The Finish

Eventually, I got there. And those wonderful marathon planners again exercised excellent, strategic placement of the finish line. I could see it for a few hundred feet after turning a corner. A few hundred feet, DOWNHILL. Of course, we all want to run fast to the end. I would have loved to pick up the pace and cross the finish line with gusto and a triumphant arm raise. The truth is, just making it to the finish was all that I could do. I smiled and waved at my friends who were already done and kept plugging away, one painful step at a time, to the end.

The announcer was just as enthusiastic for me as he was for the first few runners across the line (admittedly I wasn’t at the finish earlier, but I cannot imagine more enthusiasm.) I heard him yell my name and my hometown and let out a sigh of relief as I walked (hobbled) to get my medal and mylar blanket.

I met my friends at the end and waited for my sister. Every movement was painful and slow. I have never felt so happy to be done with anything as I was to be done with the marathon. It really is all about finishing. Just getting there takes so much grit and determination. The magnitude of the accomplishment hasn’t really hit me yet.

What did strike me as I crossed the line was the finish line is an open gate. You run through it to whatever is waiting for you at the end. Medals and mylar blankets and a good lunch and friends and family. But beyond that. My favorite quote during training was “There will be days I wonder if I can run a marathon, there will be a life time of knowing that I have.” My friends, my sister, and I were saying after the race, “Welcome to the lifetime.”

Welcome to the lifetime, indeed.

There are gates at the Oklahoma City Memorial that stand at either end of the site. They say 9:01 and 9:03 and represent the innocence of the city at 9:01 that morning, and the lives and a city changed forever after the bombing at 9:03 a.m.

The pain and suffering of that day has changed a city and all who visit it. It started a marathon of memories and hope. I wish that the events of April 19, 1995 had never happened. If I have learned anything from this race though, it’s that every major event, moments of pain and suffering, provide us with gateways to the lifetime beyond it. It’s up to us whether we go through those gateways, whether we endure suffering to find hope, whether we let people help us and push us and support us, and whether we believe enough in the power of love and hope to help others and thank them for being with us. Are we willing to let go of our old selves, to shed our perceived limitations and accept who we become through trials and tribulations? I hope I can do that. I know that the magnitude of the 26.2 miles and the events of the weekend changed me. I only hope I can honor those moments--letting love and hope and perseverance shine through--with my lifetime beyond the finish line.

Stay tuned…

The Agony

The marathon is by far, the hardest thing I have ever done. I have never been in as much physical pain as I was so much of that race. After running miles in the double digits, my feet are burning, my legs are tired and my hip flexors and IT Bands feel like snapped rubber bands. They are moving, but nothing is cushioning them or protecting them from the constant friction. But pain is one thing. The length of the pain is entirely another.

I think the grace of suffering in life is that we don’t often know the end point. So we are forced to take things one day at a time. I don’t want to minimize the hell that not knowing the end point can bring with it. It could go on forever. Or it couldn’t. The thing is, we just don’t know.

With a marathon, you know. You know the end point. You know at any given time (if a race is well marked) how far it is away and how long it may take you to get there. You know that you have 10 miles to go or 16 or even a seemingly small distance like 2 or 4. You know that you can’t stop until you complete every one of them and that it’s going to take a long time to do that. You know all of this at the same time you know that putting one foot in front of the other seems impossible right now. Much less for ________ more miles. You know that this pain isn’t getting better. There were times when I couldn’t imagine my legs and feet hurting worse than they did and I knew, somehow, they were going to. The only way for this to end was to go through more pain, for a long time, to get there.

Finding a will to finish even with all of the knowledge of how long it will take and how much it will continue to hurt is what makes a marathon so difficult. Why keep going? You pay to be here, you did all of this training, no one is making you do this race. Just sticking with training is accomplishment enough. So why go on? Fortunately I found a reason.

There were moments, when the magnitude of this race hit me. When I saw the name of one of the victims (just past mile 21), one who was on the news a lot in Milwaukee after the bombing, tears welled in my eyes. Not to mention the people I saw with shirts that said names and had pictures of who they were doing this for, parents, friends, siblings, husbands and wives, children…all victims with surviving families running this race. Or the firefighters in full gear who were walking the half. This was a race of hope. In a tiny, tiny way, my being there, and my running was a tribute to that hope. In the moments I remembered that, I remembered why I had to persevere and finish, not because it would be an accomplishment for me (at mile 22, if I could have had a cab, I would have said “screw accomplishment” and got inside) but because I believe that hope is stronger than any pain we feel. Therefore finishing was the only choice. Pain wasn’t going to win this time. Hope was. For me, and for all of the people there who believed in it. I had to keep going, to endure the agony, because this wasn’t about me. It was about hope.

