Once upon a time people laughed at me when I ran, but on June 21, they cheered for me.
By now, most people know my running story. They know that
Nov. 10, 2012, I walked into a gym, plunked down my money and walked on to a
treadmill, posting “It’s come to this.” It had. My life, a whirlwind of chaos
since 2010, my body, which was expanding, now comfortably rested in an
uncomfortable size 16, my hopes for the last great endeavor, stolen with a
reality check so real the ache wouldn’t stop. All of these things put pressure
on my gas pedal to the gym that day. And I never looked back.
Still, I can’t say I truly would have believed just over 1.5
years later I would be running a marathon, but that’s what happened. I’ve been
working on this blog off and on for the past week. It’s hard to capture 26.2
miles in one piece of writing, but this is the best I can do, choosing some
subheads, writing stream-of-consciousness, and attempting to record the
greatest day of my life so far.
Pre-Race
In May of 2013, I went to Fargo, ND to run my first half marathon--a feat in itself as I was only down about 30 pounds and 6 months into running. There I met Dick Beardsley, who talked to me for a long time. I told him it was my first half. He was so encouraging and then told me what he felt like the first time he ran a full--and talked of Grandma's Marathon. He wasn't full of himself, so when he said he won it, I didn't realize he was the course record holder, but he was. He told me after he ran his first marathon, he felt like he could do anything. I held that in my head even as I ran my first half, which was one of the most amazing days of my life until now. Beardsley is a hometown guy and is the featured speaker at Grandma's, so I checked the booth--and he was there. I went up to him and pulled out the picture, which he immediately recognized as Fargo. Once again, he encouraged me. (He also noted I had lost a lot of weight since the first picture, so he got bonus cool points!) The next day a Kenyan would break his course record after over 30 years. But Beardsley will always be who I identify with my first half and full. He's a true elite runner--one who loves and encourages other runners. He told me to enjoy the scenery and just run, and who cared how long it took? And so with last-minute advice, I set out to prepare for the biggest moment of my life: running a marathon.
Fargo, May, 2013; Duluth, June, 2014 |
Weather
First of all, the weather was a dream—a cold dream. A race
on Summer Solstice that had me in a sweatshirt for 13-plus miles was like a
gift from the heavens for this cold-loving girl. It was foggy over Lake
Superior as we began—and for the better part of 19 miles, to be honest. But the
wind was at our back, and it was never so cold we were miserable. I was
however, amused by the weather signs they put up. The first few said “Risk of
Hypothermia.” And somehow that made me happy. Not the risk of getting
hypothermia, but the fact that I was pretty much stuck into a late spring or early summer race
and was almost uncomfortably cold. If you know me, you know cold is my BFF. It
was like a gift.
However, it was a cold gift and the night before found Joyce
and me at a local store looking for a throwaway sweatshirt and hat to start the
race. I never would have dreamed I would spend the last day of spring shopping
for cold weather gear for a race—and I certainly wasn’t complaining about it
either (though I sure shivered a lot).
Buying a sweatshirt and hat for the race on Summer Solstice |
The Tutu
I never expected to be unique by wearing a tutu in a race of
10,000. Tutus are pretty popular—and they weigh nothing, so it’s not a burden
to wear one. For me, if I lay it on my hips, it forces my arms to stay at
90-degree angles so I avoid the rub of it, so it even helps my form. I have had
a rough year, and when I heard about the tutu uprising, wearing a tutu became
symbolic to me. I have danced on and off for years and love ballet (and tutus).
In teaching, I always had a class tutu. It was a gimmick, but running has always
been too serious for me. I never wanted to wear a tutu to run (same as how I
don’t do “novelty” runs). But when SELF
magazine asked that woman to use a picture of her in a tutu and then called it
“lame,” not knowing she was a cancer survivor wearing it in her marathon to
celebrate her victory, I was not the only person who started running in a tutu.
Amazingly, in the tent after the race, I met someone who is close to the lady from the magazine. She thanked me for wearing the tutu, and I told her to thank the lady from the story. And I got a picture of course!
