On Saturday, December 3rd 2011, after about 2 and a half hours of non-stop running, I finished my first half-marathon. 13.1 – and I felt every single tenth of a mile aching in my legs and arms and back when I crossed that line.
As I look back on the day – how I felt, what was happening, who was there – I can only describe it in one word: “Spiritual.” Not spiritual in the Philippians 4, “I can do all things through Christ,” kind of spiritual. But spiritual in the sense that it was a culmination of something that I had worked on for such a long time. It was spiritual in the sense that, even as I ran, I wasn’t sure I was going to finish. And so I grunted and sighed and talked myself into believing that I could finish. It was spiritual because as I ran, I was not only experiencing the very real physical demands on my body, but the run culled from the deep so many experiences from my training, and even from beyond the last two months. 13.1 miles is not only a physical experience, but an emotional one as well.
So as I reflect on my own experience, there are certain memories and images that seem to carry the day for me:
The Starting Line: I felt a part of one large community of individuals, each with their own pre-run rituals, each with their own nerves and excitements about the day. We all gathered to the starting line, huddled together en mass trying to stay warmed up before the race started. We shook legs and arms, and blew into our hands to fight off the early morning air. And I only had one thought on my mind: “What if I don’t finish?” I couldn’t shake it and I think the reality was and is that the answer is, “So what!?” So I worked my butt off at something and committed to a very difficult task and may have only made if most of the way. So much of my journey to that starting line was dogged by that question – What if I couldn’t do it? One thing I know for sure from my marathon experience is that we can’t be so afraid of failing. By putting fear aside, we open ourselves to accomplish things we never thought were possible.
Sure enough, the race started and I sprinted out for the first couple miles. I felt better running than I had in over a month. The crowd running around me and the people gathering on street corners gave me more energy than I had expected. After jumping out to a pace much faster than I could maintain for the race, I quickly found my own answer to the question. There was no more doubt. I could do this and there was no way I could stop.
The Familiar Territory: Miles 5-8 brought us into familiar territory – a small trail leading around and through Wake Forest University. It was a welcome sight, and familiar ground beneath my feet. I knew the turns, the slopes and what was coming with each quarter mile. And when I finally came to the hill that I had cursed for months in my training, I couldn’t help but feeling some small sense of accomplishment as my determination set in and I sprinted all the way up the hill. I made my way through Faculty Drive to find a small band of kids, decked out in Kentucky gear and leading CATS cheers as people turned through the cul-de-sac. My heart jumped up somewhere just below my throat and I called out to them to cheer with me, “C-A-T-S Cats Cats Cats!” Adding to the excitement and encouragement, two of my good friends had come to cheer us on in the middle of mile 7.
It was here that I began to think of St. Paul’s image from Hebrews, that “great cloud of witnesses.” Here I was surrounded by thousands of runners, from all different walks of life, all different stories, and all different challenges all converging in one race. There I was with my two friends that had trained with me all along the way, and then joined at mile 7 by two more. Add to that the countless other strangers, all gathered to cheer on their own one or two friends, but committing to stay even long after their friends had passed. Some stayed out for the entire race, sitting on street corners and cheering on strangers. It felt strange to be joined in this experience by so many people I did not know, and yet their presence and their energy lifted me throughout the race. It was one of those times when I knew what St. Paul meant about that great cloud of witnesses and yet I had no idea that it would be so full of friends and strangers.
The Last Three Miles: I’m sure if there’s any guide out there for half-marathon runners, it will tell you the last three miles are shear will power. I felt better than I had in a long time for the first 10 miles. For the longer runs in my training, the 8th or 9th miles were where my feet started aching and my knees became inflamed. For the first ten miles, I experienced none of this. But it all came rushing in the last three miles. The aching in my feet, the pain in my knees and shoulders, and the shame of being passed by walking senior citizens were all part of miles 11-13. But I kept going, with the one thought that I couldn’t stop. Even if my running looked more like walking, even as the walkers passed and the miles grew longer and longer, I held to the one commitment that I would run the entire race.
My doubts kept battling with my determination. My marathon playlist belted out some of my favorite songs, saved especially for when I knew I would need it most. “No more turns! You’re so close! Don’t give up!” Young children were yelling and pointing frantically at the mile marker signs now. At mile 11 I felt so proud of how far I had come. I couldn’t help some of the welling emotions at mile 12 – the determination, the exhaustion coming out sometimes in tears and sometimes in big smiles. And then finally coming around that last big turn, everything seemed to come together. People who had finished already were walking towards me, telling me I was so close. It was any moment now, I would see the balloons and see the crowds. And finally, there it was sticking out from the ground. 13 miles. I took off with ever bit of energy I had left. I ran my race and I finished. 2 hours and 39 minutes.
Like I said, a spiritual experience. And I can’t wait for the next one.
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