Grace, Gratitude and Grit (Literal Grit)
I wrote this from my bed at 3:30 am last night after finishing my first marathon 12 hours earlier. Yes, my body was exhausted and impossibly sore but sleep just wouldn’t come yet. The rush of the runner’s high hadn’t worn off, I guess.
You’ll probably see more here on the blog in the future (I have a lot of thoughts on the process), but I wanted to capture the post-race euphoria before it fades into a blur of emotions.
If you’ve been following this journey on Instagram, you know it wasn’t without setbacks: I DNF’d (that’s runspeak for Did Not Finish) my 20-miler and was benched for nine agonizing days with a second-degree burn from blisters on the ball of my foot. Ouch. Those were some dark days, but I always keep in mind my favorite quote by Oscar Wilde: “When it’s dark enough, you can see the stars.”
During this period, I had nothing to do except think. Should I run it or not run? Was I going to hurt myself worse? Would I fail? Did I want to go into it knowing I could fail?
So yeah. I put a lot of thought into it. Then it crystallized for me last weekend: I WANT to run this marathon. I’ve trained for this marathon. Trained hard. Not perfectly by any means but consistently and with dedication.
And I thought about my kids: I wouldn’t let them quit something hard without even trying, so I wasn’t going to count myself out of the race without giving it my best shot.
With that realization, my head was back in the game. OK, so we’re doing this.
And then…another wrench in the works: the flooded course. The crazy amount of rain we got in September (over 15 inches rather than the average 3ish) left my trail run course along the Des Plaines River flooded. The underpasses were a no-go. The course had to be rerouted to an alternate, and now we would be running 4 shorter loops — with standing water on parts of the course.
If there’s one thing that makes running blisters worse, it’s wet feet. So this twist on the plan — running through inches of water — would literally be the worst possible thing for my injury. Plus, the weather was chilly, forecasted for 35 degrees with a high of 51. So I’d be running through freezing cold water no less.
But I still wasn’t counting myself out. Yesterday I went into the race with one goal: to run until I couldn’t run anymore. If that ended up 26.2 miles, AMAZING. If it was 6.2 miles, well at least I got out there and gave it my best damn shot.
You can sit around waiting for everything to fall into place perfectly — but if you do, you’ll just be sitting. Waiting…endlessly. Never going anywhere. I’m done with waiting around for perfect. I just want forward.
So I put on my tights and tank and lucky sports bra and blister-proof socks (and long-sleeve shirt, headband over hat, and gloves for warmth 🙄) on Race Day and I pinned that bib to my thigh with my teeth gritted.
And I put one foot in front of the other, one mile at a time, just like I always do. When I encountered the first puddle, I tried to step through it lightly. But then there were three more “puddles” and the last two were more like a river. I splashed through water above my ankles, getting wet to my knees. The only way out is through.
And there were three more loops through the water to be run before it was over. I just kept going. I ran my first two loops slow and steady. I wanted to leave enough in the tank to finish. I put on Taylor Swift’s “Lover” (which I had saved to listen to for the first time specifically for this race) and the the “Hamilton” soundtrack, my old favorite race standard, and zoned out.
I felt strong on the third loop (miles 13.1 to 19.35). I ran faster, so much so that I missed seeing my family at the aid station. Actually, I could see them across the way, picking up sticks near the river, but they didn’t see me. I kept going, hoping I’d catch them on the way back at that aid station.
No such luck but I still kept going. I pounded across the timing mat knowing I had one more loop – 6.55 miles – 4 puddles – and then the finish line. I didn’t feel exhausted. I kept my head up and splashed through those icy puddles like I was made for this. Because I was.
Back again at the final aid station, where I had just about 4 miles left, I saw them: all three of my boys and my parents with their signs. I ran off the path to swoop them up with hugs and kisses. I told Tim, “Go to the finish line — I’ve got 3 miles left!” And I was off again, hearing Sawyer screaming “GO MOMMY GO!” until I was out of sight.
Miles 23 to 25 felt impossibly long. That part of the route was literally an uphill battle, the only minor elevation of the race. (One that wouldn’t register if you hadn’t just run 23 consecutive miles previously.) But I couldn’t stop now and I pictured my kids, #DoneWithFun Daddy, all the friends who were cheering me on, and all the people in my life who are doing hard shit right now. If they can go through chemo or divorce and keep going, my legs can keep moving for 1.2 more miles.
I didn’t stop. Not once. I ran through the finish line with a smile on my face and into the arms of Easton and Sawyer (who immediately grabbed my marathoner medal for himself). I had run a marathon. With blisters on my feet, in 40-degree weather, through freezing cold water, despite all the odds, and I felt GOOD. Scratch that. I felt AMAZING.
As I threw my arms around the friend who ran the race with me, who got me into this — who knew I could do it before I ever knew it for myself — I looked down at my wrist, where I had applied a temporary tattoo the night before: “she believed she could, so she did.”
Mic drop.
More nitty-gritty marathon post-mortem details coming soon — I’m still waiting on my official time! Until then, you can find me in my bed under see the covers … or on Instagram, Facebook and Pinterest. 😉
