October 30th, 2000. The storm that is ravaging the UK has brought a cold front to Dublin, and I shiver as I stand there in my garbage bag, which provides little extra warmth against the wind. I am surrounded by thousands of strangers, all feeling the same nervous excitement I feel.
It is late March. There is a hint of spring in the air, and I find myself getting restless after the long winter. I'm eager to move.
I wouldn't mind getting in shape, either.
So I decide to starting walking. I like to walk. I used to walk to the mall when I was a teenager, or walk home from the train station rather than catch a bus, or take walks around the neighborhood to soothe my soul. Walking is something to I can do.
And it's becoming very popular. There's even a magazine or two devoted to it. So one day I pick up a copy of "walking" magazine.
I'm flipping through it during lunch, when my eyes are caught by an ad. "WALK A MARATHON", it says. Raise money for the Arthritis Foundation, and we'll train you in our Joints in motion program and send you to Hawaii or Dublin for your marathon.
I am intrigued. Long ago, I had read an article in Reader's Digest about a woman who had through-hiked the Appalachian Trail. I had been captivated by the story, and had vowed to do the same someday. Completing a marathon would be a good first step.
I email the local coordinator. They write back and say there is an info session in Schaumburg in just a few days.
I'm nervous as I enter the room. I don't know where to sit, or what to expect. I had a moment's panic where I was sure that everyone who showed up would be fit and trim, and would laugh at overweight me. I am heartened to see that this isn't the case, and that there are plenty of folks there of all shapes and sizes.
The information they share tugs at the heartstrings. They talk about the millions of people who suffer from Arthritis, and how the FOundation helps to improve their quality of living. They tell heartwarming stories of past race participants who had overcome enormous odds to complete the race. They tell us about the huge amount of support we will receive in our fundraising efforts. And, if we join the team tonight with a $100 deposit, our total fundraising amount will be dropped by several hundred dollars.
I am sold. I write out my check and turn it in. I've just joined the team.
The gun goes off, and the front runners waaaaaaay up ahead take off. It will be nearly ten minutes until us back-of-the-packers pass over the starting line. Mile One passes in a blur as we shuffle along the Quay and turn into the city.
A month has passed, and it is now early May. The team meets for the first time. The runners take off for an easy three-mile run, while the walkers listen to the trainer explain that we are going to be going by time instead of distance. The idea is for us to get used to being on our feet for a long time, since so much of marathon walking is the mental determination to make it through the long hours.
Today we are just doing an hour. We warm up a bit, and then start out.
Immediately, the pace becomes too fast for me. I pant and strain to keep up, but terrible shin splints have me falling behind. My trainer shows me how to stretch out my calves at a curb. That's a bit better, but by now most of the groups is far ahead. I take off again, and continue to pant as they swing around and begin to make their way back. When they reach me, I turn around as well. For a few minutes I am able to keep up, but soon they are ahead of me again.
When we finally reach the starting point, I am covered with sweat and completely winded. And ready to quit right there. I'm obviously not fast enough. The majority of the group was doing 15-minute miles or faster; I'd barely managed a 20-minute mile.
This was obviously a mistake.
Mile Two, and the pack has spaced out a bit. I am walking down streets filled with shops and cheering crowds. The nervousness dissipates, and I smile as I pick up my step.
I had decided to stick it out, and we were now a month into training.
It was time to tell my parents.
I was not looking forward to this. Not only had I been the girl who was picked last for all the teams in gym class, I was also the family wimp. They had even given me the rather embarassing nickname of "Mushy Muscles." I was sure that I would be told that I was out of my mind.
I stopped by their house one bright Saturday after our group meet. Nervously, I sat in a chair. "I've got something to tell you," I said.
To my surprise, they took it rather well. My mom's one question: "How much?" Again, it had all come down to money with my mom. :rolleyes: I took a deep breath. "Four thousand dollars," I said. "To go to Dublin?" my mom said, incredulously. "That's not bad at all!"
After that, I had their full support.
