Eight and a half years ago, I started telling my wife
Colleen and very close friends that I was going to run a marathon. No one
laughed at me, but more than a few people looked at me like I was making a
joke. In the fall of 2004, I wasn’t running at all. I wasn’t even walking, with
the exception of few walks around my
neighborhood. I was smoking cigarettes. I wasn’t a heavy smoker, but 10-15
cigarettes a day doesn’t do you any favors if you want to go for a 2-3 mile
run, let alone run a marathon.
Four months later, I had quit smoking easily enough but was
having trouble with my long runs. The program I was doing had me go from a
10-mile run to a 12-mile run to a 14-mile run. The 14-mile run was grueling.
During the last mile or two, my legs were jelly and I felt like I was going to
fall over. When I got home, I crawled up the stairs of our second floor
apartment, stumbled over to the coach, and almost started crying. I don’t show
a lot of emotion in general, so Colleen was a little freaked out. “What’s wrong?”
she asked, sounding upset.
“I don’t think I can do it .” I told her. “If I feel like
that after 14 miles, how am I going to run almost twice as many?”
Two months later, I finished my first marathon.
When the subject of running a marathon comes up, the first
question people always ask is “was it hard?” My answer is always the same. “The
training is hard. Compared to that, the marathon is easy.”
Training runs were solitary affairs. For the long, weekend
run, I’d get up at 5:30 or six in the morning so I could spend some time with
Colleen after I got back. For two or three hours, I was by myself. Some runs
were better than others, but I can remember the bad ones better than the good
ones. One of my favorite memories is running 14 miles for a different marathon
in a constant mist on a raw, cool fall day. Besides me, the only people outside
were taking their dogs out to go to the bathroom, and they all gave me the same
look that said, “I have to be out here. What the hell are you doing out
here?”
Race day was different. There’s a lot of anxiety, but the
atmosphere at the starting line and throughout is that of a big party. I ran
one marathon in Cincinnati and another one in Philadelphia. Both races had
throngs of people on the sidelines, cheering you on, telling all of the runners
that we were doing a great job, or were looking great, or some other kind of
encouragement.
Another popular question that comes up is “what does it feel
like to cross the finish line?” This is harder to put into words than whether
or not running a marathon is “easy”, but besides watching the birth of my
children, it’s the greatest feeling I’ve ever had my life.
As I said above, I didn’t exactly face naysayers, but I did
get a lot of reactions that had an underlying “really?” As in, “really,
you think you’re going to be able to run 26.2 miles?” Or, “really, you think you’re not going to give up eight weeks into your
training?” Or, “really, it’s noble
that you want to do this, but you’re going to be really sad and disappointed
when you give up…because you eventually will.”
Training for a marathon is a transition from “no I can’t” to
“yes I can” and finally to “damn right, I did it!” Once you’re out there
running the race, any doubts that you have or that may have been planted by others
fall on deaf ears. It’s you out there, and every stride is a triumph before you
even cross the finish line. Getting to the starting line is a victory in and of
itself.
Except you’re not alone. So many people out there share your
story. Their reasons might be somewhat or completely different, but all of the
other first timers started out in the same place: deciding to run a marathon
but not knowing what the outcome of the decision would be until months of
training and preparation.
All of these memories came flooding back today after the I
first saw the news about the explosions in Boston.
The Boston Marathon is a different race than the two
marathons I ran. Cincinnati (The Flying Pig) and the Philadelphia Marathons are
open marathons. Anyone can register and give it a shot. Boston is a qualifying
marathon. In order to get in, you have to have finished another marathon under
a certain amount of time (there are different time requirements for different
age brackets). There aren’t any first-time runners in Boston (theoretically;
some people run the race even though they’re not registered).
When you’re running a marathon, around the twentieth or
twenty-first mile, the idea of the finish line becomes Valhalla. You start
picturing what you’re going to see when you cross, the large crowd, and the
festive atmosphere that’s going to be waiting for you there.
On the day I ran the Philadelphia Marathon, Colleen, my then
23-month old daughter Lucy, and our friends Jenn and Jim were waiting for me
about half a mile from the finish line. The Philadelphia race goes down this
long stretch of a road named Kelly Drive that is bereft of crowds for a good
three miles and makes the last few miles difficult. About a mile before the
finish line, a few fraternity and sorority houses known as Boathouse Row are
where the crowds form. The longer it takes you to finish, the larger those
crowds are. I’m far from an elite athlete, so by the time I got there, it was
almost impossible to pass through the throng. I didn’t know if Colleen or Lucy
were there. I told myself it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I didn’t see
them, but when I heard Colleen shout out “Mike!” I instantly knew I had been
fooling myself. I saw Colleen’s beautiful face and my little daughter all
bundled up in her arms and knew that seeing them made this even more special,
and it made the last mile a joy instead of a chore.
I can’t stop thinking about the families that were out there
today waiting for their loved ones to cross the finish line. The loving wife or
husband who knew that the countless hours of training would impact their
weekends for months and not only didn’t complain about it but was supportive
and gave everything he or she could and dug deep in his or her own way. The
sons and daughters who maybe didn’t completely understand until the moment during
the race that Mom or Dad ran past them with a look on his face that they had
never seen on Mom or Dad’s face before. The parents who always offered support
for their children who weren’t going to miss it when their kids crossed the
finish line.
But the other thing I’m left with from today is the countless
acts of kindness from so many of the people involved with the race or in the
community. The runners who finished the race running to the hospital to give blood.
The local entrepreneurs who offered a place to sit, free food for those who
couldn’t afford it, and anything else they could do to help. Residents offering
strangers with no place to stay a bed or a couch to sleep on. I’m surprised but
not surprised, amazed but taking it in stride. Twenty-six-point-two miles
builds a community in a short four and a half hour span, an environment that
says we’re all in this together whether you’re running the race or just
standing there cheering the runners on. Those that have been part of this
temporary community of 26.2 at one time or another were less surprised by the
random acts of kindness. A marathon is already a miniature miracle: an
extraordinary achievement undertaken and frequently achieved by “ordinary” people.
The kindness I saw today in Boston I saw in Cincinnati and Philadelphia on
smaller, lesser scales but was no less important to those competing. There is
nothing like a marathon to remind us that we are all in this together and that
– for a short time at least – we can lift each other to heights we never
imagined possible.
