All you need is the courage to believe in yourself and put one foot in front of the other.
~Kathrine Switzer
The athletic world and I were never a good fit. I tried, but my fluffy physique kept me from success. As a child, we had an ice-skating rink in our back yard every winter. To hide my lack of skating ability, I constantly shoveled the ice like a human Zamboni. I would hear, “She can’t skate. She’s using that shovel just to stay up.” Ice skating — off the list.
One summer, we got our first skateboards. My fearless sisters flew down our driveway like professional surfers. I rode that board lying on my stomach all the way down Embarrassment Hill. Skateboards — out!
In eighth grade, our girls’ basketball team was short one player for the tournament. The team captain pleaded with the class, “Can anyone play today?” Tentatively, I raised my hand. “Anyone?” Thinking she didn’t see me, I waved my arm. She did see me, but was hoping for someone else… anyone else. “If we don’t fill that spot, we’ll forfeit the tournament.” I was the only one in the class offering. “Fine, we’ll take Peppiatt, but we might as well forfeit.” Sports — no!
With that history, why would I undertake a marathon? Yeah, I said it — a full-on 26.2 miles. Because I had something to prove!
Every Olympic year, I had dreamt of standing on that podium, hearing the National Anthem and experiencing the thrill of victory. But looking in the mirror, I realized that some dreams must be put aside. Olympic gold or even Olympic attendance had to hit the showers.
When the Leukemia Society’s Team in Training reps came to my office, I knew that this marathon would be the way to prove my worth. Eagerly, I grabbed the paperwork, but my confidence was shaken slightly when the perky rep gave me the dismissive once-over and offered, “Good luck,” with an annoying smirk.
The marathon would be held in Vancouver, my mother’s hometown. She had just passed away, so this would be my tribute to her — plus, it was the only city allowing walkers. I had to raise $1,500 to participate, so I sent letters to everyone I knew. The people who donated told me they never thought I would finish, but they were happy to give to a good cause.
The first training began at 6:00 a.m. I was going to prove that this “fat lady ain’t over till there’s singing at the finish line.” It was January in a Chicago snowstorm. Luckily, the wind was howling so loud that it drowned out my screaming.
Every Saturday morning, we trained. Two other ladies, Mary and Katrina, joined me in the same category — slow walkers. We were a team. Through four months of training, the Three Slow Musketeers came in last but together. “All for one and one for all” was the motto of the ladies in peach velour sweatsuits!
The night before the big event, Mary, Katrina and I joined the training groups from across the country. We shared a carb-loading dinner. We picked up our official numbers and computer chips to attach to our shoes to measure our exact time. Then we received the best news of all: Walkers got an hour’s head start.
The big day dawned. At 5:30 a.m., the sun was glinting off the gorgeous Vancouver skyline. The walkers lined up anxiously. The official started, “On your mark, get set… walk.” Mary, Katrina and I strode out of the gate. Immediately, we got a good pace going, enjoying the crisp morning air. This was not so bad.
Then it happened — the rhythmic thumping of the Kenyan runners. Their strong, regular strides pounded the pavement as they passed us, disappearing in the mist and leaving only the echo of their steps behind.
The lull was broken by the thunder of the remaining runners. It was a stampede, with everyone jockeying for position, knocking the poor walkers every which way. The real runners must have thought we were suburban shoppers who got lost in the big city. I was just starting and was already behind. It felt like the opening of the film, Chariots of Fire, but in reverse.
Within hours, I lost Mary and Katrina. I was now alone on the course. It was recommended we bring taxi money in case we couldn’t go on. I would not do that as I had something to prove to a lot of people, but mostly to myself.
The hours dragged on. I didn’t do fun things for this length of time. The water stations were closed. No more fans cheered on the runners, so I nearly took a wrong turn. Luckily, another marathoner, an 80-year-old woman, got me on the right track and then left me in her dust.
Every step was agonizing. Up ahead, I saw the 20-mile marker — only 6.2 miles to go. Suddenly, all the Team in Training coaches began walking with me.
“You’re doing great. But you need to go faster.”
“Faster?”
“Yeah, they have to close down the finish line.”
“I can barely do what I’m doing now.”
“We can help you.”
“What does that mean?”
“We can drive you a few miles.” I noticed the VW driver waving. All he needed was horns and a pitchfork.
“I am not going to go through all this to say I did a marathon except for six miles,” I said.
They jumped into action. They radioed ahead to keep the finish line open. One of the coaches walked ahead of me to get me walking faster. Drunk people on their porches shouted encouragement. “Go for it!” I don’t think they knew what I was going for, but it was nice to be noticed.
The finish line was up ahead. The other Team in Training participants had all showered, changed and rested, but came out to cheer me on. Even my slow-walker friends, Mary and Katrina, were there.
The announcer called my name. “Now, dead last, from Chicago, Francesca Peppiatt.” The crowd cheered.
It’s pretty obvious that I was never going to participate in the Olympics. But the moment they looped that medal around my neck, I might as well have been on the Olympic podium. The thrill of victory surpassed the agony of defeat — and these feet.
I would never forget a journey that changed me so much. Nine-and-a-half hours… But I did what no one thought I could do, not even me. I beat the odds, and I would never be the same woman again.
— Francesca Peppiatt —