Mile Three. It has begun to drizzle, but we are all too high on the thrill of the race to care. I start to sing. "I'm siiiiining in the rain, just singing in the rain! Several of my fellow walkers join in, and we smile at each other.
We were two months into training. My pace had increased, and I was now averaging 18 minutes per mile. Happily, there was a group of walkers who had the same pace. I now had partners during the group walks!
We were walking along the lakefront one sunny Saturday, enjoying ourselves, when one of the girls had an idea: let's come up with our own walking marches! Keeping pace was easy with the beat of the marches to guide us along. We attracted lots of attention as we shouted out our tunes:
JOINTS IN MOTION COMING THROUGH
WE WILL WALK ALL OVER YOU
And one about the fundraising coordinator:
MICHAEL THORTON USED TO SURF
NOW HE STICKS TO SOLID TURF
We laughed, and the miles flew by.
It's about Mile Five when the crowded streets of downtown open up. We are now walking through wide streets. Students are hanging out of windows, watching us pass by underneath. All I am thinking right now is "coldcoldcoldcoldcold." It is still raining, and the wind has picked up a bit.
My alarm goes off at the ungodly hour of 5:00. Much too early for my body. But it is the time I need to get up in order to make it downtown for our 6:30 start.
Groaning, I pull myself out of bed. Even after nearly six months of training, I'm still not used to this.
I dress, have my normal Saturday morning breakfast of a tortilla spread with peanut butter, and head out to the car.
There is snow on my car.
I stared in disbelief. It is OCTOBER, and early October at that. There is not supposed to be any snow!
I brush off the car the best I can, and begin to drive. I stop at the gas station. Once upon a time I used to see fishermen at the station, filling their tanks with gas before heading out to their favorite fishing hole, but they are long gone now.
It is still DARKDARKDARK when I reach our normal meeting spot. I ask myself why we are still meeting so early in the morning. It was logical to do so in the summer to escape the heat of the day, but here in the cold fall it doesn't make much sense.
We are all bundled up in jackets and hats and gloves. And still we are hopping up and down, trying to stay warm. I wrap my muffler around me more tightly.
Soon we are off, walking in the quiet darkness of an October lakefront morning. It is eerie, and much too silent.
The sun slowly rises, but doesn't bring any heat. "Coldcoldcoldcoldcold," I whisper to myself. My glasses are steamed and my nose is running from the muffler wrapped around my face, but if I take it off, I feel the cold wind bite at my face. I begin to feel sorry for the Honolulu group, whose race is not until December.
It is a relief to finally get back to the car and be able to turn on the heat. I sit in blessed relief.This was our last long walk. The race is just two weeks away.
Mile Ten. It is now raining earnestly. I am freezing. My legs feel like ice. And worse, my stomach, which has been making noises all morning, is now starting to cramp up. I've really slowed down now, and I begin to have thoughts of ending the race at 13.
Mile Eleven. Still thinking of stopping. I hear my mom's voice in my head, and feel a surge of anger. I can't quit now, especially since I had worked so hard to get here. I know I'd never forgive myself if I dropped out. Grimly, I push on.
It is a month and a half before the race. I am exhausted and miserable from the very, very long walks we have had recently. Worse, the fundraising money is due soon, and I'm nowhere near the goal.
"You don't have to go, you know," my mom says. "If you're having that many problems with it, maybe you should drop out."
Drop out. The words cut at me like a knife.
I think back an early group walk. Six miles. Now, the distance was just a blink of an eye, but at the time, it had been difficult. And I was still one of the slowest members of the group. The others were far ahead, talking and laughing animately, but I was on my own.
And crying.
My trainer noticed, and dropped back to join me. "What's up?" she asked.
"I don't think I can do this," I said.
"Yes, you can."
"No, I can't. I'm one of the slowest folks here."
"You will improve. Many folks start training at your pace." She paused, and then asked, "Is that what's really bothering you."
I walked on for a few minutes, staring straight ahead as the tears continued to fall. "No," I finally said. "No, it's that I have a habit of giving up and giving in. When I joined the team, I thought this might be a good way to break the habit. Yet we've barely gotten started, and already I want to quit."
