People say a lot about denial. It’s a coping mechanism, a pleasant relief, a necessary part of grief, etc. It’s easy to spend a lot of time there, pretending bad things aren’t happening or the ugly truth of a situation isn’t really there. I get it, but denial has never been kind to me.
Denial is like a pesty fly when sitting in a comfortable spot. It keeps swooping around my head, buzzing in my ear, landing on me, and making me itchy. It reminds me that where I am really isn’t very comfortable, and until I get a fly swatter or move, I can’t really be at peace. Having tried to sit through a number of pesty flys in my life, I now know I’d rather get the fly swatter right away than even attempt to get comfortable in a spot where the buzzing of truth is going to pester me without ceasing.
Last Saturday, I had a brief visit with denial. I skipped running for two weeks. The last time I ran, I had a bout of heat exhaustion that left me nauseated and exhausted for the rest of the day. I was certain my next run would be no different so I avoided it. Easy to do when on vacation (denial looked less like a pesty fly and more like a relaxing beach chair). But now I was home. Home with a free day and cool temperatures and I did not want to run.
Running meant facing the truth about how out of shape I was. I dreaded the feeling of shin splints and being out of breath. I told myself “just a few miles, go easy on yourself. Just get back in the habit.” I took an hour to get dressed, and put new music on my ipod. I put it off, still knowing I had to face the truth and grab that fly swatter, however unpleasant it might be.
The fly of denial had a surprised me that day. I chased it out the door and down the beginning of my usual 3 mile route. When I got to a place where I turn to go three, or go straight to do the 5 mile hilly route (that’s actually one of the prettiest runs I do), the fly led me towards 5. I thought it might be too much so I went for a block towards my 3 miler, but the pesty fly kept buzzing the words “just go for it.” So I turned back and headed on the 5 mile route. What did I have to lose? I could always walk the end if I needed to. And I felt surprisingly good that day.
It was one of the best runs I ever had. I cruised up hills with ease and soaked in the beauty of late summer. The smell of cut grass and sounds of people setting up for garage sales. This 5 mile or so route and fabulous feeling restored my confidence in running, in what it does for me and how it makes me feel. It reminded me that I am not always going to suffer from heat exhaustion or feel out of shape when I run. In this instance, my imagination of the truth was so much worse than actually facing it.
This is why I hate denial. It makes the truth worse and allows us to sell ourselves short in what we think we can handle. . In fact, facing the truth can be more than getting rid of a pest. It can be a pleasant run, newfound confidence, and the freedom of a great summer run.
12 August 2010
11 July 2010
Mysteries of Discomfort
It remains one of the great mysteries of exercise. Why when I am fatigued and tired after a long day does a run, which leaves me sweaty and exhausted, also make me energized? How can I lay on the floor smiling and stretching and breathing hard and feel better than before I put my body through this pain? Why doesn’t taking a nap help in the same way?
The only way to grow is allow discomfort into our lives. We have to find a way to make peace with it and trust that it won’t hang around forever. We also have to trust that it will leave us stronger and able to endure more.
Whenever we exercise, tax our bodies and push them to a new level through something physical like running, we create micro tears in our muscles. This causes pain and often soreness in days to follow. When those tears heal, the muscles get bigger and stronger therefore able to endure more. If there are no micro tears the muscles don’t grow. In fact, after awhile they atrophy: wither away from not being used.
This week I lie awake angry at God and frustrated with a relationship that is out of my control. As I stared up at the darkened ceiling in the wee hours of the morning with my face wet with tears I said out loud “I am miserable and I don’t know what to do about it.” I thought about how I got there. Doing the best I can, trying to act out of love not fear, searching for truth. It hardly seemed fair that those actions could lead to such pain and the grief and loss of friendship.
What in life is ever fair? Things are going to happen, bad things, undeserved things, painful things. Some we bring on ourselves and some just find their way to us when we least expect it. It’s uncomfortable and painful. And it really doesn’t make sense. Try as I might there just aren’t answers in this situation. I might not be ready for them, and they might never come. As much as I hate to admit it, there may not be any answers at all.
