The miracle isn’t that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start.
~John Bingham
First marathon. Portland, Oregon. October 9, 2015.
26.2 miles is a long way. A LONG WAY. Way longer than our 15-mile practice run, infinitely longer than my 10-mile run from work to home.
26.2 miles is an odyssey of conflicting thoughts and emotions. It’s joy at the miles behind you, despair at the ones still ahead.
Miles 1–5 are euphoria. It’s the crowd jostling for position, the starting gun and the cheer of 13,000 people roaring down a skyscrapered canyon and washing over you in the semi-darkness. It’s the one-man rally squad at the first turn that I wish would come to my office every morning and cheer me from my car to the door.
“You look great, man. You’re doing awesome! I’m proud of you!”
It’s passing through the line of cheerleaders, each of them posing for the camera. (I’ve waited 20 years to hear a dozen high-school cheerleaders screaming my name from the sidelines; it was worth every step!)
Miles 5–10, it’s tossing your sweatshirt aside to join 1,000 (10,000?) jackets strewn along the sidewalk like dead leaves fallen from a forest of Walmart trees.
It’s trying not to look ashamed that you’re losing ground; from then on, it’s just hoping you can keep running to the end. I mean, it’s just running, right? Good Lord, how hard can it be to just keep putting one foot in front of the other?
Mile 11 is re-taping your feet as the first blisters start to appear. It’s joking with your friends about whose stupid idea was this anyway? It’s cheering the sweaty, oblivious runners passing you from the back of the pack, and when you hit the long double-back it’s your heart breaking for the woman struggling at the very end of the walkers, a police escort car and a long line of traffic following her at a crawl.
Mile 13 is just unfair. After that gut-busting climb up to the bridge you discover that it’s the slow jog down the other side that really hurts. It is unjust.
Mile 15 is the memory of nasty tasting power bars, stomach turning glucose drinks, and some horribly sweet honey sludge, suddenly being erased by angels from Heaven bearing tubs of gummy worms and bowls filled with tootsie rolls. It’s reminding yourself to post a warning in your blog: if you ever decide to slurp down a packet of Stinger honey, don’t ever wash it down with two Red Bull energy drinks. Not ever.
Mile 18 is the best rendition of Free Bird you have ever heard, or maybe you’re just low on glucose again. You don’t care.
Mile 20 is realizing that the cheering seemed nice at first, even a little embarrassing, but now it has gone from cute, to appreciated, to producing eye-watering gratefulness.
Mile 22 is abandoning your friends to fate and pushing through in a heavy-metal cocoon oblivious to cheerleaders and traffic lights. It’s dodging crowds in Saturday market and vaulting sleeping old men down skid row. You let nothing slow you down now.
Mile 26 is finishing up between two larger groups and running the center line down the last two blocks completely alone. It’s your wife screaming, “That’s my husband!” just loud enough to be heard over the music. It’s knowing that nothing is better than that.
The finish line. It’s forgetting to check your time. (Who cares? You finished!)
It’s a bag of bananas and peanut-butter cookies, a rose and a gold medal, and strangers patting your back. It’s suddenly realizing that next year’s marathon will be much easier just knowing how the finish line is — what the finish line is.
It’s realizing suddenly that there will be a marathon next year.
You cross the finish line totally spent, physically and emotionally exhausted, which was just how you wanted to end it. It is a long, hard walk, but the last 60 seconds made it all worth it. Crossing the line is like a shot of speed — suddenly you no longer register the pain in your feet, the grinding of your hips. You feel great.
You are a gladiator walking into the Colosseum, and all the crowds of Rome are lining the fence, chanting your name and cheering.
It’s the post-marathon rush of endorphins lasting about 15 minutes. Then, as your friends (whom you now feel like a dog for abandoning) cross the line, you cheer with the rest, and your feet wake back up and the glory of the finish line is overwhelmed by visions of beer, pizza and a soft couch.
It’s your post marathon party: crashed at your friends’ house, the three of you semi-comatose on a combination of Guinness, Advil and pepperoni with extra cheese, while your wife (who is a gift from God, wonderful beyond words) plays Florence Nightingale, running more beer and pizza between foot massages.
It’s limping proudly through the office the following morning wearing your bright-blue finisher’s shirt and trying not to grin.
Or maybe it’s none of that for you. Maybe it’s something completely different and just as completely wonderful. Maybe it’s not wonderful at all.
Maybe it’s just me.
— Perry P. Perkins —