"So don't quit. Stay in the team, and keep walking."
I did.
"Maybe you should drop out," mom said.
No. No, I couldn't do that. I was going to see this thing through, no matter how much pain it caused me.
Mile Twelve. I'm completely miserable. Still very cold, and my stomach is painful. I wish Eileen were here to talk me through this.
It is August. It is hot. And I am blistered from the eighteen miler last week.
Today we are walking twenty.
I bandage my feet and take a few test steps. Still uncomfortable, but with luck it would prevent more inflammation. I hope.
Dear God, I hope.
We set out and begin walking. I am okay for the first seven miles or so. Then my heels begin to hurt. I sit down and try adjusting the bandage. It's a bit better, but not by much.
Our trainer greets us at mile 8.5. She has bananas, but we will not get them until we pass her on the way back. We continue on, walking past McCormick place for a mile or so, and then turn around for the long walk north, and back to the starting point.
I am beginning to grimace as we walk through the Museum Campus. Normally I enjoy this part, as it's pretty and offers a bit of variety from the straight, straight path I am used to. Today, I am just glad it is over with.
We retrieve our bananas at mile 10. Our trainer comments that I am off the pace I normally keep. I just glare at her.
Buckingham fountain, and I am whimpering.
Navy Pier, and I am crying.
By North Avenue Beach, I am begging my walking companions to let me give in and sit down by the side of the road. I'll wait there for them, and one of them can pick me up after they finish the walk.
It is then that Eileen begins to talk to me quietly.
She will be my strength, determination, and willpower during the remaining five miles of the walk. She encourages and supports me with every step, telling me that there is not that much left to go, that I can do this, that I will feel proud of myself for not giving in. It is her words that keep me walking.
We finally reach the end point. My legs are screaming from the long walk, and my feet are on fire. Normally we stand around chitchatting for a while, but today I just take some banana bread and leave.
The block and a half walk to my car felt just as long as the entire walk.
I crawl into the car, still whimpering, and immediately call my parents. "I need my mommy," I cry into the phone. I go over to their house and let myself be pampered.
I never, ever want to go through this again. After this marathon, that was it. I was never going to do another.
It all changes at Mile Thirteen. My upset stomach can wait no longer, and I beg the use of a gas station lavatory. I'm in there long enough to annoy a fellow racer who has the same idea, but I don't care--I'm feeling much, MUCH better.
Pain is weakness leaving the body.
That's a slogan dear to the hearts of many long distance athletes. For me, weakness came in the form of fear. It was fear that held me back from pursuing my dreams. It was fear that caused me to doubt my ability to see this through to the end. It was fear that caused me so much pain.I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
And oh, it had. There had been times when I had been so lost to fear that it was all I felt, all I experienced, all I could do. And fear is what gets you during those long, long walks. A marathon is as much a testing of the mind as it is a testing of the body. You can't help but think of how much further you still have to go, and the distance seems insurmountable.
You have to find a way to fight it.
I will face my fear. I will allow my fear to pass over me and through me.
Fear is pain. Pain is weakness leaving the body. Leaving you with strength--the strength you need to finish.
I fought my fear with friendship. I fought it with music.
And during the lonely parts of the walks, when I was without friends and music, I fought it with imagination.
I've forgotten the name she used, but my dear friend (and I considered her a friend, although we had never met) Barbara Sher had this thing in one of her books that was quite like, well, imaginary friends. Pick those people you most admire, or those that inspire you, she said. Now imagine they are standing right beside you, cheering you on. Feel their warmness, and their belief in you.
My cheering party was full of sundry folks. Great thinkers: Einstein, Mandelbrot, Da Vinci. Favorite writers: Orson Scott Card, and George R. R. Martin, and Joss Whedon. And Barbara herself, whose passion and warmth for her job and for others shone brightly from the pages of her books.
It was a true imaginary character that I turned to most often during the long, quiet parts of my walks.
I imagined a blond girl walking beside me. "Hi," she said.
"Hello, Buffy," I replied.
