Originally written in 2004, a recycled account of my first Full Marathon: Chicago.

Tue, 12 Oct 2004

Up at dawn, the ritual begins.  Shower - breakfast – dress.

 A reeling mind is deliberately calmed; a number is pinned, repositioned, and then pinned again. The shoes are tied, then re-tied, and then re-tied several times again till perfect. Today is my marathon day. Nervously, we all walk down to the start area, teeth chattering in the early morning chill. Before I know it, I'm at the bag check, and all I have left with me will be what I carry for the remainder of the race. At the start line, I gaze around at others; their emotions mirror my own- ranging from excitement, to fear, to joy, all hovering just on the brink of tears.  I meet Dan, another first timer whose nervousness is palpable, and a couple of local ladies who tell me the discarded clothing at the start is boxed up for the homeless.  (Much to my regret, I later learn this isn't true.)  I look at the two pace bands on my wrist, one ambitious, the other realistic, and wait for the inevitable.  Without an initiating sound, the crowd slowly begins to worm its way forward.  Those starting at my pace are too far from the start to hear any gun, whistle or bang.   Anxiously, we walk to the start, slowly at first, then quickening our pace as we reach that anticipated threshold.  A cacophony of footfalls and beeps sound as we begin our trek, across the microchip reading mats, and we all look down to start the chronometers on our wristwatches.  It's begun!   

As I run along the streets, craning up occasionally to look at the towering monoliths I run under, I wish I had a way to record my stream of thought.  Small things are registering in my mind in individual, fleeting moments:  a spectator sign that reads "You are all Kenyans," layers of shouting, clapping bystanders, the girl who stops abruptly in front of me to snap a picture, and almost throws me off my stride - all these images, sounds and thoughts fleeting and precious.   The first mile marker is on my left in what just seems the matter of a few heartbeats.  I glance down at the two pace bands I have:  I'm 24 seconds slower than the first mile target on the slower of the two.  Unshaken, I run on, knowing full well that I am a runner who starts out slow and builds.  

The first 12 miles or so are run on pure adrenaline - I don't feel a thing.  As I run along, somewhere around the 3-mile mark I realize I'm now a full 4 minutes faster than my pace bracelet dictates.  Somewhere along the way I rip off the ambitious bracelet, knowing today's race won't be that fast.   All the neighborhoods zip by me, I smell cinnamon and cooking grease in a Mexican part of town, and spectators there hold signs that read along the lines "Vamanos, Jose"; flamboyant men dressed in various costumes hand me water while singing 'YMCA' and their "Macho Men" cheerleaders make us laugh as we run by their antics; Polish dancers line the street in their part of the city and someone is speaking a language quite foreign to me over a loud speaker; Chinatown welcomes us with bright neon signs, and Dragons dance to the beat of Asian drums.   

Around the teens, my ankles start to hurt, and my tendon especially that has been chronically injured begins to sing, but I'm now a full 7 minutes ahead of my target pace each mile, and holding fast.   I find Dan again in the pack, who introduces me to his partner, Mark, who has dropped back to help pace Dan.  We wish each other well, and off I go again, powering ahead, riding the wave of Dan & Mark's encouragement.  Before too long, I hit that twenty-mile mark, and the real race begins. At this point, the race becomes mental and less physical.  I tell myself that I have 8 more miles to go, and continue to perpetuate this lie until mile 23, where I tell myself 5 more.  At the 23 mile mark, still a good 7 minutes ahead of my target time, I almost start to cry as I abruptly realize that I am going to *do this.* I suck it up, telling myself, out loud, to stop it, and on I tread.   

The last three miles are the longest, my body is aching and I repeatedly to count to one hundred with my footfalls, and try to sing songs in my head to distract myself from my weariness.  Finally, I am rounding the corner, and in the distance, I see it: the end, and, suddenly, I only have 0.2 miles to go. Kicking in that last bit of reserve I have, I whip myself on, pushing harder to finish strong.   I attempt to smile for the camera that is taking my picture from the platform above, and I cross the goal that I had been building towards for months: the Finish Line.  Immediately upon crossing, I burst into tears, partly from the shock that I actually did it, and partially from the sheer joy and relief of being done. Once more, I run into my new-found friend Dan long enough for us to realize we started and finished nearly together, and to share a happy, tearful hug. I sucked up my tears again long enough to pose for my finisher's photo, went to find my friends to share in their joys and heartaches from the day, and to celebrate each other's accomplishment.  

Today, I get to cross something big off of my life to-do list, and I'd be a liar to say I'm not proud of myself, at least on this day.