Eventually, I decided to keep running in it for my own personal victory--there's a story behind my running and my tutu that is important, and every run is a victory lap. And so
that’s how I ended up in Duluth, MN running 26.2 miles in a tutu.
But as I ran by, the tutu became a unique hit. It turns out
I was the first tutu to run by. I later found out three people wore matching
white ones as they ran together, but they were about 30 minutes behind me, so
as I ran along, people cheered normally, then saw me, and they did a double take and often started massive
cheering for the tutu. I think it kept me going. Just when I'd get tired
someone would start screaming and cheering the tutu. It felt wrong to have such
a happy outfit on and not smile. I smiled every single time and I suspect that
kept my spirits up.
“I LOVE YOUR TUTU!” they would yell. Some people took
pictures. At about mile 7, one lady who had been running close to me said, upon
hearing more screeching for the tutu, “You know you're the belle of the ball,
don't you?" I hadn’t even processed that, but I realized what she meant.
In that moment I realized that by wearing this thing, purely for myself, I had helped make my marathon even more special. Because I was different and happy, they cheered, then I waved and smiled and
said thank you. So it was like happy reciprocity going on. I am pretty
convinced that these screams and yelling for my tutu were what kept me so
happy. How can you be miserable when people’s faces light up seeing you and
they celebrate you? You can’t. So I embraced it. One thing I realized in my first
race in a tutu was that the tutu brought happiness to people. Their faces light
up. I’m sure there are some snobs out there who think it’s dumb or whatever—but
I equate them with SELF magazine. The
tutu brings joy. And I will continue to wear it.
The Warrior
It wasn’t long after the tutu cheering was evident that I
turned off my music and put my Jaybirds in my Amphipod*. (*RunnerSpeak for
“headphones in my waist pack”). I wasn’t talking to anyone but I felt like if
my phone died, I would want to preserve the power now because I might need
music more later. And it was about that time Brian and Melissa appeared. Brian
came up on one side of me and said they had seen me earlier and said “you’re a
warrior.” Now I can’t explain why or how, but this turned out to be the theme
of the day inside my heart. The three of us ran together a while, and it was
seriously a godsend. It was crazy, too. There we are running a marathon in
Duluth, MN, and we are all from Oklahoma. Really? 10,000 people and I meet
people in my same small state?
12-mile selfie |
It got wilder, though. We had all lived in SD. Brian had taught
college English. Melissa got her MBA at the university where I now teach. It was
her first marathon as well. Our meeting was just perfect. It felt like running
with old friends. It made the race so much easier. Brian had run several
marathons but was running with his wife for their 25th anniversary.
(Now that’s a good anniversary trip!) We were not together the whole time. They
appeared at about mile 11, and after running a while, I asked them to be my mile
12 selfie, but later when Joyce sent her pictures, I saw we had been nearby at
mile 4. So I ended up with a bunch of pictures with them!
They ran up to me a couple more times and we chatted some
more, making the time pass, the miles pass. After the second time, they had
left and I was running alone past a neighborhood where a person had his portable
sound system blasting music. I only caught one line of the upbeat song. It
said, I kid you not, “you’re a warrior.” And that became my themes for the day.
It was like they all knew what I had done to get to Duluth, the many runs, the
heartbreak, the work. From size 16 to size 4. From Kansas City to Oklahoma.
From heartbreak to hope to heartbreak and back. And yet I ran through it all
and made it to a marathon. Me. Warrior? Yep.
The Race
This was one of those big marathons where you get bussed to the start line. It took over half an hour to get there, which is slightly intimidating. I was so glad I had my friend Eldon on the bus with me; conversation distracted me from the distance, but when some light nausea hit, I inhaled a banana and realized it was that we had been in the bus so long I was getting carsick! That didn’t last but the reality the ride to the start line took so long sure lingered.
This was one of those big marathons where you get bussed to the start line. It took over half an hour to get there, which is slightly intimidating. I was so glad I had my friend Eldon on the bus with me; conversation distracted me from the distance, but when some light nausea hit, I inhaled a banana and realized it was that we had been in the bus so long I was getting carsick! That didn’t last but the reality the ride to the start line took so long sure lingered.