"Man, I'm beat," she said. "The vamps were really crazy tonight. How about you? What's your day been like."
"I'm training for a marathon. I've just walked nine miles, and I have five yet to go."
Her eyes widened. "A marathon? That's... wow. I could never do that!"
I smiled. I was stronger than Buffy!
Yeah, it was silly, but it worked.
Mile Sixteen. I keep glancing at my watch. I am frustrated, because I am not on schedule at all. I'm way behind.
And lost. The wind has blown down the arrows that have been tied to street poles, pointing the direction. I start down a street and get half a block before getting the sense that this isn't right. I turn around and head back to the mile marker. There, I find some other racers, also lost, huddled around the one racer who has a map of the course. After some consultation we decide on the correct direction, and head on our way.
I decide the important thing is to just finish, and to heck with the time.
Today is our sixteen mile walk.
It is a warm, sunny morning as we gather at the new meeting area. We are raring to go, and about to take off when the running coach pauses and looks at the sky. "It smells like rain," he says. "You might want to bring some protection, if you have it."
I have a jacket in my car. I retrieve it, tie it about my waist, and set off.
The first half of the walk is fun. We sing our walking marches and keep to our pace, enjoying the sunshine and the light breeze. We turn around just north of the fountain, and head back the way we started.
Suddenly, the weather changes. A cool wind begins to blow, and the sky darkens.
And the rain starts pouring down. And oh, it is POURING.
I quickly pull on my jacket. My arms begin to get slick with sweat as my legs numb in the cold rain. The lake is full of whitecaps, and threatens to wash onto the path. My nearest teammate is just a blur of white and yellow ahead.
I can't see much at all. I take off my glasses and put them in the pocket of my jacket, as they aren't doing me any good anyway.
The storms thrives around me. It is scary, but thrilling. And I am walking faster than normal, trying to beat out the storm back to my car.
I get a short respite at Fullerton Beach, where I stop to use the bathroom. It is my very favorite bathroom of all of our routes, with shiny clean aluminum toilets and plenty of toilet paper. But soon I am off again, battling the rain and wind.
I catch up with a teammate. She jokes that it feels like we're already in Dublin.
Oh, if only she knew how right she would be!
The storm ends as quickly as it broke, and soon the sun is back out. I attempt to wipe my wet face off on my jacket. I accidently lick it, and am surprised at first to taste--SALT. Lots of it. And then I realised that I had sweated right through the jacket. If I was losing that much salt, then I'd better make sure I was drinking properly. I filled up my water bottle at the next fountain.
I am a sticky, wet mess by the time I got back to the car. Luckily, something inside me had warned to bring a change of clothing. I am feeling my normal post-walk tiredness, so I change my clothes right there in the parking lot, not caring who saw me.
Marathoners will tell you that the halfway point of the race is not mile thirteen, but the twenty-mile mark. It is at mile twenty that I run into the other trainer, who tells me I am looking very strong. I feel strong, too. I know now that there is no doubt I'm going to finish.
"How much do you have left to raise?" I asked Eileen.
"About five hundred. You?"
"Over a thousand. I don't know how I'm going to do it."
I didn't. Time was running out. I had already asked my friends and family, and had received numerous donations from work. Sure, there were likely more people I could have asked, but I didn't have enough time. The monies were due in five days.
If I didn't turn in the full amount, I wouldn't be going to Dublin.
I sat at my desk at work, mindlessly rubbing the soreness out of a calf. Twelve hundred dollars. That was what was standing between me and the plane ticket that would take me to Dublin, to the race I had been training for for the past five months.
I bit my lip, picked up the phone, and called the credit union. I didn't want to do this, but saw little choice in the matter.
"Hi. I need to take out a personal loan."
I decided on a repayment period of one year. The amount would be a little steep, but I could handle it. Plus, I would have the satisfaction of paying it off so quickly. And it would look good on my credit.
Besides, $1200 for a trip to Ireland? Not too bad at all.
A few weeks later, my ticket came in the mail. I was on my way.
