It came to my attention that The Rock n' Roll Marathon and Half Marathon series are happening tomorrow in Seattle. Back in 2009, I participated in the first inaugural Seattle Rock n' Roll race by running my very first half marathon with my sister. Two years ago, this weekend, I ran my first full marathon. And here is the story of my race. I originally wrote this a couple of years ago for a narrative essay assignment for my one of my English classes.
Finishing
Strong
Running is something I have always enjoyed. Throughout my
active childhood I would often find myself running up and down soccer fields,
or basketball courts. I even participated in track in junior high and high
school. Sprinting down the soccer field to score a goal, or leaning in to
finish first in the 400-meter race both seem like mere trifles compared to the 26.2
mile stretch of a marathon.
Almost ten years after my athletic high school days, I decided
to run a marathon. The process of deciding to run a marathon seemed simple
enough: I previously ran two half marathons, and don’t two halves equal a
whole? A new running challenge heighted my interest enough to sign up online for
the “Seattle Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon.” “The Rock ‘n’ Roll” events are a
well-established worldwide marathon series. Three years prior, I participated
in the “Seattle Rock ‘n’ Roll Half Marathon,” and enjoyed it enough to register
for their full. Signing up eight months prior to the actual race day was the
easiest part. Little did I know, at that time, just how much training would
really cost.
Training for a marathon taught me commitment,
consistency, and discipline. I had to commit to train daily, week after week, which
takes consistency. I had to commit to training, and reprioritized my schedule
many times to make room for it. Discipline came with the daily choice of going
to the gym, or for a run, even when I did not feel like it. I had to be
dedicated to a routine.
My
routine consisted of running five times per week along with cross-training
three times per week. Mondays were weight-lifting days, Tuesdays were interval
days, Wednesdays were hill and cross-training days, Thursdays were my day off,
Fridays and Saturdays were running days, and Sundays were my long run days. I
repeated this week after week. I learned that I will succeed as well as I
train.
So, on I went. I trained for approximately four months.
It was a tiresome four months, with hopes that each stride would bring me
closer to my goal, and each lunge would make me just a bit stronger than
before. Devoutly, I followed my regime week after week trying to push away the
still small doubt whispering, “Can you really do this?” As a first time marathon
runner, I suppose that is something you have to face until you cross, or don’t
cross, the finish line on race day.
The
days, weeks, and months trudged along until it finally came: race day.
Saturday, June 23rd, 2012. And of course in true stereotypical
Seattle fashion the forecast sounded something like partly cloudy, rain likely,
with highs in the mid to low fifties. I literally prayed without ceasing for it
not to rain. Not that running in rain is completely unbearable. However, when
you run in the rain for any distance longer than about ten miles chafing is
inevitable, and chafing is unbearable.
Four
a.m. hit. My alarm buzzed to awaken me to the big day. I fixed my favorite
pre-workout breakfast, at the time: oatmeal clumped together with blueberries,
a little honey, agave, and protein powder, topped off with a dash of cinnamon.
I recall glancing out the kitchen window into the dawn, no rain, not yet
anyway.
After
breakfast, and hydrating myself with one huge glass of water, my parents drove
me down to Seattle. We prepared for hefty traffic and limited parking, so we
left at five a.m. I navigated us through the back streets of downtown Seattle
in hopes to avoid traffic and the maze of road closures. I guess I did my job
well for we arrived with an hour to spare. We meandered into a nearby McDonald’s.
Not the classiest place for Seattleites to pick up their morning coffee, but it
was the closest establishment open to fulfill our addiction.
Seven
a.m. start time advanced and my gracious parents loaded themselves up with my
extra layers of clothing, my recovery drinks, and my snacks for afterwards. After
hitting up the huge line of port-a-potties, my parents wished me well with hugs
and pictures, and then sent me off to the start line.
I was herded into crowded corral number
eleven, which was shadowed under the Space Needle. Strangely humid, and still
no sign of rain, the national anthem rang out. After applauding cheers the gun
fired to release the first corral. Jumping up and down, and stretching out my
legs, corral eleven slowly crept forward to the start line. About fifteen
minutes after the first gunshot it was my turn. I stayed close to the left side
of the starting line, so my parents could get a glimpse of me as I passed by. Five,
four, three, two, one, and the shot rang out. Corral eleven was off.
I
certainly felt misplaced in corral eleven because everyone sped by me. Within
the first three miles, as we weaved our way through the streets of downtown
Seattle, I had to keep reminding myself it was only the beginning: pace
yourself. At about mile four, I felt comfortable with my pace. Keeping about
ten minute miles, I continued on; all the while keeping my mind occupied with
scheduling my consumption of electrolyte chews.
Mile
six thinned out the crowd as the marathoners split from the half marathon
runners. My feet pounding the trails step by step along Seward Park, I took in
the beautiful morning view of a serene Lake Washington. I relaxed into my gate
as I took another moment to silently express my gratefulness for the weather.
It was perfect. It was neither too hot nor too cold, and not a single drop of
rain had fallen. In these miles, miles six through twelve, I felt contentment.
