Mile Markers

I stand there looking at the old gym floor, searching for a slat wide enough to slip through and just disappear. All I see is dust. "Lisa." That leaves just the two of us. Me and Ellie It is fifth period P.E. and the cruel ritual of choosing teams is in progress. The day's "chooser" stands there, hands on her hips, sizing us up. She cocks her head to take a better look at Tracy: slow, short, round, still wheezing from the mere exertion of walking up the gym stairs. Then there's me: tall, clumsy, zero self-confidence. I refuse to look "chooser" in the eye and give her the satisfaction of knowing that I do care if she picks me last. "Ellie." The familiar lump, the frantic blinking to stop the stinging. I don't even bother raising my head and slump over to my place on the bench. I quietly wipe my eyes while the other girls take their places for kickball.

Fast forward twenty-two years. A much different girl kisses her husband good luck and walks confidently, but nervously to the line of athletes getting ready to run. That's right, I said athletes! No one is there to tell you where to line-up or whether or not you even can. This athlete can finally choose any place in line she wants because she's earned it, but I make my way to the middle of the pack and find the 4:30 pacer. Yet to take one step of my 26.2 mile journey, 4 hours and thirty minutes is still my goal for the day. (I smile now as I write that.)

Still tall, still clumsy, somewhere along the way, I found my passion for running, and today I would find out if I really did love running or if I had also lost my mind, somewhere along that way. Almost four thousand runners undulate like a wave of anxiety, warming up cold legs, tying shoe laces over and over, bending and twisting into stretches. I just stand there, taking it all in.

"Runners, get ready." Ten years of dreaming about this moment, four years of overcoming training obstacles just to get to the start line, and in seconds, I am running by Boutwell Auditorium, weaving through slower runners, trying to find my stride. About five miles into the race, I finally find a comfortable pace and settle into the race. Ah, a beautiful sunny day, perfect temperature, and "WHAT!! You mean I have to run UP the hill." Sure I'd trained for hills, but nothing really prepares you for a mile climb up hill, especially just six miles into the race. I dig in and start the climb and find myself actually passing the 4:30 pacer. I'd regret that in about thirty minutes! I get to the top and find it wasn't all that bad. Unfortunately, that was just the first of many climbs. For those of you who've never visited our fair city, it is hilly!

My legs feel really strong for the first half of the race. I even make it to the half/full split feeling spry. For some reason, though, when I get to mile 13, it hits me, hard, I mean SMACK, I am only half-way through this race. Half-way. I have to run 13 MORE miles. Panic sets in, and I know I've hit the wall. Not literally, for those who know just how clumsy I am, I've hit the proverbial marathon wall, and I've hit it early. Suddenly, fifth-grade me is back, and she is talking a good game of self-doubt. My eyes start to sting, my legs feel shaky, I'm suddenly overcome with that cold, clammy feeling you get right before you vomit, and I realize that I'm not going to make it. Do they give medals for the half-marathon if you just make it to that point in the full, or do I need to actually cross the half-marathon finish line? Seriously, I reach in my pocket for my phone, ready to call my husband, who is celebrating a blistering 1:30 in the half, when I see them.

"Run, Girl! You can do it!" Our neighbors are standing on the corner with a sign and shaking a cow bell cheering. I take in a deep breath and try to stifle the flow of tears. Waving, I express gratitude and manage to run by them. "Okay," I think to myself. "If I don't finish, I'll disappoint them and they came all the way out here for me." I also picture telling my daughter, "mommy couldn't do it." How could I tell A and T I didn't make it? Everyone I loved was waiting for me to cross that finish line, so I did the only thing I could do. I prayed, "Dear God, give me all the strength my legs need to finish and let me feel the arms of Jesus holding me up." Then I just ran one foot in front of the other until I got to mile 18 and decided to walk one foot in front of the other.

The plan of course, is to run the entire marathon, but when your legs adamantly fail to cooperate, there's not much else you can do. Plus, I had begun to notice that all of us middle-packer-non-elite types were walking at least a little. I manage to find a nice little walk/hobble/jog, walk/hobble/jog rhythm. Finally, mile 20, glorious mile 20 and in just over 3 hours. At this point, I know I can crawl six miles and still beat the 6 hour cut-off. At mile 22, my wonderful husband and his best friend, meet me with Powerade, some candy, and a morale boost.

Just as I begin to feel human again, the evil, evil marathon planners apparently had decided to pull Heartbreak Hill from Boston and drop it smack dab in the middle of Mile 23. I kid you not. I am forced to lean forward and hike, just to keep from rolling back down the hill. Cresting that hill, finally, I see it, downtown with its beautiful buildings and believe it or not, I begin to weep. (It is really hard to run while crying, but I managed to do it a lot that day.) By now, my legs are shooting intense cramps with every step and I can no longer feel my toes, but I do manage to jog down the steep hills without collapsing or blowing out a knee.

At mile 25, I am getting ready to just walk and not keep trying for under five hours, when my knight in shining armor appears once again with his best friend in tow, and T , Brent, and I run the last mile of the Mercedes together. (If only he'd actually had a horse.) Crossing the finish line, I grab my medal, hobble over to T , embrace him and weep, my exhausted body, wracking with sobs. I did it! 26.2 miles. All I can really say is, Praise God!

It sounds so trite, but it is so true. The marathon really is a wonderful metaphor for life. Sometimes it's a breeze and you know exactly where you're going, and other days you are literally willing one foot in front of the other, leaning on the grace and mercy of God and the wonderful people he's willing to put in your path. Am I a different person for running? Is my life suddenly changed? No. I'm the same, but I know now that I can. That no matter what the obstacle, with God, I can.

I'm most excited that running this marathon gives me the opportunity to look A in the eye and say with confidence, "Sweetheart, anything you want to achieve, anything, with God's help, you can! Mommy did it, and so can you." I also know that I'll never be that self-doubting fifth grader again. My tears now are those of joy for accomplishment not tears of dejection for a lack of natural athletic talent. I think always being picked last lit a fire of desire somewhere deep inside to achieve. Then it was probably a desire to come back to school and say, "na-na-na-boo-boo." But the more mature me, is happy that those moments drove me to try harder and work longer and dig deep to find that latent determination and with God's grace, see it to fruition.

I finished the marathon in 4:56 and for once in my athletic career, I wasn't last. I think my days of being last are long past. Now I just need to find a flat course and get that time down to 4:30....and could I do the half in under two hours? I wonder how old I'll have to be before I can actually place in my age group...