In the great big muscle of life though, this is just a micro tear. Something that happened on the way to pursuing what I love and who I am called to be. I trust that it will heal. Eventually that tear will become a stronger muscle and a source of strength. It becomes a place of compassion for others who are experiencing their own tears. For now there is soreness and pain. Running and living have taught me to endure it and to trust in growth at the end. They have also taught me that if you want to live, I mean really live life and not hide away from it, discomfort and soreness are part of the package. A tradeoff for toned calf muscles and the joy that comes with living in truth.
It’s a relief to me to keep facing pain, and discomfort and still be standing at the end of it. To be somehow better than I was before I faced it. In those moments I am stretching my sore and tired muscles I can’t help but be thankful for the grace that kicks my butt out the door to run, or to follow my heart and says “It’s going to be uncomfortable; do it anyway.”
The only way to grow is allow discomfort into our lives. We have to find a way to make peace with it and trust that it won’t hang around forever. We also have to trust that it will leave us stronger and able to endure more.
Whenever we exercise, tax our bodies and push them to a new level through something physical like running, we create micro tears in our muscles. This causes pain and often soreness in days to follow. When those tears heal, the muscles get bigger and stronger therefore able to endure more. If there are no micro tears the muscles don’t grow. In fact, after awhile they atrophy: wither away from not being used.
This week I lie awake angry at God and frustrated with a relationship that is out of my control. As I stared up at the darkened ceiling in the wee hours of the morning with my face wet with tears I said out loud “I am miserable and I don’t know what to do about it.” I thought about how I got there. Doing the best I can, trying to act out of love not fear, searching for truth. It hardly seemed fair that those actions could lead to such pain and the grief and loss of friendship.
What in life is ever fair? Things are going to happen, bad things, undeserved things, painful things. Some we bring on ourselves and some just find their way to us when we least expect it. It’s uncomfortable and painful. And it really doesn’t make sense. Try as I might there just aren’t answers in this situation. I might not be ready for them, and they might never come. As much as I hate to admit it, there may not be any answers at all.
In the great big muscle of life though, this is just a micro tear. Something that happened on the way to pursuing what I love and who I am called to be. I trust that it will heal. Eventually that tear will become a stronger muscle and a source of strength. It becomes a place of compassion for others who are experiencing their own tears. For now there is soreness and pain. Running and living have taught me to endure it and to trust in growth at the end. They have also taught me that if you want to live, I mean really live life and not hide away from it, discomfort and soreness are part of the package. A tradeoff for toned calf muscles and the joy that comes with living in truth.
It’s a relief to me to keep facing pain, and discomfort and still be standing at the end of it. To be somehow better than I was before I faced it. In those moments I am stretching my sore and tired muscles I can’t help but be thankful for the grace that kicks my butt out the door to run, or to follow my heart and says “It’s going to be uncomfortable; do it anyway.”
02 June 2010
Letting Go
Before I decided to run this marathon, there were a lot of goodbyes. I didn’t move or take a new job. This time, all of the goodbyes were caused by other people moving away while I chose to stay put. My friends, on the tough days, were my sense of purpose. Often what they wanted for me was what I did. Not that this is a bad thing! True friends and family reflect your own desires back to you, and want the very best for you. But what do you do, when they aren’t there, helping you figure out what that is? What do you do when everything you thought you counted on to help define you falls away and there you are alone?
Without really knowing it, I listened to myself. Running in the dark and cold I allowed these questions to exist and the pain of loneliness to move from my heart through my body. In many ways, I think it was the holy spirit that allowed me the grace to be patient through this time, that challenged me to run with loneliness rather than distract myself from it. It was as if God placed those long miles before me just to say “Stay with this.”
It was the most difficult journey of my life so far. To be without everything I knew and try to make sense of who I am, who I had become and what I really wanted. Those are not easy questions to answer. I am still trying to answer them.
I have found incredible grace here. Ways of encountering the holy I never dreamed of: red tailed hawks, indigo buntings, being lost, making choices, finding the strength to say “no” to people I love, and trusting myself when no one seemed to understand. I found new people who understood this part of my soul and deeper friendship with the friends who stayed with me through this. I found a way to let the quiet, the loneliness, and grief make space for new life. I found a way to just listen to myself, and to the God who calls me to simply be who I am, and follow my deepest desires wherever they will lead.