I’d been prepared for a long wait but really, we arrived almost
at start time. We dropped off our gear check bags, used the port-potties and were
waiting for the gun to go off.
The first 19 miles are on Scenic Highway 61. It's scenic but
harder because it's more isolated, and though it is a large marathon, there are less spectators in parts (though there still are some). We could see the lake but the fog was so heavy that it was harder. It
was drizzly and foggy for the first few hours. After a while, it felt
like the road never stopped. It reminded me of driving a beach road in Southern
California, but, well, I wasn't driving!
My only serious mental mistake was evidence I'm an English professor. Yellow balloons marked each mile, and they were easy to see up ahead, which was psychologically very helpful, tricking our minds into mentally being at the next mile. As we approached the yellow balloon for what I thought was 16, I miscalculated. The teens were starting to run together. By 19, we'd be off the highway, and 16 was the number of my first long run in training past the half mark, so to me it was a marker. We approached. I got ready for my 16-mile selfie—and then I saw it: 15! I had lost count--the wrong way--I had to have a mini therapy session with myself right there. It was a difficult moment. I think it wasn't long after that Brian and Melissa appeared. Again. That helped. And somewhere in there, I rewound in my head and restarted at 16 when we hit it. 16 is magic because not far into it, you can start telling yourself you only have single digits left to run. But we got there and that's when the action starts. At 17 there were gels. At 19 we left the highway and started turning into town where there were more people. I knew that from the reviews. That's when you need people most, but it got harder toward the end of the highway part after there wasn't easy access for spectators. Brian and Melissa kept me going through much of these 19 miles, and then Eldon would appear the same way. Eldon does intervals so sometimes after a walk, he would catch up to me before running ahead. Those three kept me aware and refreshed when the monotony of fog on a scenic highway sometimes got to be a bit too much.
Awesome Eldon, running marathon 62 and still looking out for a newbie |
Brian and Melissa are on either side of me here |
Because if you're going to run 26 miles, you oughta enjoy it |
At 21 we could see "Lemon Drop Hill." It made us think we were at 22
since it was so clear in the distance, and I thought maybe it was an estimate,
but, indeed, the hill comes at 22, and actually a bit after, which also helped.
Lemon Drop Hill |
Lemon Drop was the mental marker I’d planned. If I could run up the hill at 22, I was home free, I'd told myself. Truth is, I never actually felt home free until I saw the finish line, which still chokes me up to type. But after Lemon Drop there was most certainly a sense of impending success. By 23.1, which was easy to see because the half markers were along the course from 13.1 on, the realization there is only a mere 5K left was powerful. At that point, even though my feet and back hurt, I decided there was no longer an option of walking. It had been in my mind. People win places in races who walk through water stops. But I never needed to. I was pretty set it wasn't happening before 20 since is already done 20 without walking on a hot day without hundreds of cheerleaders. So by 23, when I had not had to make bathroom stops, I decided I'd run. I let myself slow immensely to try to ease the impact my feet felt, but I ordered myself—out loud—to not stop running motion. It was possible to walk faster than my run, but running is a different motion and I was staying in it.
By 24, the number 2 hung on like a promise. I wasn't really
worried about that last 385 yards. When I see the finish line in any race,
something powerful happens in me. I wasn't positive after 26 miles I could say
that, but it was true again. The last timing split was 25. Between 24 and 25 we
were in Downtown Duluth, a charming strip of class, laden with people who made
us feel we were conquering the world as we ran 26.2. The screams got louder.
The winter walkway tunnel held a sign that said "Welcome Runners!" and
we knew we were welcomed from our descent from Lemon Drop Hill into the home
stretch of the city. Duluth made us its heroes that day.
The Aerial Lift Bridge, the iconic announcement we were
home, was just past downtown and over the freeway bridge we were about to
ascend, a small hill that would send us from it to Canal Park, where the finish
line stood.
