At some point in your life you’re going to have the Dreaded Moment when you decide you wish to run a marathon.  Most likely it will occur when you least expect it, when either amnesia or Alzheimers (or both) are beginning to set it.  You will feel buoyed and jazzed by the idea - thrilled that you are going to do something that less that 1% of the world attempts.

You will do it. You will be making the stupidest mistake of your life.  I should know, because I’m a marathoner.

See, a short while back I got bitten by the marathon bug.  My story is detailed below.  While I did complete the marathon, I did so in the absolute worst way possible.  Certainly, there are some who are born runners, born athletes, born winners.  I’m not.  I’m the unprepared adventurer, remember? 

And yet, despite all the verbal outpouring against it as shown above, I can’t tell you how glad I am that I did it.  It was an incredible feeling to cross the finish line.  I have renewed respect for my feet, for the human capacity to persist, and for the minds of those who are smart enough to never, ever attempt this.

Why you should do it: Just cave in, everybody wants to run a marathon at some point

What to consider: Consider training, seriously

Restrictions: There aren’t many.  I was on the course with obese people, kids, senior citizens, disabled vets and more.  Seriously, anybody can do - but check with your doctor before you decide to do this, just in case

Details

A 93-year old woman named Iris finished the marathon before I did. 93 years old. I kid you not. Add to that list people on wheelchairs, the physically disabled, octogenarians, cancer survivors and 300-lb women. Oh, and four garbage trucks.

It was October 11, 2009 and I was vying for the Chicago Marathon. 26.22 miles on foot. This is my story.

Textbook Marathon Disaster

Don't train properly. Don't wear the right shoes. Gain weight from eating too much junk, run fast in the first few miles, don't do the long runs. Don't take any of the advice that seasoned marathoners dole out. Nope, just wake up on marathon day and end up injured, stiff as a board and half dead, but with a medal all one's own!

Historically, running and mad dogs have measured up about the same in my book. I mean, who in her right mind leaves a good sofa to get tortured by the elements and incessant knee/foot pounding? Why, why, why on earth did I want to do this? Dunno. Seriously, I have no clue. It just seemed like something I had to do, so I signed up.

I began running in April, averaging about two runs a week. The longest continuous run I managed was four miles. I managed further to run/walk a maximum distance of eleven miles. My last run was August 1, nine weeks before the marathon.

Eight days before the Chicago Marathon, I began to panic. I hadn’t moved in eight weeks. So, I decided to go for a 10 mile walk/run the Sunday before the actual marathon. Although I was able to finish the 10 miles, I was in bad shape the next day. My feet ached, my legs felt like lead, and I began to rethink the Chicago Marathon dream.

On the Way

31 degrees Fahrenheit on marathon morning. I looked about as prepared as an unset jelly. On the train ride to Jackson Blvd, I opened up the marathon info packet. Apparently I had some chip I had to fasten to my shoes. Bizarre, I thought, but okay, I went ahead and put it on. The chip destroyed any hope of cheating!

I was blissfully unaware of where I'd be running, or what the general lay of the land was. All I knew was that I had to get to Grant Park. Grant Park, incidentally, is where Obama stood on the night that he won the Presidential elections. It is the magnificent microcenter of all big activities in Chicago.

Alighting from the train I walked into a wonderland of joggers. If you're ever looking to gouge your eyes out at all the fish in the sea you're missing out on, head to a marathon. Seriously. The men and women there are in sickeningly good shape. I've never as many great legs as I did on marathon day. Naked legs. In shorts. In short shorts. Amazing.

I followed the crowd into Grant Park, and there, corralled, were the marathoners. In front were the serious athletes, the best of the Kenyans, Russians, etc, and behind these were the 6-milers, the people who average 6 minute miles throughout the 26.22 mile race. I walked past the 8-milers, the 12-milers, the 13-milers and took my place in the middle of the general corral. This is where you stand if you’re running your first marathon, or if in marathons past you averaged more than 15 minutes a mile.

Being a McDonalds and Nutella kind of gal, I found the marathoners scary, overwhelming. They were skinny, lean and tall, and they were wearing shimmering, powerful alien suits as far I was concerned. All their clothes were made of synthetic fibres - I mean, what happened to plain old cotton??? Some of the people (sane, educated, legsy types of people) were roaming about wrapped up in plastic bin bags. Everyone was shivering. Btw, anybody who needs free winter or athletic clothing – head to the start line of a marathon spot and wait till the crowd departs – your choice of stuff - free - will need significant laundering.

And another thing - the marathoners were a FILTHY lot. Never have I seen so many people litter with such impunity. There was a sea of jackets, gloves power gels, energy drinks and whatnot on the floor where the marathoners were lined up. And NOBODY stopped them. Marathoners are invulnerable.

