Twentieth marathon

Nothing like your 20^th marathon to humble the shit out of you. That thought started running through my mind as early as mile 10. It didn’t matter how many countless times before I’ve run this distance. My body wouldn’t cooperate. It was a fight right from the start, and I knew it. This race was entirely mental, from beginning to end. Completing it was a testament to how tough I’ve become.

This was my second attempt at my 20^th marathon. I was planning to run Long Island this past May. But the morning of that race I could barely make it out of my bed, let alone run a single step. I wanted to will away the severe sciatica shooting down my leg like bolts of lighting. But I couldn't. I became a slave to narcotics, nerve medication, and muscle relaxants. I couldn't run, which for me was worse than the pain. A few weeks into physical therapy I began running again, slowly but surely finding my footing. Until I felt more like myself. I added back mileage week after week, mostly pain-free. And ran the Baker Ultra in August, the second of the series.

The weeks between Baker and Cape Cod weren’t easy. My body was slow. Tired from the havoc I wreaked while running 50 miles. I was run-down and at the same time trying to build back up to marathon shape. I didn’t listen to my body.  I didn’t give myself the time to rest. To recover. And the pressure of trying to get enough data to publish- soon- was equally draining. The stress took a toll on both my mental well-being as well as my physical health. I came down with a cold that lingered in my system for weeks. My ears filled with fluid, which I could hear sloshing around in my head. My chest was tight, asthmatic. I couldn’t sleep. Three weeks before the marathon I headed out to for a 20 miler on an otherwise extremely busy weekend with the kids. Just over two miles in, still on Old Country Road, I broke down. Instead of just cutting it short I completed the run I set out to do, knowing full well that I shouldn’t have. I badly needed a break but refused to give it to myself. It was like I wasn’t able to stop pushing.

My taper didn’t feel like a taper. Usually I start to feel antsy; full of so much energy I barely know what to do with myself. Wanting to run but forcing myself not to. Not this time. I had no desire to run. I was tired, worn out. My body was trying to recover from the last few months of unrelenting abuse. And instead of taking it easy, I used that time to work harder. My thesis work has become center stage; taking so much mental energy I practically have nothing left, all the rest is then spent on the kids. I should have known going into it I wasn’t ready.

Beginning the race I actually felt fine, but my stomach was bothering me the night before. And as I began running, it aggravated me more and more. I was cramping so badly at times that even after the race I couldn’t eat for hours, overcome with nausea. The hills were harder than I remembered. At mile 10 I had to stop and stretch. I remember thinking, “That’s it, I’m done”.  Not a good feeling so early in a marathon. I trudged on, my pace continuously slowing. Yet I never thought about stopping, about quitting. I just kept going. At Mile 15, I remember telling Serena that I was having a bad race, but would finish, just slower than anticipated.  Which was my feeling throughout. I’ve felt worse during races, even during training runs. I knew I could do it. And I knew it would be a struggle.

I don't remember as much of the race as I would like. I know it was beautiful at points, gorgeous views of the ocean. I couldn’t have asked for a nicer day, slightly chilly with the sun shining brightly. No wind to speak of. What I remember most distinctly was how I just kept pushing myself. Running. Walking. Stretching my cramping legs. But continuously moving forward. Somehow I found the internal strength to continue. And by the end, I had given everything. No, it was not my best run, by far. But for four hours and 20 minutes, I fought. I pushed away my demons. I pushed myself. So at 26.2 miles, 16 miles after my race had ended, I was really done. And as I struggled to catch my breath, the tears flowed. I wasn’t upset; I was just drained- physically and mentally, and those emotions poured out of me. And despite it all, I was proud of myself. Twenty marathons in the last 6 years. And every one of them a lesson in its own right. Each one its own struggle in many different ways. This one reminding me, once again, how humbling this distance is. How humbling life can be. I can’t take anything for granted; I will always have to work for it, work at it. And I always will.

Pre-run stretching

My butt :)

Enjoyed spectating

No words necessary 

My 20th marathon