I found a way to accept myself and my path without depending on someone else to second the motion. While I still seek and need and love the companionship of great friends, I know now that if I am without those companions for awhile, God is still there.
It’s been over a month since the race concluded and I see now that dreams change. Somewhere in the midst of that race I knew I wasn’t going to finish in the 5 hour time goal I set for myself. In that same moment I knew that just finishing was going to be a tremendous success. Had I really known what I was in for, I might have stuck to “just finishing” as the goal.
That’s the thing about following your heart. You really never know what you’re in for when you start. You might have to let go of your previous vision of success and some of what you thought you needed to get there. It’s like setting off without a GPS or a map. You will inevitably get lost, but the beauty you will see by opening yourself to the guidance of your surroundings and the excitement of the adventure are worth the inconvenience. The journey really begins with the action of letting go.
Without really knowing it, I listened to myself. Running in the dark and cold I allowed these questions to exist and the pain of loneliness to move from my heart through my body. In many ways, I think it was the holy spirit that allowed me the grace to be patient through this time, that challenged me to run with loneliness rather than distract myself from it. It was as if God placed those long miles before me just to say “Stay with this.”
It was the most difficult journey of my life so far. To be without everything I knew and try to make sense of who I am, who I had become and what I really wanted. Those are not easy questions to answer. I am still trying to answer them.
I have found incredible grace here. Ways of encountering the holy I never dreamed of: red tailed hawks, indigo buntings, being lost, making choices, finding the strength to say “no” to people I love, and trusting myself when no one seemed to understand. I found new people who understood this part of my soul and deeper friendship with the friends who stayed with me through this. I found a way to let the quiet, the loneliness, and grief make space for new life. I found a way to just listen to myself, and to the God who calls me to simply be who I am, and follow my deepest desires wherever they will lead.
I found a way to accept myself and my path without depending on someone else to second the motion. While I still seek and need and love the companionship of great friends, I know now that if I am without those companions for awhile, God is still there.
It’s been over a month since the race concluded and I see now that dreams change. Somewhere in the midst of that race I knew I wasn’t going to finish in the 5 hour time goal I set for myself. In that same moment I knew that just finishing was going to be a tremendous success. Had I really known what I was in for, I might have stuck to “just finishing” as the goal.
That’s the thing about following your heart. You really never know what you’re in for when you start. You might have to let go of your previous vision of success and some of what you thought you needed to get there. It’s like setting off without a GPS or a map. You will inevitably get lost, but the beauty you will see by opening yourself to the guidance of your surroundings and the excitement of the adventure are worth the inconvenience. The journey really begins with the action of letting go.
17 May 2010
Marathon Final
It’s hard for me to believe three weeks ago I was running a marathon. My body is pretty well recovered and I’ve moved on to yard work, gardening, short runs and bike rides. In many ways things have returned to normal.
But the marathon stays with me. In the past few days I realized the lessons and formation of these months of running were not over with the final exam of the race, and a grade of passing with a finishers medal. Like any great class, there is a lifetime of growing into these new ideas and applying the lessons.
The one that stays with me these days is the truth about pain. We humans do a lot to avoid pain. Everything from mindless over eating, to watching television, drugs, alcohol, working too much, sleeping or surrounding ourselves with noise and distraction. I understand this. Who wants to deal with pain? Who wants to go looking for it?
Endurance running, training really, for anything is all about pain. It’s all about being in pain and pushing past it. It’s finding a new threshold of what you can endure and reaching for a goal that lies beyond it. In my case, it was a finish line 6.2 miles beyond the worst pain I have ever experienced.
In the days since the marathon there have been left over loose ends, difficult situations, challenging relationships and questions of wrong and right that have nothing to do with running. Painful and messy problems and questions that just keep bubbling to the surface. The real marathon final exam.
Here is my answer. Pain is an inevitable part of life, whether we choose it, or it chooses us. It is uncomfortable and unpleasant and at times unbearable. When pain makes itself known, the easy answer is to run from it, or try to ignore it but pain always catches up, and eventually consumes us. The longer we ignore it or try to avoid it the more it takes over our actions.