And so I ran the cobblestone roads with fierce determination that as much as it hurt and as good as the restaurant food smelled and as tempting as running into a store for Diet Coke was, there was no stopping. The timing mat at Mile 25 was magical, announcing success was a casual run away. All of us can run a mile in our sleep by this point. We could run that mile.
Mile 25-26
This was it. I know you’re supposed to be tired and feeling
like giving up at this stage, but honestly, I was energized. I didn’t feel
great physically, of course. My back hurt, and my feet hurt, but my heart was
becoming more alive by the second. Running around Canal Park netted us the
first sign of the corral gates, which indicate being close to the end.
Running around Canal Park |
One of the professional shots that captured the utter joy I began to feel at the end |
We
turned a bend and a race official said “you are entering the last quarter mile
of the race.” I said “Those are the most beautiful words I have heard in a long
time.” And then, there was the 26 mile marker. The magic number. Emotion began
to overwhelm me. On the other side of that magic number I could see it: the
finish line. I knew I had enough energy to make it. I was going to finish a
marathon! We turned toward it and there were crowds of people—and they lit up
when they saw that tutu again. I know it wasn’t me personally—it was something
different to cheer for, but do you know what it did for me? It made me push
harder to the finish.
My mile 26, almost-to-the-finish-line selfie |
It took me 5 hours and 40 minutes and some change. My half split was decent, but my sore knee for a while and the sheer fatigue slowed me more, but I didn’t stop. Not once. I needed to know I could do it. And later I thought—wow, I ran constantly for almost 25% of an entire day. Somehow that made my time seem even cooler. Truthfully, I wanted to finish in under 6 hours. 5 hours and anything is decent for a marathon if you aren’t fast. For a first timer, it’s totally respectable. But marathons aren’t about time. They are about endurance and staying the course. And I did.
At the finish line were two beautiful things: A finisher's medal (I had to resist hugging the person who put it around my neck, I was so overwhelmed with emotion), and Joyce. Dear sweet precious, loving, giving Joyce who is the whole reason I was able to run this marathon.
In looking at my splits, I see that mile 22 was my slowest;
that was Lemon Drop Hill. I also saw that I was significantly faster in my last
.2. It’s a good sign I had energy to push through the finish. My body held out
and I ran that with my heart.
Other random thoughts, comments and observations:
On Porta-Potties and Bushes
Never in my life have I seen so many men pee! Men, lucky
creatures that they are, don’t need a porta-potty. It was not uncommon to be
running along the highway and see a group of 5-7 men with their back to us and
hands in front of them. It was pretty funny. The porta-potties were gross, as
they always are, and usually I don’t need one, though I would have used one if
I did. Sometimes I’d run by a line of people waiting for them. Once I ran by as
someone came out. The smell wafted onto the highway, practically asphyxiating
me. But they get the job done. I made it through the race without needing
it—and actually did better than I usually do.
My Body
My biggest problems physically were my knee, which only acts
up on long runs, but mercifully tamed itself and did not get worse, so it
wasn’t too bad. My feet were the worst. I am a mid-foot striker now, but man! I
tried to be a heel striker, a forefoot striker, anything to remove the pressure
off my feet. I was wishing for extra cushioned shoes (I wear Asics Nimbus which
are some of the most cushioned shoes out there so it’s unlikely that would have
helped much). The bottom line is if you run for over 5 hours, your feet will
hurt! But truthfully, it wasn’t a nightmare either. And I kept thinking if I
walked, I would be out there longer with sore feet. As we got later in the
race, my upper back hurt. No pain the rib area or even lower back where I have
had trouble—just the strain on top—probably because I was telling myself “run
with your arms! Run with your arms” every time my legs got tired.
My Mind
I coached myself a lot--out loud. I needed to hear the words.
Probably the funniest thing was the signs that said “Medical Drop Out 500 Feet”
that we passed every so often. I was fine, but every time I saw that sign I
said out loud, quite defiantly, “over my dead body.” Because only dropping dead
right there would have gotten me to quit.