I stood around looking at legs. Couldn't help it. Being as short as I am, I hover in the universe of armpits, waists and legs. Anyway, it was so engrossing an activity that I never heard the bell or whatever it is they do to start off the marathon. Instead, there was this cheer that rose from the crowd, and suddenly, people were moving towards the starting point.

We walked to the start banner, and then, just like that, we were running. The first mile was a crowded mile. There were thousands of us, buzzing like bees as we went into a tunnel on Columbus Avenue. I felt great, excited, and I was surprised that my body wasn’t protesting from the effort of running after more than a two-month hiatus.

The first four miles were a breeze. We were met along the way by an unending line of supporters. They sang, cheered, played music and handed out free cups of energy drinks. I had never had an energy drink before (other than a (dis)taste of Monster for an MBA project) but found myself getting caught up in the mood and chugging down the drinks.

At about mile 5 I decided to walk a little. Up till this point I had been averaging 12-minute miles (which was not bad for me). Shortly before the tenth mile I took a 15-minute break. That’s when people really began to pass me by. I saw thousands of people go by, but I felt it was important to give my body a break before setting off to finish the remaining 16 miles.

Around mile 10, we were in Boys Town. Awesome! Awesome! The crowd there was incredible and we ran to lavish cheering, loud singing, and the encouragement of an all-boy cheerleading squad, a squad in drag (performing to “All the Single Ladies”) and several other sights. This lively spot got me moving faster again, and in relevant comfort I combo walked and ran to the 13th mile.

I had fallen behind the team that carried the 5:45 banner. I knew I was slowing down. By the time I completed the half marathon, I was tired, but exhilarated! I was half way there, and further than I had ever been before.

Downhill

Things began to go awry. Every single experienced marathoner had told me to practice some long runs before the big day. Being a stupid, brash and unprepared adventurer, I of course, had done no such thing. I figured I’d give it a try, walk and crawl if I needed to.

By mile 15, I thought of giving up. I was tired, my knees felt more stiff than they had ever been in my life, and my fractured toe was really beginning to ache. I sat down, took a 15-minute break and stretched. My biggest fear going into this marathon had been blisters. I hate blisters as much as the next guy, and since I had (naturally) not prepared with any balms or anti-blister medication, I figured I would be plagued with blisters by the end of the run. What I hadn’t counted on, was stiffness and ankle pain. Those two were infinitely worse than blisters.

After my break, I was on track for a 6-hour finish. Not bad, considering, so I figured I’d keep going on. At this point I was walking more than I was running, and I began to be frightened I wasn’t going to make it.

Mile 17, I twisted my ankle. There was some kind of rock on the road, and I felt my foot twist in a way that no healthy foot should. The agony was intense. I was ready to give up, but then I thought of my life list. My life list on which I needed to cross off item 26, this item being said marathon.

Now, the problem with having a life list is that you HAVE to accomplish the goal. Like a Daruma Doll, it stares at you and reminds you of what you’ve got to do. As my foot began to throb, I thought about the infernal life list. If I didn’t finish the marathon this time, I would have to do it all over again.

The horror of having to repeat this ordeal if I failed was so intense that it gave me the strength to keep going.

Garbage Trucks

4 hours into the marathon, they started pushing us over to the sidewalk. By us, I mean the people at the 18th mile. We were a strange group, mostly walkers by this point (except for Iris, the 93-year old dynamo who was still running slowly). All the good runners had passed us by. It was now just me, crazy 93-year old Iris, a few seriously out of shape men, women, a couple of random homeless guys, some disabled vet types, a woman whose 1-year baby was moving faster than me, and a flock of really tired spectators.

As a germophobe, I steer clear of garbage trucks. On marathon day, when the blue garbage trucks came through I would have given my left arm to have been able to get in the back, amidst all the crap, and lie down for a couple of miles. I had been reduced to these lows. New lows. It was interesting.

China Town

By a superhuman effort, I kept walking. At mile 21 we were in Chinatown. I could smell the kung pao, and considering I hadn't eaten in about 5 hours, I would have murdered for some food, if only I'd had the strength.

To my great surprise, I saw my sister, kid and husband standing there, and I walked slowly over to them. I felt the intense desire to beg them to take me home, but how could I? Only five miles to go. I couldn’t give up then, my ego wouldn't let me, and I couldn’t repeat the hellishness of the marathon. I just simply could not.

I began to limp by mile 22. I mean active limping. However, when I saw a handicapped man pass me in a slow, steady run, I realized, limp or no limp, I was going to continue. I had not half the excuse he did, and training be damned, I was going to make it to the end.

I decided to continue, but I was in sheer, utter agony at this point. The streets had re-opened, my feet were ablaze. We (the sad, slow marathoners) were getting those looks of pity from people, you know the type, the politically correct looks that you give to the kids who come in last? I was officially among the desperadoes.