I don’t want to be a person that lives with a fear of pain dictating my choices. I don’t want to live in pain either, but sometimes we just have to. I know now not only can I survive pain, I can find moments of grace in the midst of it. Perhaps when we are in the most pain, we are most aware of the smallest things that help us through it. A friend who listens, a well-timed cup of water, someone who will cheer for you by name. Pain, if we accept it as part of our journey and something we are conditioned to handle, won’t consume us. But first we need to accept it. We need to accept that it will test us; force us to be vulnerable, accept our limitations and to ask for and receive help.
My final answer to this marathon exam is pain is often far worse in our imagination and fear then it ever is in our reality. We are conditioned to handle so much. These painful, messy real life issues that have come up during this marathon don’t have a visible finish line right now. There are still difficult choices and unpleasant realities. I accept this pain is part of the process. I know now that I will endure it. I will find the moments of grace that carry me to the other side of the pain, a finish line of a life recovered and joy and celebration in growth. Pain is part of the journey. Only we can decide if it will have the final answer.
But the marathon stays with me. In the past few days I realized the lessons and formation of these months of running were not over with the final exam of the race, and a grade of passing with a finishers medal. Like any great class, there is a lifetime of growing into these new ideas and applying the lessons.
The one that stays with me these days is the truth about pain. We humans do a lot to avoid pain. Everything from mindless over eating, to watching television, drugs, alcohol, working too much, sleeping or surrounding ourselves with noise and distraction. I understand this. Who wants to deal with pain? Who wants to go looking for it?
Endurance running, training really, for anything is all about pain. It’s all about being in pain and pushing past it. It’s finding a new threshold of what you can endure and reaching for a goal that lies beyond it. In my case, it was a finish line 6.2 miles beyond the worst pain I have ever experienced.
In the days since the marathon there have been left over loose ends, difficult situations, challenging relationships and questions of wrong and right that have nothing to do with running. Painful and messy problems and questions that just keep bubbling to the surface. The real marathon final exam.
Here is my answer. Pain is an inevitable part of life, whether we choose it, or it chooses us. It is uncomfortable and unpleasant and at times unbearable. When pain makes itself known, the easy answer is to run from it, or try to ignore it but pain always catches up, and eventually consumes us. The longer we ignore it or try to avoid it the more it takes over our actions.
I don’t want to be a person that lives with a fear of pain dictating my choices. I don’t want to live in pain either, but sometimes we just have to. I know now not only can I survive pain, I can find moments of grace in the midst of it. Perhaps when we are in the most pain, we are most aware of the smallest things that help us through it. A friend who listens, a well-timed cup of water, someone who will cheer for you by name. Pain, if we accept it as part of our journey and something we are conditioned to handle, won’t consume us. But first we need to accept it. We need to accept that it will test us; force us to be vulnerable, accept our limitations and to ask for and receive help.
My final answer to this marathon exam is pain is often far worse in our imagination and fear then it ever is in our reality. We are conditioned to handle so much. These painful, messy real life issues that have come up during this marathon don’t have a visible finish line right now. There are still difficult choices and unpleasant realities. I accept this pain is part of the process. I know now that I will endure it. I will find the moments of grace that carry me to the other side of the pain, a finish line of a life recovered and joy and celebration in growth. Pain is part of the journey. Only we can decide if it will have the final answer.
06 May 2010
Life Beyond the Soreness
It’s been almost two weeks since the marathon. The soreness is only a memory and regular, post-marathon life has resumed in full force. There’s been work to catch up on, and to-do lists to handle. The novelty of talking about it has worn off. It’s as if the “been there, done that” mentality has set in. That’s how it’s supposed to be. It was a few hours and a few months of my life. They are over. Time to move on.
But when that soreness fades, one can find herself with a lot of questions. What’s next? Where do I go from here? There is an abundance of free time and no need to carbo-load or hydrate or even run. And yet, I’m just not ready to move right into another challenge. There’s a lot of wandering around and wondering. Now that I have crossed through that open gate and changed, how do I live? How do I continue to honor the experience and the person I have become through it?