The Race

There are so many different things a person experiences in well over five hours of running. Most if it is pain (not an exaggeration!) I would say the marathon is a test of perseverance above all else. My legs did not feel great after mile 10. Less than the half way point. You have to find a way to get through all of those miles, the middle miles in a very long journey, without losing your mind.

This is not easy.

I had to focus on something other than the finish. The finish was too far away to seem attainable. Fortunately, there were many options. The first thing I did was focus on just getting to the next mile marker. This is where Oklahoma City shined with their marathon preparation. The mile markers (and even kilometer markers) were giant green and white flags that you could see for a few hundred feet. Genius. Each one was a sign of hope and as soon as I would see them, I would get a boost. I don’t think I walked past a single one. For the few hundred feet I could see each mile marker, I knew I could make it to that next point.

At mile 9, I turned to my sister and said “look, there it is, I was hoping for it.” Certain mile markers stood out more than others. Halfway, of course. Mile 16 (10 to go). Mile 18. Mile 18 was in a beautiful neighborhood and in addition to the green flags, there were permanent, beautiful mile marker signs with the survivor tree on them. This is also where the banners with the names of the victims began in earnest. I thought if I could just get to 20 I was through some of the hardest psychological miles of the race.

Mile 24. I saw mile 23 and it seemed like hours before I saw 24. I don’t know if that was “the wall” for me, but I do know that it was the longest mile in the entire race. It was on busy roads, in the sun, and it just took forever. I still think that mile not measured properly and I actually ran five miles between those two markers. I cheered when I went by 24 (at this point in the race a cheer was a quiet “yay” and half-hearted fist pump!) Other miles were memorable for their water stops, for what I was thinking and for where they were in the city. A marathon is a one-mile at a time race. I fought hard not to think about finishing it but just to think about getting to the next mile.

Another thing I focused on were the notes from friends. I had little index cards cut up that people wrote funny things or words of encouragement on. As it turns out, this was a brilliant idea (that I read in a book.) These notes were the best distraction. As it turns out, I have some really funny friends. Many, of course, were inside jokes. But many were words of wisdom and support and just generally funny. A few of the more universal marathon words that people wrote, are below this post. I used these notes as a reward for getting to a new mile. They also turned out to be a great way to think about the person who wrote them for a few minutes (therefore not thinking about how my legs and feet wanted to leave my body.)

------------------------- some words from the notes--------------------------

“what the hell are you doing reading this? Watch where you are going!”
“ I know you will be running along a path that the OKC victims onee walked/ran/drove. They cannot take that path any longer, but you can take it for them, and that is special. Keep running!”
“I’ve learned that finishing a marathon isn’t just an athletic achievement. It’s a state of mind; a state of mind that says anything is possible.”
“You had a blue moo cookie dough milkshake. You have enough energy for three marathons.”
“Jillian [Michaels] has nothing on you. You rock!”
and countless others….
“You have tasted a variety of artificially created goo flavors, only to still feel like your are eating horribly flavored toothpaste.”

The Start

I don’t know if there is ever more energy anywhere at an insane hour of the morning, than there is at a marathon starting line. I left my hotel at 5:30 a.m. When I got into the elevator, charged up people in running shoes were already headed to the lobby where people were drinking coffee, chatting, and generally looking like it was Sunday after church, not Sunday at 5:30 before we were all going to run a long way.

As we ambled through the darkened streets of downtown, towards the starting line, the crowds and energy only increased. It was as if people were coming out of every building, wearing race numbers, to join the crowds on the street. It was all kinds of people. Short, tall, fat, thin, old, young, people who looked like runners (not me) and people who didn’t. 22 thousand people eventually found their way to 4th and Robinson, right outside the gates of the lighted memorial. 22 thousand participants and countless thousands of spectators. All ready to go by 6 in the morning.

