Adversity causes some men to break; others to break records.
~William Arthur Ward
I was about to discover how one moment would change my entire race. Twenty-two miles into the 2018 Chicago Marathon, I was on world-record pace. My splits were recording consistent 6:45 miles, and then I took a right-hand turn….
I had prepared for the race of my life with an unparalleled will and sheer determination. Hours of training had me up long before dawn every morning, seven days a week. Now after months of work, everything was coming together perfectly. The day was overcast and cool. I knew from the moment the starting gun went off that it was a day to break records. In a race as long as a marathon, anything can happen.
But then, at mile 22, my race took a turn that no one could have predicted.
The years have left many childhood memories hazy, almost dreamlike. However, one memory is seared into my brain. It will never be forgotten, as it changed the trajectory of my entire life. After weeks of lying in a hospital bed, I emerged from a coma. My body had been ravaged by a rare form of meningitis called meningococcemia. I was four years old.
Though I survived, the price was high. As I slowly emerged from the coma, I knew that something was wrong. My legs felt heavy, and I could not feel my toes. My parents explained that the doctors had to amputate both my legs to save my life. It was my first lesson about the harsh realities of life.
That double amputation helped shape and mold me. It gave me the drive to persevere when everyone else quits, and the determination to prove to the world and myself that any obstacles can be surmounted.
The following years blurred by as if they were on fast-forward. It seemed as though, in a single heartbeat, I found myself standing at the start line of the 2018 Chicago Marathon. Waiting for the starting gun can be one of the longest and most painful parts of a race, so I had time to think. I stood there contemplating all that had happened to put me on that line.
Running is a relatively new pursuit for me. I started training seriously as a runner in August 2016. From the start, it seemed to be a sport tailored to me. It required long hours of training. It did not matter if it was hot or cold, raining or snowing. There was always training to be done and new goals to surmount. The lessons of overcoming and triumphing in the face of adversity and obstacles were familiar to me.
The marathon is a difficult race. Anything can happen in a race that depletes your body both physically and mentally. The 2018 Chicago Marathon was my fifth attempt at the distance. The starting gun cracked, and a grin spread across my face as a chill raced up my arms and down my back. I surged forward, powerful and confident in my ability to run the exact race plan I had formulated with my coach. The goal was any finish time that started with a 2. Breaking the magical three-hour barrier in the marathon is not something that I ever thought would be possible for me. For most of my life, I abhorred any sort of endurance exercise. In college, I struggled to walk a mile and was often seen driving my car short distances around campus.
As the miles started to click by, the sound of my running blades was hypnotic. I stopped paying attention to the mile markers. The noise and energy coming from the crowd were infectious; it was hard to stay on pace. I wanted to race forward faster and faster. It became even more difficult as the elite men and women flowed past. My pacers reminded me patiently to keep it slow and hold on to my energy for the later stages of the race. My heart and mind were bursting with exhilaration.
The race dragged on, and with less than 10 miles to go, my body started to feel the effects of running at a fast pace for a long time. I knew that I did not have the level of running training I had hoped for coming into the race. I despaired slightly as I thought of the hour of running I had left to reach the glorious finish line. Seeing that I was starting to struggle, my pacers jumped in and made sure that I was consuming enough energy chews, salt tablets, Gatorade, and other horrendous nutritional options that can only be considered worth eating when running. Over the course of running for hours, one’s mood can swing drastically. I knew that this low moment would pass with each mile and I reminded myself to smile and think of the good moments. I thought often of my three-year-old son, whom I had spoken to right before the race.
“Dada, I know you will win the race,” he said. It gave me the desire and motivation to push on.
Finally, I was starting to regain my composure and good mood. Shortly after mile 22, I was making a right turn when disaster struck. I stepped in a pothole, and my right blade caught the edge of the hole. The phrase “my leg got torn off” is not something that is common when speaking of a marathon. A person hearing that phrase might naturally think of a war zone or some other grisly accident. However, this is exactly what happened to me. As I felt my leg coming off, I panicked and grabbed it with my right hand while frantically reaching out to grab the shoulder of one of the pacers. I missed and came down hard on my side. As my head hit the pavement, my whole world went dark.
I didn’t know if it was seconds or minutes before I came to with people helping to drag me off the ground. My head was swirling. I was so dizzy. I couldn’t focus my eyes, and my vision was blurry. I couldn’t even tell if I was standing upright. My hearing was like a poorly tuned radio that was under a pillow.
Somehow, I managed to pull my leg back on and balance by myself. Then, I forged ahead with my pacers. At first, I staggered, and then I walked. Finally, I began a shambling run. I made it to the 23-mile marker and needed to walk again. My whole body was cramping. I had never considered dropping out of a race more seriously than at this point. I was at the lowest moment ever in my running career. I knew that I was strong enough to finish the race if I could just manage to stay upright. Those tottering walking steps turned into running again. I made it to the 24-mile marker and started to walk again.
The final 2.2 miles may as well have been a trek across America. The dizziness was worse, my vision was blacking out periodically, my hands and arms were numb, and my legs felt like lead weights. I was scraping the bottom of the barrel when an aid worker asked if I wanted medical help. Oh, such a sweet temptation! All the pain could end right then instead of having to complete the final 2.2 miles! I knew if I lingered a moment longer, I would walk right off the course. Though my body screamed at me, and cramps wracked my body, I did not walk again from that moment on. I ran.
For some cruel reason, one of the only hills over the entire course of the marathon comes in the final half-mile. As my pacer and I turned onto the hill, my body rebelled. Hurriedly, I grabbed his arm. Without him by my side, I would have been crawling to the finish line. Together, we churned our weary legs up that hill and made the final turn to the finish line. He steadied me and then turned me loose to run the final, seemingly endless 0.2 miles. For a while, it looked as though the finish line was not getting any closer.
Finally I crossed the final time mat. I immediately collapsed, my body having given everything that it could. I had battled the inner darkness harder than ever before and emerged on the other side, a husk of what I was going into the race. As weariness and pain overtook me, I was escorted to the medical tent in a wheelchair for evaluation.
By some miracle, I finished in three hours, three minutes, 22 seconds — a new personal record by a mere 13 seconds. This was a new double amputee world record. I had battled with everything I had on the streets of Chicago, and I arose victorious.
— Brian Reynolds —