I think these questions will stay with me for a while. But I have discovered something in the days beyond the marathon, amidst all the questions and aimless wandering through each day.
It started with my first, post-marathon run on Sunday afternoon. It was rainy, a dismal day. The timing tag was still on my shoes. I left it there and trudged out the door without enthusiasm for three miles. I had no expectations of this run, so I just let my body carry me through the familiar motions. It was just another routine run.
But something had changed. I’ve been trying to put my finger on what’s different since this race for the past week or so. It’s not confidence. I don’t have feelings of “I can take on the world, I have run a marathon (though I have joked in that manner to friends.)” The feeling is more like peace.
Yesterday morning I looked out the kitchen window and saw an indigo bunting sitting on the grass below my bird feeder. I gasped when I saw it. They are tiny, smaller than a sparrow but the brightest blue in creation. This tiny bird has a way of commanding attention with its spectacular color. I have only seen one at one other time in my life. The fact that it was hanging out in my yard felt like a small miracle. I watched it for an hour, flying back and forth, perching on the telephone wire and eating at the feeder.
Watching that indigo bunting I realized what changed is my faith. We never can tell when God will grab us, and invite us on a new journey. Grace happens in our routines, in every day moments. Like the bright blue indigo bunting it streaks across our vision and leaves us to stand there, staring with mouths agape at the splendor of holiness.
The post-marathon peace is a trust in God, and a trust in those invitations. I’ve realized my faith no longer needs answers or reasons. Just as I can’t control the indigo bunting in my yard, I can’t control when God will show up and invite me to something crazy, even painful. Something like a marathon. I am now open to those invitations and trust that they will come. Those three-mile runs that lead us to marathons and the indigo buntings that invite us to sit still with the questions and to remember that God will find us where we are, and invite us to deeper holiness. There is a sense of peace in knowing that, and knowing that all I have to do is say “yes.”
But when that soreness fades, one can find herself with a lot of questions. What’s next? Where do I go from here? There is an abundance of free time and no need to carbo-load or hydrate or even run. And yet, I’m just not ready to move right into another challenge. There’s a lot of wandering around and wondering. Now that I have crossed through that open gate and changed, how do I live? How do I continue to honor the experience and the person I have become through it?
I think these questions will stay with me for a while. But I have discovered something in the days beyond the marathon, amidst all the questions and aimless wandering through each day.
It started with my first, post-marathon run on Sunday afternoon. It was rainy, a dismal day. The timing tag was still on my shoes. I left it there and trudged out the door without enthusiasm for three miles. I had no expectations of this run, so I just let my body carry me through the familiar motions. It was just another routine run.
But something had changed. I’ve been trying to put my finger on what’s different since this race for the past week or so. It’s not confidence. I don’t have feelings of “I can take on the world, I have run a marathon (though I have joked in that manner to friends.)” The feeling is more like peace.
Yesterday morning I looked out the kitchen window and saw an indigo bunting sitting on the grass below my bird feeder. I gasped when I saw it. They are tiny, smaller than a sparrow but the brightest blue in creation. This tiny bird has a way of commanding attention with its spectacular color. I have only seen one at one other time in my life. The fact that it was hanging out in my yard felt like a small miracle. I watched it for an hour, flying back and forth, perching on the telephone wire and eating at the feeder.
Watching that indigo bunting I realized what changed is my faith. We never can tell when God will grab us, and invite us on a new journey. Grace happens in our routines, in every day moments. Like the bright blue indigo bunting it streaks across our vision and leaves us to stand there, staring with mouths agape at the splendor of holiness.
The post-marathon peace is a trust in God, and a trust in those invitations. I’ve realized my faith no longer needs answers or reasons. Just as I can’t control the indigo bunting in my yard, I can’t control when God will show up and invite me to something crazy, even painful. Something like a marathon. I am now open to those invitations and trust that they will come. Those three-mile runs that lead us to marathons and the indigo buntings that invite us to sit still with the questions and to remember that God will find us where we are, and invite us to deeper holiness. There is a sense of peace in knowing that, and knowing that all I have to do is say “yes.”
29 April 2010
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.
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.
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