The four of us who came together met left my dad to make our way to the starting corral. Seeing the line of people packed shoulder to shoulder and sidewalk to sidewalk for multiple city blocks brought tears to my eyes. There I was, one anonymous person in an enormous event easily lost in the sea of tech gear, race numbers and running shoes. A celebration that brings thousands of people out of their beds, out of their states (all 50 of them) and out of their comfort zones to run, to volunteer, and to watch on one day, together. I can’t help but think how amazing it is that 22 thousand people, for their own reasons, decided to run in Oklahoma City that day. I knew three of them. Yet I was connected, simply by being there, to everyone. We were all running the same course, on the same day. We were all gathered here, in the space of a few city blocks to see the sun rise while we ran. No matter how fast, we were all running the same route. We were following in the footsteps not only of those who ran before us, but of each other. It’s exciting and it’s overwhelming. No wonder as the 22 K runners plus countless spectators (a number totaling beyond 30k I am sure) silenced themselves for one hundred and sixty-eight seconds (a second for every victim) I couldn’t help but let a few tears fall down my face. This was the beginning of a journey we would all share, but we stood in silence to remember.

The starting horn blew soon after and the sea of people in front of me inched forward. My sister and I slowly made our way to the start line (taking nearly 15 minutes in an already long event!) I heard the beeps of my sister and my timing chips as we crossed the official race start. We were on our way.

With each step through the first few miles I was a bit overwhelmed by what I had undertaken. This was the beginning. It was the beginning of a long way to go and it was exciting. It was exciting to see the people gathered here. To be, for just a few minutes, running with everyone else who was running this race. It was the first few miles that I took it all in. I was running a marathon. I got there. I made it, in tact, to the starting line.

The beginning of the race was the most scenic. It brought us through Bricktown (right past our hotel again!) and past the capital building. We turned into pretty neighborhoods and wove up and down hills. We saw runners and walkers alike.

The most memorable sight in the first few miles was the two firefighters. They were in full gear. Helmets, oxygen tanks, coats, boots, everything. I would find out later they were walking the half. Images of fire fighters on ladders, pulling people out of the debris flashed before me. Whether these two were rescue workers on this day 15 years ago or not, their presence that day was a tribute to the strength of the city and the lives saved that day.

This was the beginning of the race. Before the elite runners would separate themselves from the pack, and before half marathons and 5k runners turned off to continue their own courses. It was my favorite part. Not just because the energy and spirits were high, but because we were all together running and walking, doing our best to follow the same path to the finish line.

It was here, not at the end, that I absorbed the energy. That I took in all of the atmosphere and excitement. Before the marathon is about perseverance, it’s about excitement and a sense of wonder and adventure. It’s that energy that is the most fun and it’s that energy that leads to the strength to finish. The wonder and excitement is what overrules the doubt and fear to lure people into training in the first place. In the beginning I couldn’t help but think “I only hope I am willing to keep following those wonderings right through doubt and fear after this, because where they lead you is worth the risk.” I also knew in that beginning, that it was in the first few miles more than anywhere that I had to trust I would be able to handle whatever difficulty and struggle came my way.

The Memorial

I hope that sometime in your lives, you all have a chance to visit the Oklahoma City Memorial and Museum. It is a place you can spend a couple of hours and your life will never be the same. I went there 6 years ago as a random stop on a road trip. I returned to run a marathon that supports it.

Why is this place so special?
As I walked through the museum and heard the stories of the park ranger at the site, I realized why. It’s not just the symbolism of everything from the Empty Chairs to the landscaping. It’s the stories of the individuals and the experience of the day that is captured.

You start in a room hearing the recording of a hearing that was happening in a building across the street. It’s ordinary events. The kind of things that my sister and friend (both lawyers) hear every day. And then you hear the blast and see the 168 victim’s faces shine on a wall. A door opens to the aftermath. Did I mention the museum is in a building that suffered some damage from the explosion? You see that damage too.

There were many things that stood out to me on this walk through a day in history. The first was the display cases filled with objects recovered from the blast. There are watches, keys, briefcases, toys from the daycare center. An entire display case full of keys. Car keys, office keys, house keys. They sit in a pile, with one key pulled out and hung above the rest. The keys belonging to one of the victims. Ordinary objects from what turned out to be an extraordinary day, a minute in time. Objects made significant by the loss of life of their owners.

And it continues through the museum. Video clips of the survivors and their stories. Parents taking about dropping their kids off at daycare mere minutes before…never to see them again. People who were pulled from the building by rescue workers. Stories so individual, in a tragedy so big.

You can’t help but feel a part of it as you go through this museum. I challenge anyone not to be touched by the cards and letters sent by children all over the country in the days after. One, rainbow colored card in child’s handwriting read simply: “Get Well.”