Mile Twenty-One. The sun comes out briefly, and a rainbow lights up the sky to my left. I meet up with the last group of course volunteers, who are handing out water and hard candy. The sugar itself tastes like sunshine, and my energy only increases.
Mile Twenty-Six, and I'm excited like crazy. I tear off the garbage bag that has kept me warm all race, and put on my best speed of the race. I am nearly running as I race towards the finish line.
I want to know what it's like.
I want to know what it's like to stand at a starting line, filled with nervous excitement. I want to know what it's like to be surrounded by hundreds of fellow racers, all eager and straining towards the goal far away. I want to know what it's like to see the miles pass by. I want to know what it's like to cross that finish line with a thousand spectators cheering me on.
I decide to do a short race, so I can get some experience.
A month before the marathon, I drive up to Northwestern U FOR THE CURE City of Hope Breast Cancer walk. The crowds teem, listening to the special guests and walking from booth to booth gathering freebies. I retrieve my t-shirt and stuff my pockets with lanyards and granola bars.
The runners took off on their 5K. I watched and cheered, excited but also impatient for my turn.
Soon they were calling the walkers to the starting line. I listened impatiently as they explained the route: all walkers would start at the same line. At the half mile mark, the one-miler Fun Walk participants would turn left and head back, while the four mile Fitness walk turned right and continued on. I nodded eagerly, and waited tensely for the race to began.
AND WE'RE OFF!! The pack began to shuffle slowly through the gate. I slipped my way between openings in the crowd, trying to proceed as fast as I could.
But it soon became apparent that this wasn't a race. There wouldn't be clocks at the mile markers, and the finish clock hadn't even been started properly, and so was off.
Apparently, this was one charity that believed walkers weren't real athletes. :mad:
I decided to do my best anyway, and plunged ahead. The course was quite tight at times, causing me to say "Excuse me, excuse me!" repeatedly. I had to stop halfway through to adjust my jacket, which was so full of free goodies that it kept banging against my leg.
I was walking as fast as my legs would carry me. Heck, I even ran a few times.
I burst through the finish line, and glanced at the clock.
54:13.
O_O
When I started training, I could barely do a 20-minute mile.
Today, I had averaged a 13.5-minute mile.
Wow. I had come a long way.
Plus, free t-shirt and granola bars!
There would be no breaking of tape, no lightbulbs flashing. No loved ones to cry and hug, and only a few spectators who are likely charity volunteers cheering me as I cross the finish line with a time of eight hours and forty-five minutes--nearly an hour and a half later than I had planned. But my smile is wide and genuine, and I let out several "Woo-hoo!"s as I sprint the last few yards. I had done it. I was a marathoner.
We sat bouncing on the bus. We were headed back to the airport. We were headed back to home, and back to normal life.
We swapped our stories. My roommate, one of the runners on the team, had finished in about four hours. Sheila, the teammate I had had the most friction with but who became a friend during our time in Dublin, had finished shortly before me. Connie was all smiles and sunlight, having completed thirteen miles of the race, three more than she had planned. Laura, who had arthritis and asthma, had managed six miles.
We were all champions.
Jason, the running coach, told us that the weather had been so bad during the race that it was like we had done an extra ten miles. We all silently agreed.
I felt a twinge in my shoulders, and winced and rubbed them. I had feared getting blisters during the race. Or losing a toenail. That was a popular side effect of marathons. But my felt felt fine. My legs were fine. My butt was a little sore, but it was the sweet soreness that comes after a good workout.
My shoulders and arms, however, KILLED. Usually during my walks, I kept a water bottle in my fanny pack. During the race, however, I had unwittingly carried a bottle in one hand or other for the entire race, and I was paying the price.
Jason went on to tell us about other races he had done. Honolulu. Chicago. His own experience at Dublin. We basked in the stories. We might not be as fast as he, but we had a kinship.
A voice spoke up. "I want to do another," it said.
A pause, and then other voices chimed in. "Me too," was the chorus of echoes.
And my voice was one of them.
I am twenty-six, and I've just done the unbelievable.