I’ve learned that finishing a marathon isn’t just an athletic achievement. It’s a state of mind; a state of mind that says anything is possible.
~John Hanc
There’s a certain magic in the misery of running. Throughout the majority of any given race, you’re in pain. Your lungs feel like they’re being squeezed by an unseen hand, your muscles as though tendrils of fire are curled around them. But it is in this very same fire that a great runner is forged.
My first cross-country coach told me that every race is run in three parts. The first part is with the head. This is where strategy and patience are factors. The second part is with the body, to run the race using experience and training. Lastly, the race is to be finished with the heart. I’ve carried this advice with me for hundreds of miles, but I’ll never forget the 5K where this gem of wisdom was the only thing that carried me across that finish line.
It was a course I’d run many times before. In fact, I’d thrown up for the first time in my running career there. I carried extremely fond memories of those trails. This particular race carried with it the burden of a season coming to an end. All of my teammates were eager to bring the season to a close with massive time drops off their personal records.
Before every race, it’s tradition to walk the course and reacquaint yourself with its twists and turns. A few fellow runners and I embarked on a mini-quest to do just that. The conversation remained fixated on our goals and different ways the team could run as a pack, knocking off both time and points. I always liked to imagine an invisible rope was tied to me and whoever was in front of me. If they moved up, I had to move up as well — whatever it took to keep that invisible rope from snapping.
The weather was cloudy, and a chill embraced us. On any given day, this was good weather, but on race day, it could not possibly be more perfect. Once we completed our course walk, we gathered at the starting line to do some last-minute stretches. Runners are terribly superstitious. Lucky ribbons were woven into our ponytails to ensure success, socks were worn inside out, and chants were uttered in a ritualistic manner. It was crucial that the pre-race regimen remained exactly the same so as not to tempt fate. Routine demanded that we belt out the chorus of John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads” before the gun fired.
After we properly butchered every single note, we lined up ready to start. The brief moments of silence before the gun are what I live for. Bodies are quivering in anticipation, and adrenaline is at an all-time high. Last-minute prayers are said, and we stand poised, ready to start our watches. The tension in the air is tangible. Hundreds of hearts hammer in unison as the starter raises his pistol. Then the floodgates of ecstasy are opened as the trigger is pulled. We’re off.
Instantly, the wheels in my mind were turning. I started running with my head. Weaving between runners, I managed to work my way up in the first 400 meters. Falling in with a cluster of my teammates, we began to climb together, flanking other racers on both sides. In an ode to good sportsmanship, we each huffed out a “good job” or “keep it up” to every person we passed. Despite being competitors, running was a connection we all shared, and for better or worse, that put us all in the same boat. If David and Goliath were both runners, they probably would have bonded over it and shared tips instead of facing off.
The initial thundering of feet gradually lulled as the packs of the race solidified. Front, middle, back, and all the stragglers in between. The first mile always passes quickly in a blur of excitement and zeal, so when the second mile began, it was time to cash in all the training I’d been putting in the bank. It was time to focus on my body. I consciously checked that I was doing everything right, breathing in through my nose, keeping my hands unclenched and pumping my arms. The shadow of fatigue danced in my peripheral, but I pushed it out of my mind.
All around me, excellence was coming out of the woodwork. Allegiances were formed between rival teams in unspoken agreements to keep each other going. I felt empathetic pats on my back as I was passed, and I returned the favor to those I passed. If one person tripped on a root, six hands would reach out to steady him or her. It was in those moments that we were ethereal; nothing in the world could touch us.
Inevitably, however, reality cast its line and reeled me back to earth. My old friend fatigue had taken residence in my muscles as I neared the third and final mile. Sweat trickled down my temple, threatening to make a detour into my eyes. It was time to finish the race with my heart.
“This is it,” I said to myself. “This is where you give everything you’ve got left.”
The bubble of euphoria I had been in earlier was well and truly popped. The same girls I had run with for the majority of the race had either pulled ahead or fallen behind, heaving into the trees. I refused to be among those who fell behind. Instead, I chose to pump my legs a little faster and push myself a little harder. As the half-mile mark loomed ahead, the crowd of spectators grew denser, and their cheering became louder.
“Good job!”
“Push it!”
And my personal favorite: “Only a half-mile left!”
Around the next corner, I could see my coach bouncing on his toes in excitement. Focusing on him, the noises softened, and faces blurred. When we locked eyes, it was only his voice that cut through the veil of exhaustion.
“You’ve gotta run like you want it!”
This was all the prompting I needed. For the next 800 meters, not a single girl was permitted to pass me. Honestly, I couldn’t say what I was thinking in those final moments of my race. All I know is that I was reduced to my most primal instincts and was likely rendered inarticulate. Sheer desperation pushed me to break out into a sprint for the final 400 meters.
Everything in my body screamed at me to stop, walk, or at least slow down. The tendons in every limb felt taut; my arms flailed; my good form was abandoned. The only thing I was racing against now was the clock. My stomach clenched, threatening to upend itself.
When I finally sailed over that finish line, I nearly cried from relief. My last animalistic glance at the clock told me I had blown my time out of the water. A concerned-looking official handed me a medal and ushered me along in case my stomach made good on its threats. Instantly, I was encircled by my team. I fell into their arms, grateful for the support.
I live for those last moments of a race; it’s why I run. It’s ecstasy and insanity. It’s freedom. For a few minutes, I can fly.
— Olivia O’Toole —