Perhaps the most difficult room in the museum is the room for the victims. Each person has a small box with their name, picture, and objects to represent them left by the families. Ordinary people. People whose faces inside, and empty chairs outside stand as testament to the impact a single life can have on so many. 168 individual lives. Thousands who wish their chairs did not stand empty. A community that has gathered, worked and loved through their suffering to make sure their lives are remembered, and that the legacy those 168 people left is somehow greater than the senseless act of violence that took them from this earth.

I left the museum and the memorial, for the second time, moved by the power of our lives and the power of love to transcend the most unspeakable acts of evil. We may never “Get well,” from the sickness and brokenness, the loss and the tragedy in our lives, but we can choose to hope beyond it. We can choose keep loving, and keep honoring the lives of those who have touched us and left us, with our own acts of love and kindness, passion, compassion, and hope. The stories of these people, and the symbols of their legacies reminded me that we are all, with our ordinary lives, called to be extraordinary symbols of love and hope for each other. We are called to cry tears, run races and stand in quiet, and most of all remember. Remember that senseless acts of violence can never erase legacy of one life as long as we are willing to gather, to remember, and to allow extraordinary grace to transform our brokenness into our own legacies of love.

Marathon Expo

I think my roommates here in Oklahoma think I am a little intense about this whole thing. When they arrived I had three restaurant suggestions, the expo schedule memorized and a highlighted map of shuttle stops, food places and local events. If you haven’t figured it out by now, I am totally a nerd about…well…just about everything. Including marathons, I guess.

I just don’t know how to do anything big (but a car, start a garden, pick out a bird feeder) without a ton of research. So I have researched this marathon and committed all of the essential details to memory. I am trying to tone it down a bit but it’s tough. I am super excited and super nervous and I respond to all of this with knowing and being excited about EVERYTHING there is to know and be excited about!

Naturally, I was super excited about the expo. I will get my bib number and chip have all of the things I need for the race. There will be maps to study and tons of marathon info. There will be running stuff for sale and product demos. There will be a whole lot of excited running people. There will be speakers including running legends (that I have realized only I know who they are. Joan Benoit Samuelson, Dick Beardsley, and Bart Yasso.) A marathon expo is a great place to be an excited runner.

I saw a little bit of Dick Beardsley’s talk and related to a few funny t-shirts (“running is a mental sport, and we are all insane” or “I am just doing this for the facebook photo.”) I am “all geeked out” about this. I totally buy into the whole running culture. I love it, Gu and all. And the expo was a place for me to fit in and celebrate that culture. I think we all enjoyed it. I also think my sister will continue to make fun of me for my enthusiasm and for years to come, it’s what she does (I was definitely with people that were not quite as excited about the expo as I was. Hard to imagine!) What can I say? The marathon is a weekend, not just a race. We might as well enjoy the ride and all of the cool gear, speakers and inspiration and quirky running culture stuff that comes with it.

Confiscated Peanut Butter

Marathon Weekend: Part One.
This is it. The training is done and the traveling has commenced. I write this from Oklahoma City, where 48 hours from now, I will have completed a marathon (cross your fingers!) From just the journey here, I sense there might be a lot of stories from this whole weekend.

I learned this morning that peanut butter constitutes a liquid or gel. Now, one of our running group just happens to be a science teacher and confirmed my initial assessment that peanut butter is a solid. What is interesting about this little scenario is that marshmallow fluff, apparently, IS a solid. I spread both on bread and turn them into a sandwich before I run. They seem about the same consistency to me, none of which is “liquid or gel” that’s banned by the airlines. But this morning, at 6 a.m. my peanut butter, in a sealed jar was confiscated by the TSA guy. Thank god he didn’t take the fluff. Peanut butter is easy to find in Oklahoma. Marshmallow Fluff is not always so easy. I texted one friend that I might have wound up in jail if they tried to take it! It’s important not to mess with a runner and her pre-race food!

So with a slightly lighter suitcase I headed, event free to Minneapolis. Half awake, I grabbed a bagel sandwich and coffee and headed for my gate. It would turn out that sandwich was a good decision. I had to board the plane twice and wait two hours past the initial departure time before we finally took off. In the midst of getting on and off the plane though, I met some other runners. Three new friends who are running the half on Sunday. The delays passed by unnoticed in the midst of “where are you froms,” “how long was your long runs” and “this is going to be so fun!” (okay, so the “this is going to be so funs were mostly from me!”) You could tell we’d all been tapering with the excitement in our voices, and enthusiastic promises of running fall marathons together in areas all over the country.

