At mile 24 of the Chicago Marathon, I hit my wall hard and could barely move beyond it. My body began to seize, starting in my legs and moving up. Not only was I cramping, but my whole body felt like it had the liquid, food, and air sucked out of it, like deflating a portable air mattress.
The brink I thought I wanted to push myself toward when I registered for this race didn’t seem so desirable anymore. Instead of enjoying the cheering and the beauty of the October day, I might as well have been alone, lost in the desert, looking for water on my way to base camp, but most likely left to die in the scorching heat.
I somehow dragged myself to the water station. To my surprise, along with Gatorade and water, there were bananas, energy bars, Gu packets, and cherry-flavored gummies. A volunteer noticed my suffering and strongly suggested I consume everything. I remember downing gummies, swigging Gatorade, and taking a banana with me as I moved at snail’s pace through mile 24.
As the sugar made its way through my bloodstream, I was back to a slow jog by mile 25. Incredibly, I would finish this race after all. I had pushed my body to the brink of collapse only to find (be fed) the energy to finish at an almost-sprint the last 10 meters, taking in the shouts and applause from the onlookers. What a rush!
But let me back up.
The cheering was why I ran the marathon in the first place. My wife, Corina, and I had cheered with the crowd a year earlier while waiting for friends to finish. We got caught up in the rooting-for-everyone phenomenon as if everyone crossing the finish line was our soulmate. We heard rumors that the same support was provided throughout the race, and it all sounded fun and exciting. Plus, I craved the attention.
A few years ago, I took Dr. Gary Chapman’s 5 Love Language Quiz with my family, and my love language is, by a considerable amount, Words of Affirmation. Truth is, words of affirmation are the secret access to my soul. Knowing that spectators would cheer for me throughout the course? I might not even have to train. I’d receive admiration for completing or even attempting to run, sympathy for trying and coming up short, and even if I was seriously injured or didn’t survive the race, I would be a hero for my failure. My love language on steroids.
I had never run more than five miles at one time, and that was in high school. I was more of a sprinter. Completing the intense training would align nicely with my other life areas: as a business owner, father, and husband. The primary difference is that an almost universally accepted method of training to complete a marathon successfully exists. I was still mostly figuring out how to navigate those other areas, which came with guidelines so diverse that I could usually find material on how to run my business, raise my children, and enjoy a long marriage that matched my current style. No growth or change necessary.
The race started effortlessly enough. I eased out of the start, letting most people pass me during the first couple of miles (a strategy that would unintentionally last the remainder of the race). At mile one, I realized I had consumed too much water and Gatorade pre-race and already had to use a portable toilet. I would have laughed if I had seen those toilets before starting, thinking one mile in was too soon to use the facilities. I was wrong, as were the throngs joining me.
Corina stuck with me during that pit stop, but she was done with my race-running style when we reached the first water station. I wanted to walk through slowly, catching my breath. She didn’t want to stop. She asked if it was OK to run ahead, but I don’t think she waited for my answer before leaving me in her dust and empty water cup. She was a much better runner and more adequately trained. It would have been fun taking in the sights and talking along the 26.2-mile route, but I knew that wouldn’t be the case. I was prepared to struggle. I needed it. I wanted to push my body to the brink. As you already read, I would succeed.
I had lost most of my running group by the halfway point, but I felt good. At mile 14, I found my friend Renee and the four children who accompanied her—two of hers and two of mine. I stopped to greet them. I figured they made their way through traffic and blocked streets to cheer us on; the least I could do was hang with them for a few minutes. I’m confident it had nothing to do with needing rest. Corina had blown by them with a wave, wanting to continue her stop-for-no-one mentality. I was more of a runner of the people.
At mile 20—”The Wall,” as many marathon runners refer to it—I still felt good and ran through without much issue. “That was The Wall? Is that all you got?” I overconfidently thought.
Shortly after, I came across our 10-minute/mile group leader, still holding the 4:30 sign to indicate our estimated finish time. I ran up next to her with my new just-busted-down-The-Wall confidence and asked, “How are we doing on our pace?”
She glared at me like a mama bear who had just witnessed me taking one of her cubs and screamed, “I don’t fucking care!”
Whatever distance I ran to get out of the way of her glare and her ability to impale me with the 4:30 marker was, by far, my fastest portion of the race.
Then came mile 24.
When I crossed the finish line twenty minutes behind Corina and last in my training group, I was met with looks of surprise and astonishment. “I was certain you wouldn’t make it!” Corina confided shortly after I finished. Others in our group nodded in agreement, including me.
Had she realized what I had gone through at mile 24, she would have likely left the course searching for the nearest bookie to wager I wouldn’t be joining her at the post-race celebration. “If he’s not going to survive this thing, I might as well cash in.”
That was October 11, 1998. Twenty-seven years doesn’t feel that long ago. My daughters were six and three back then. I can look at each of them to see what twenty-seven years will do, and if that doesn’t convince me, I can look in the mirror.
Overcoming the physical challenge of a marathon provided me a confidence boost in other facets of life. My business didn’t necessarily take off, but I impressed more than a few with my success-in-the-marathon-translates-to-success-in-business analogies. I’m sure I was the first to ever think of that. Not long after, I wrote my first book. I may not have cramped up or bled during that process, but my marathon training certainly helped in dealings with copy editors.
Of course, that boost of confidence did not carry over to my marriage, as not only did Corina run the marathon, she ran it faster than I did. Her confidence boost was at the “things are going to change around here” level.
I should have trained harder.