Thoughts of a First Time Marathoner

Two years ago I would’ve told you that the desire to run a marathon exemplifies the deepest level of psychosis. Months and months of brutal training leading up to a day of severe, self-inflicted physical and mental pain and torture, with the only goal being to finish. To do no irreparable damage, to never submit, to resist the urge to curl up into the fetal position, lying in a pool of one’s own vomit, to not pass out and die before the finish line at 26.2 miles.

You must be out of your mind.

It started innocently enough. I was living in California, the land of superficiality, and I wanted to drop some lbs, tone the physique. So I started jogging, mostly as a way to warm up for weight training (a real “man’s” workout). It was just a mile. One mile. Then it turned into two. Two miles, it’s okay, I’m still not a runner. Three miles? Four? Five?

And finally I realized: “Damn it…Maybe I am a runner.”

I’m the type of person that seeks out challenges. In my eyes, if I’m not proving my inner strength, my worth, my will to myself, then I’m not making myself better. I want to stretch, to grow, to be focused and motivated as I push myself to the limit mentally, physically, spiritually.

This is exactly the psychosis that makes one say “I’m going to run a marathon.”

So there I was, 7:30 on an unusually warm October morning, eagerly waiting with 10,000 other foolish souls for the trial of a lifetime to commence. The raw energy was palpable as we collectively envisioned ourselves crossing the finish line. For some, this vision would unfold as one of life’s great achievements. For many, it would never come to fruition.

At 8 AM, the temperature was already 74° and the relative humidity was 87%, making this year’s the warmest Twin Cities Marathon on record. The sweat was dripping from my forehead before the race even started, and with the air nearly saturated there was no place for it to go.

But as I finally reached the starting line (it took about 10 minutes) I couldn’t contain my smile as I basked in the encouragement of spectators. I was really doing it. My first marathon. This momentum carried me through the first 13.1 miles. On to 14, 15, 16, 17…And then it hit me. The oppressive heat, the dehydration, the realization that I was exhausted and I still had a long way to go.

Around mile 18 I began seeing stars. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to pass out where I was or find a secluded spot in the woods to throw up the PowerAde and cliff bar I had consumed. The only thing keeping me conscious were the kind folks lined up on Summit Avenue, generously spraying water from hoses at the desperate runners passing by.

Mile 20 the cramping set in; a combination of severe dehydration and the fact that the human body was not built to endure this degree of strain. It would start in my calves, my pleading muscles seizing with each step. Then it would spread to my thighs, making each step a triumph of will over pain. Finally my legs would refuse to lift, and I would have to slow to a walk to avoid collapsing.

I have experienced pain, and I consider myself to have a high threshold for it (when I was 11 I broke my wrist and didn’t tell anyone for a day because I was afraid it would ruin my basketball season). But this was a pain like I had never felt. Never letting up, never numbing, growing progressively worse and exacerbated by the cruel knowledge that the end was a long way off. I had never experienced a physical meltdown like I did on those last 6.2 miles. My body had never refused to cooperate so stubbornly that each step required the greatest of mental effort.

Miles 21 through 26 are blurred by this throbbing pain, determination and an intense focus on one step at a time. Physically, every part of me wanted to give up. I had passed many collapsed runners. There was no shame. But mentally this would go against everything I stood for, and I had no doubts that in the end my mind would win out.

The final dash (more of a cringe inducing hobble) to the finish line was less than I had envisioned. I was expecting to be basking in the glory of my achievement, waving to the legions of fans. Instead I was looking at my feet, focusing on lifting them just high enough to avoid tripping over any cracks (if I had gone down I wouldn’t have gotten up). And then I was done. I had crossed.

My first marathon.

If there were any lessons learned, I haven’t found them yet. Maybe I’m not far enough removed. I’m still feeling the pain, I can still taste the misery. Will I ever run another one? Ask me in a month. Right now, I’d say you’re crazy.

Thanks for reading.