Finally I arrived in Oklahoma City (where it remains to be seen if I will encounter my new friends again, amidst the 21,000 people here for this). I anticipated a quick check in and lunch, and then plenty of resting and watching cable. I handed my ID to the front desk clerk and told him my name. “Have we got mail for you,” he said. I saw a woman come from the back with boxes and cards from people I work with. I was immediately overwhelmed. I didn’t even know you could send mail to a hotel for people! There is something about mail. It conveys love and support in everything from the stamps, to the script of the handwriting. Even the hotel people exclaimed how loved I must be.

I went to my room with the boxes in tow and a sense of joy. Soon my sister and our friends would be arriving. I was in a beautiful part of town and a comfortable hotel. I was connected to people I never even knew and in many ways, and I never felt more connected to the people I love that couldn’t be here with me. The truth is they are with me.

Ironic that this lonely journey is ending with such a profound experience of community. I am soaking in every moment of the joy and peace and laughter of all of it. And wherever that peanut butter is, I hope someone gets to enjoy it.

The Last One

Yesterday was it. My last “long run” before the marathon. 6 miles.

I didn’t want to start it. I wasn’t ready for the last one. By 6:15 p.m. on Saturday though, I knew it was time. It was perfect weather. Mid-fifties, sunshine and a gentle breeze. As soon as my feet hit the ground I knew this run was something special. That rare, really great run. Not just great at the end or after warming up. But great all the way through. I bounced, danced, smiled, and glided up hills. I took deep, exaggerated breaths past every blooming lilac bush and floral tree (safe, now that the stinky blooms of the flowering pear trees have gone.) I soaked in the sun, mouthed along to the songs on my ipod and thought about the 5 months or so, and the week that lay before me.

The last time I did a 6 mile “long run” it was snowing. I was with a group, chasing after people twice my age who qualified for Boston and trying to find my place. I was recovering from a horrible stomach bug and just trying to get through it. The marathon was far from my mind and doubts had pretty much taken over.

This run, yesterday, was 6 miles of celebration, mixed with a little bit of sadness. I suppose that’s why I wanted to put it off for just a bit. No one wants to say goodbye to anything that’s changed her life. Marathon training has done nothing less.

The girl who began this journey did so out of some sort of call. A call to love that lonely, broken person into someone new through running. I chose to do this to honor the victims of the bombing in Oklahoma City, but in a way, I also chose this to honor my own grief for losses I experienced over the past year. Deep down I knew I needed to acknowledge that pain by living it, and then in finding life beyond it.

So I have. For some reason, I believed this ride would be worth the suffering and sacrifice. That belief has carried me through some of the most painful miles. My desire to do this wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t worth it. What I didn’t know when I ran that 6 miles in December was how powerful that belief, that faith, and that hope really is. If it can carry me up a hill at the end of 20 miles, and through 5 months of training, it can carry me through anything. It might be a wild, painful, difficult, surprising ride, but it’s a ride worth getting in line for.

There is life beyond our pain. There is hope in the deepest desires of our hearts. It’s fitting that these last runs, this marathon, is in the spring. New life is blooming everywhere. For me, it’s the new life of a person who has learned to face pain head on, and not to “tough it out” but to embrace it. It’s the new life of a person who has taken her broken pieces, offered them up, and allowed faith and hope to teach her that trusting God with those pieces is worth it. It was Theresa of Avila who said “the important thing is not to think much but to love much and so to do that which best stirs you to love. Love is not great delight, but desire to please God in everything.”

Marathon training has changed my life into something new. It has allowed me, in a quite tangible and real way, to trust love, even when it makes no sense, when it hurts, and when it leads you on a wild ride. This last run was 6 miles of celebrating that love. For everyone who has hurt, who has dared to trust in life beyond that pain and found love there, this marathon is for you.

Climax

It’s been an emotional week. The 20 mile run week was a climax of training. I’ve heard from seasoned marathoners that it’s harder than the marathon itself. While I would have argued that I had no desire to complete another 6.2 after going 20, I think there is a point. What’s an extra six miles when there are crowds, and snacks and bands playing? As one friend said today “When you get done with the marathon people give you stuff: medals, mylar blankets, a huge food spread. When you get done with 20 miles you get home and get a shower!”

I am happy to have reached that point. The hardest part of training. The climax.

Climaxes, however, are not all good news. In literature a climax is a decisive moment that is of maximum intensity or is a major turning point in a plot. Intensity and turning points are bound to bring some disappointment.

