15 Caroline picked me up from my house, along with her very sweet and supportive husband and sister, and we drove to the West Falls Church Metro where we boarded a metro train jam-packed with runners. When we finally made it to the Runner's Village we waited in the porta-potty line, twice, to try to make sure that we had fully emptied our bladders.



At about 7:45 or so we made our way to our corral at the start line. You line up based on your expected finish time. Well, most of us do. This is the Marine Corps Marathon and many disabled veterans race too, in wheelchairs and with hand-cycles. What they do is so much harder than what we do. They start first. Then the competitive runners are behind them. Then the rest of us start. From the time the start gun (cannon) went off, it was another 16 minutes before we actually crossed the start line.



As we waited in the start corral, I noticed eyeryone else's D-tag (chip attached to your shoe to track your time) had their bib number printed on it, and mine didn't. I figured I needed to spin the little tag thingy around, so I did. No bib number. Caroline and I realized at the same time what I had done. I attached the direction half and not the half with the chip in it. I immediately knew the consequences of this mistake. There would never be an official record of me having run the race. If I finished I would have the pictures (MarathonFoto takes pictures of you along the way), and I would have the medal, but no record of my splits and of my finish time. I wanted to vomit, right there, before I had taken one step of the 26.2 miles. How in the hell was I going to qualify for Boston now? Seriously though, it was in that moment that I realized that it didn't matter. I couldn't care less. This was never about anyone else. This was something I was doing for me. If no one else ever knows I did it, or cares that I did it, what difference could that possibly make to me? Logistically, however, it made it impossible for my mother and trainer/friend to have any idea of where I was going to be so that they could follow me along the route.



Everyone that I know that has run this race before told me about all the adrenaline that was going to have on race day, I don't know what that feels like, but I was excited - like I was going on an f-ing vacation or something (it did not take me long to understand that this was not going to feel like a vacation.) The gun (cannon) goes off, and here we go, well, 16 minutes later anyway. Felt good. Start off by the Pentagon, then on some parkway (maybe Spout Run Parkway), and through the Palisades and down M-street in Georgetown. That was the first 9 or 10 miles I think. I had finally warmed up and took Andy's Under Armor shirt off. The weather was beyond perfect. If I had called God up and requested a specific set of weather conditions, it could not have been better. It was cold in the very early morning, but by the time the sun was all the way up, it was truly beautiful.



I had heard that this race was a very entertaining event, and that proved to be delightfully accurate. There are spectators with signs, some with 80's outfits and Cindy Lauper on a boombox, groups of singers and bands, and other random things to keep your mind off of the pain. I think what I found to be the best entertainment was reading the shirts of other runners. Some were funny (a husband and wife - husband's shirt: "slow down jarhead" wife's shirt: "keep up shipmate", husband's shirt: "i married a marine" wife's shirt: "i married a seaman", husband's shirt: "1st Marine Corps Marathon" wife's shirt "5th Marine Corps Marathon"), some were inspirational ("Today is My Birthday, I am 50, 1st Marathon, Life is Good"), some were motivational ("Pain is Weakness Leaving the Body"), and some were sad (a lot of people were running in honor of a fallen soldier or loved one that had died).



By mile 12 my knee really hurt. At some point Caroline started to walk, and I thought, what the hell, I will too - we might have been 15/16 miles in by then. And that was when I knew it was really bad. I couldn't walk, it was a serious hobble, running was less painful - so I jogged next to Caroline who was speed-walking. This was pretty much how we finished out the race (Caroline did run more after that, but we slowed significantly because of my knee.) We saw Caroline's nephew (a chiropractor) and his wife, and he adjusted her back on the pavement and tried to help with my knee (it was the IT Band - whatever that is, was hurt). Almost immediately after that we saw my mom and Andy, which was nice, and we kept going.



"The Bridge," the 14th Street Bridge (which is literally about 2 miles long), must be "beat" by 1:15pm, or about 5 hours into the race. It starts at mile 20. Right before the bridge, we saw my mom and Andy again. After we passed them, Andy caught up with us (probably not too hard), and started to run with me. I thought he was just going to go a little way and then go back to my mom. No. He ran the entire rest of the race with me (up to the .2, when they make you get off if you are not an official runner). And that is the real story. He is 13 years old, was wearing skateboarding shoes, and ran 6 miles to support me. It took me months to get up to 6 miles. Halfway across the bridge he said, "I'm really proud of you mom," which was probably better than crossing the finish line. He never complained, never asked to stop, and was so sweet when he could tell I was really hurting.

My trainer/friend joined us on the other side of the bridge, and helped me through the those last four miles. After telling him how happy I was to see him I had to give him the big "P.S. - uh, you aren't getting text messages because I attached the direction tag instead of the chip tag to my shoe." He laughed, and said, "well, when I didn't get any texts I knew either the whole system was down or that you attached the tag incorrectly." Needless to say he was not surprised it was the later. By mile 23 I wanted to stop. Not to quit, per say, but just to stop, for the pain to stop. I don't know how I was putting one foot in front of the other. When I would want to stop he would take my hand long enough to get me going again. He pointed out that with every single step I was going farther than I had ever run before. It hurt.

We finished. Six Hours, Five Minutes, 27 Seconds. Which we only know because Caroline did attach her chip, and not the directions. We ran up the final hill and the last short straight segment and it was finally over. A very nice marine grabbed me (my knee was exploding at this point), put a medal around my neck, and walked (almost carrying) me to get ice. I took the ice, never had a chance to thank him, and went to get the finisher photo taken with Caroline. I found Ken (trainer/friend) and Andy, said bye to Ken (had his daughter's birthday party to attend, which meant he had to run 4.5 miles back to his car first), and then found my mom (who had been separated from Andy with his impromptu run).

So, this is it, the final blog entry. I will turn 30 years old on Tuesday, apparently running a marathon does not stop time. In the past five months I have run a marathon, raised over $2,300 to fight leukemia, somehow come to terms with the fact that 30 is going to happen.......

I think the only proper way to end this entry is with some thank-you's - to all the people without whom none of this would have been possible.

My Kids - You are the inspiration for everything good I have ever accomplished. Without any one of you I would be a ship lost at sea. I love you each more than you will ever know.

Andy - In 20 years, the only thing I will remember about this race is you running with me. You are my heart. I will not run this race again until we can run the whole thing together.

Mom - Thanks for putting up with me for 30 years. Which is like a marathon, but longer, harder, and with no medals or marines at the end.

Caroline - I love running with you. I never would have made it so far without your support. You are super-mentor, you rock. Thank you the most for what you said at the end of the race today, that was the best compliment I have ever received.

Everyone Else - Thank you for your support, your donations, all of your kind words, and for being a part of this journey with me.

The End.