A funny moment came when a little woman dressed to the nines, accompanied by another little woman dressed somewhat fashionably, started picking up gloves and other marathoner discards from the road. These two ladies were yelling at each other in Chinese, and quickly schlepping away stuff into their Coach bags. It was bizarre to watch them. Scavengers, but amusing ones at least.

My favorite moment came when one supporter, God bless her soul, held up a sign in my face as I came limping by. The sign said, “To us, you’re all Kenyans.” It made me laugh, it made me want to cry (because the effort of laughing triggered the effort of crying) but it also made me feel just a little bit less defeated. “Go do it, runners!” the dwindling crowd said to us. So we did.

Limping Laggard

I had met another first-timer between miles 21 and 22. She too looked ravaged. We proceeded slowly, shaking our heads as octogenarians, nonagenarians and others sailed smoothly by us. Erica (for that was her name) was 29-years old. She looked like an athlete, but she had hit a wall. I limped, she walked. In between, we chatted about how we would NEVER have to do this again. That thought gave us hope. Great, great hope.

The last five miles were the most difficult feat for me. I had to walk with my right foot twisted inwards because any straightening of the foot was agonizing. My limp was more pronounced, but the 23rd mile marker came at us after an eternity, and there was no turning back.

The weird thing about those final miles is that they get longer and longer. Mathematical logic would suggest that they are equal in length to other miles. But marathoning (even as feeble an attempt as my own) suggests that the miles at the end are disproportionately larger than the ones in the front end.

A blue garbage truck rolled by, picking up the cups that were tossed by runners as they went through the energy drink stations. My feet were sticking to the ground (that energy drink stuff cannot be good for the environment). At this point, the very act of lifting my feet seemed like a superhuman task. I cursed all the energy drink makers of the world, and slowly, ever so slowly, inched forward.

Hell is the 24th Mile

We were on Michigan Avenue! The home stretch; the coveted finish line was right there – two miles ahead. The faster marathoners were now visible to us. Against the stream. They came toward us with their medals and blankets. Can I tell you how difficult that 24th mile was? Hell. It was hell. It was all I could do not to sit down on the ground and cry my eyes out. However, the very act of bending seemed painful by now. I was stiff all over, my feet were a mess, and my ankle – ‘nuff said.

I don’t know how we made it to the 25th mile marker. Seriously. They were shutting everything down by this point, it was only myself and the other wounded/laggards who were coming through. A few dear spectators stopped and cheered us on. “You can do it! Just another mile!”

Just another mile? Are you insane? Do you have any idea how painful that sounds on the 25th mile mark? More painful than a root canal. More painful than walking the day after a c-section. It took me 80 minutes to walk the final 4.5 miles. 80 minutes! Even a two year old child could move faster than that! My injury was killing me, my body was freezing, my brain was shutting down.

It was only as I saw the Grant Park entrance that hope returned. There, a short distance ahead was the finish line. I was going to complete the marathon. My new-found friend Erica and I moved a little faster now, there was a slight spring in our steps. The end! The end! Hope surged anew, adrenaline began to flow.

The feeling of seeing the finish line was indescribable. I wanted to swoon with joy! We yelled! I saw my family there, smiling, excited, worried (why on earth had it taken me so long to get here?). Erica and I made the decision to run through the finish line. Prodded on by sheer adrenaline, we ran. I did not think of my poor feet till after passing the finish line and screaming with joy. My feet gave out on me then, and I clutched the medal they handed me before collapsing. I felt 100 years old, I REALLY had to use the bathroom, but I was done. I was a marathoner.

Lessons Learned

So is a marathon doable? Absolutely. Do only tall, thin, athletic superhumans run marathons? Absolutely not. As Erica remarked, marathons break down all your prejudices. I mean, we were soundly, soundly beaten by septuagenarians for Chrissake! I saw a women the size of a bus sail by me. I saw a man on prosthetics breeze by. It's so humbling to witness this!

Iris the 93-year old had finished just before me. I had more than 60 years on this woman and still she made it to the finish line before me. Amazing.

Those cheesy sites on training? They're absolutely right. The training is essential. If only I had trained harder! If only I had done my homework!

Next time, I'll have trained better, and I'll avoid injury. Next time I won't need 30 minutes worth of breaks to rub life back into my feet and knees.

And the crowds. Marathon crowds are awesome. Not one mile went by (even at that ridiculously long end) without great encouragement and spirit from the friends, families and random strangers who saw us through this. They had funny signs, doled out free drinks, donuts and more, and best of all, they never stopped smiling and shouting out to us. My heartfelt thanks go out to all of you who've cheered a marathon. We owe you a tremendous debt!

Net result, I finished in over the time I had set for myself, injured, exhausted, but still exhilarated. I mean, I had completed a marathon by sheer will alone, for certainly, the physical aptitude had in no way been developed.

Will I do another? Who knows? It was an incredible, incredible experience. For now, that'll have to do.

HKV