It’s funny how you think it’s too much, too far, you can’t
do it, but then you think of the other option--quitting--and how that is so not an
option that you find strength to keep going. They say you learn a lot about
yourself while running a marathon. I guess that’s true, and yet I feel like I
mostly reinforced what I knew, what I had been learning since my first run.
Running has never come easily for me. I’m not
fast, not a natural, not consistent with time, though I am with my run. But I
am disciplined. I have learned to run in all seasons. I have run on ice, in
blistering heat, in 45 mph winds, up a mountain, down a valley (literally and figuratively).
I run and each time I make it I find out what I am made of. The marathon was my
proof to myself I could do the rare thing. In my social networking world, it
seems everyone is talking about marathons, but the fact remains that about 2%
of Americans have started a marathon and only .05% have finished. Those numbers
are lower than the percentage of Americans with a PhD, which is under 3%. To
do both is amazing to me. But let me be clear. It’s not amazing because I’m all
that. It’s amazing because I dropped out of elementary school and between 3rd
grade and college only completed one actual year of school. It’s amazing
because I grew up the fat kid, beat up almost daily for being fat (bullying was
legal then, it seems). Because I made casts from Plaster of Paris to get out of
PE because I hated running. An elementary school dropout who despised running
(and the number one reason I hated school was PE) who now has a PhD and has
completed marathon—that’s amazing
because it means I defied the odds. I’m better than that. I can overcome. I got
a PhD for the same reason—to prove I could. Being a professor is a perk, but my
goal was doing it. Just like the marathon.
A fascinating side note: After the marathon, I was in my hotel room looking at my Timehop app on my phone, which shows what posts I have made on social networking one in other years on the same day. As I looked that night I saw it was exactly 4 years to the date that I was cleared at Texas A&M for my PhD. Graduation was in August, but on June 21, 2010, I was "Dr. Suz." Joyce was my adviser, of course. And now, four years to the day, there she was a key piece of the other vital and unique event of my life. I couldn't have planned that if I wanted. June 21 will forever be a special day.
I came back different. I came back ready for a life of
adventure again. I used to say that if you’re going to live, you should live
loud. The marathon made me loud again. And I don’t want to be quiet.
On the Future
One reason I wanted to run the entire way was to know I
could so I could go back to half marathons--if I did this successfully, then I could chalk it up to being done. Training for a full becomes a
driving force of life. Sleep, eat, runs, all of it ruled by the training. I was
definitely more lackadaisical with the schedule than some, though I did not miss
a long run. But in the end it was bothering me that since I had an 18 mile run
one week, for example, I could not randomly run how I wanted when I wanted. My
coach, Jan, in Kansas City, labeled me an “organic” runner. She noted I was
having success not following some regime but just running and doing the requirements
(i.e. long runs for a race). I love that because it’s part of the freedom of
running for me. Marathon training isn’t free, but it was worth it. I wanted to
be a marathoner. Now I am. Will I do another? Probably. I don’t have a specific
plan, but it wasn’t so hard I could never fathom doing another. It would have
to be another special one, and probably in the spring so I didn’t have to train
in summer. I suspect it would be a destination marathon, as those are my
favorite races. Running a marathon was hard, but not nearly as hard as I
expected. My body was tired, sore, but it wasn’t like some exercise in torture.
It was an exercise in strength. The marathon tests the limits of human endurance,
they say. I have endured far more in my life, and every run reminds me that I
am still surviving. The marathon just moved me up a step and told me to live
loud. In hot pink, of course.
Earned that 26.2 (and yes, the hot pink one is on its way to me) |
Love love love this post! I found you from the Grandmas fb page (I love reading reports from others on races I have done), and most especially Grandmas (Duluth is my hometown and this was the 4th year in a row I've run this race).
ReplyDeleteCongratulations on an amazing accomplishment - I have never managed to RUN an entire marathon. That is OUTSTANDING! And I love that you ran in a tutu...such a fun way to CELEBRATE your victory lap. Great job!!!
Thank you, Bobbi! I so appreciate your comment. I'm following your blog now too--I love to find other runners and hear all the stories! Grandma's was AMAZING! It was a perfect first choice. Your hometown is awesome!
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