I had two conversations with people last week that surprised me. Friends, who were interested, but sort of on the periphery of all of this training, offered me the most sincere words of support. I felt those two friends cheering me on, rooting for me. More than the “go for its” though, were the sentiments of recognition they expressed that this journey is about far more than the running, and through it I have grown. They were not only cheering for me to finish the race, but to keep becoming more myself though it. Between the lines they communicated, “we’ve been with you on this journey and we’ll stay with you through the end, wherever it takes you.”

I suppose any turning point of note is not without conflict. Especially when it involves a character’s growth and transformation. I had a friend attack me today, and blame much of the discord in our relationship on me running a marathon. After some time to sit and sift through the accusations, the angry words, and my own hurt, I remembered the hawk. A bird with a vision that is often misunderstood because it is a bird of prey.

It is a painful thing to learn that people who love you may stop if you change. That you might be misunderstood by your friends and even attacked when you embark on a journey to, as I have said before, fulfill your soul’s purpose. That is the risk. Anytime we choose to obey the quiet whispers of our souls, and follow where those whispers lead us, we are going to be misunderstood. There are going to be people who don’t get it, who don’t support it, who are threatened by it, and who attack it, and who those people are might come as a surprise.

A climax brings a whole mess of emotions. Maximum intensity and major turning points. Big fights with some, steadfast love and support from others, and trying to make sense of the mess. The hardest part of training has little to do with the miles. It is finding the strength to withstand the climax. It’s finding acceptance in the losses and gratitude for all of the gains. It’s sorting through the change, letting go of who you were and becoming who you are. It’s trusting and living in your own truth on the days when there are no medals, no food and no mylar blankets at the finish.

20 Miles to the Homestretch

As I write this my feet are soaking in ice water. It’s a little painful waiting for them to numb, but I know this is a good thing to do after 20 miles of foot strikes, 3x my body weight of impact on each one. I don’t know how many hundreds, even thousands of times that happens over the course of 20 miles but it’s a lot. My feet hurt. They hurt at the halfway point. Marathon training can be downright abusive to any normal human’s body. 20 miles of running proved that point.

I anticipated this day for months. The longest run before the marathon. The last big one before tapering over the next three weeks. Could I handle it? Would I be ready? It was not an easy thing to get up at the crack of dawn to run this morning. To be out for nearly four hours. A daunting task to even begin.

And yet, here I sit. The 20 miles of running now complete. People will ask how it was. I have to think about that answer. Seeing the sunrise and a yard full of thousands, yes literally thousands of daffodils, was incredible. Running in shorts for the first time in months? Freeing. Thinking about the people, who in the last week have encouraged me, telling me how far I have come, wishing me the best…those thoughts pushed me through some of the harder miles. And it was hard. It was so incredibly hard. There were moments when I had to talk myself into getting to the next telephone pole, mere feet away. My feet hurt, my legs hurt, my body just ached and I said to myself over and over “I feel great.” I longed for cold water for miles, and was filled with gratitude when I was able to stop at my office at mile 18 to drink it, splash it on my face and pour it over my head. There were moments of hope: seeing 2 hawks, running down hills, feeling a burst of energy, a cool breeze. There were moments of despair, thinking this would never end. Being tired and still having 10, 6, 4 and 2 miles to go. This is how it was.

The thing that amazes me after every long run: when it’s over, I can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe that I could run 20 miles and still be able to walk and function and go on about my life (granted, I will be sore and that soreness will be a reminder of what I accomplished.) I can’t believe that I was running, convincing my legs to move forward and now I sit here relaxing with my feet numbing in ice water. It ended. This thing that seemed so daunting for so many months is now over. There was an end after all and it involves ice water, chocolate milk, cheese and crackers, and sitting and thinking “I did it.”

I did it.

It’s hard to put into words how satisfying that feeling is. How encouraging. How much in life we see something before us that seems so daunting, and in the midst of it, might seem to never end, and then it does and we can say “I did it.” Of course, running for that long is about more than getting through it. It is about finding the moments of joy along the way. But the real reward is in enjoying each accomplishment. Savoring the feeling of cold water, the well-earned tiredness and even the soreness. It’s in saying your going to do something, committing to it even when it seems scary and finding a way to finish. Running a marathon is an accomplishment for sure, but so is being able to say “I did it” after every long run. 20 Miles. 4 months of training done. 3 weeks left to appreciate the miles completed and savor every moment of the homestretch