I
turned the bend at mile twelve and a half, which intersected again with the
half marathoners. I felt good about myself as I realized I was quickly passing
those half marathoners, who were trotting along their sixth mile. As I approached
the half way marker (13.1 miles), I glanced down at my watch to check my time: yes,
right on time. I was keeping my pace right where I wanted it to be.
Mile
fifteen held high expectations; it was where I embarked upon the I-90 bridge.
Not only did I-90 transport me across Lake Washington, which offered
breath-taking views of Seattle and the lake, but I-90 also guided me through
tunnels. It seemed like I-90 would be a memorable experience, and I was looking
forward to accomplishing it. It seemed like it would be the easy and flat span
of the race. Well, I-90 was definitely memorable, but not for the reasons I had
originally hoped. I-90 was a long span back and forth for miles fifteen through
twenty-one. Little did I consider, prior to trekking along the bridge, that for
six long miles my footing would be uneven. The bridge is built in such a way to
help with water drainage. So, the two edges of the bridge tilt inwards. This is
scarcely noticeable when you are driving across the bridge in a car, but
extremely painful for your feet, calves, and legs to pound and compensate step
after step for six insufferable miles.
I
forced myself on. The clouds started to part, and the sun broke through. I was
grateful for no rain, but the sun sure picked a poor time to come out. My body
was working overtime already trying to get through this ominous bridge, and now
the sun added to the heat that my body was trying to expel. The sweat must have
been streaming for I noticed that uncomfortable sting of chaffing. I tried to
readjust my shirt, but with no avail. I was parched; and annoyed I wondered,
“Where are those drink tables? Aren’t they supposed to be at every mile?”
It
was a joyous sight to see as my feet glided to the oasis, a drink table. As
quickly as I could, I chugged down a cup of water and a cup of Gatorade. Barely
refreshed, I wondered for the first time in the race if I was actually going to
make it. I had trained up to twenty-two miles, and had felt satisfied with my
results, but I was only on mile eighteen.
I
continued on, trying not to think about the pain. The other racers must have
felt it too. Many of the other contestants pulled themselves off to the side of
the bridge to stretch their cramped and stiff muscles and joints. I kept
telling myself, “Just keep moving forward.” At mile twenty, I glanced down at
my watch to see another doubtful disappointment: I was off my pace. The pain
that encompassed my legs led my mind to justify, “Hey, just be happy to finish!”
A
few paces later, I approached the last tunnel that signaled the end of I-90. I
gave a sigh of relief and entered into the dark and shaded tunnel. It took my
eyes a second to adjust and when they did I could not believe what they beheld:
the last tunnel was a hill! Feeling sluggish and tired I surrendered to walking
until I surmounted the hill.
After
power walking for about mile, I escaped the tunnel back into the light of day. I
tried to regain momentum, but moving from walking to jogging was like watching
a steam locomotive leave the station. It was slow and painful to jog again
after walking. At that moment, I resigned to just keep jogging the remainder of
the race, no matter how much I wanted to stop.
Mile
twenty-one slipped into mile twenty-two, and before I knew it I was on mile
twenty-three. For some reason mile twenty-three seemed to be my magic number. I
am not sure what fueled me; maybe it was the idea that I only had three more
miles left? Whatever it was, I felt rejuvenated and resolved to finish strong.
My pace quickened as I passed person by person. I regained rhythm though my
knees were screaming for me to stop.
The
sign marker for mile twenty-four passed as it led us into the Alaskan Way
Viaduct tunnel. This tunnel was considerably easier for me than the I-90
tunnel. Again, person by person, I was advancing on. Mile twenty-five, I was so
close. Crowds of people lined the streets holding signs and cheering us onto
the finish.
I
rounded the corner of mile twenty-six, and almost choked on a sigh of emotion.
There it was: the finish line! What a beautiful site for a sore body. I thought
to myself, “It actually exists!” It did exist, but before crossing it I had to
endure the reality of conquering the short and steep hill that lay before it.
At that moment, nothing could have stopped me. A surge of energy and strength
filled my body. I broke into a run for the finish, while passing a few people
along the way.
My
feet plunked across the blue finish line as crowds of people watched for their
loved ones to finish. My chaffed and sweaty body ached, my breath shortened by
my mad dash for the finish, and my legs lamed by twenty-six grueling miles, but
I did it! I finished a marathon! I almost cried as a man congratulated me, and placed
a finisher’s medal around my neck. I finished my first marathon, and I finished
in the top third. Not only did I finish, but I finished strong.
Training for, and running, a marathon taught me a lot. It
taught me the benefits of commitment, consistency, and discipline. However, one
of the most amazing things running a marathon has shown me is my capacity for
stamina. If you were to ask me three years ago to run a marathon, I would have laughed
and sternly replied, “No way!” My excuses would have been, “There is no way I
could do that,” or, “I can’t run that long!” I kept putting limits on myself. Running
a marathon revealed to me the amazing fortitude that is in human beings to keep
breaking past limitations. There were times when I felt I could not do one more
mile, but, by the grace of God, He gave me stamina to keep going and to finish
strong.
