SIXTEEN MILES
In late 2020, I began training in the hopes of running my first marathon. I’d run a half marathon a few years prior and decided to go for the big one. It was both exciting and intimidating. I’d run several 5k’s (3.1 miles) and even more10k’s (6.2). Training for the half marathon (13.1 miles) had been a leap. It was a solid two hours of running without a break, so to double that for the full marathon (a whopping 26.2 miles), knowing I’d be running for about four hours straight, felt huge. There was a part of me which didn’t know if I could do it, yet another part of me knew I had to try.
It was early autumn when I signed up for the spring race. I’d been running very consistently that year. When the pandemic hit and I went into lockdown mode, working from home except for one day a week in the office, running was a way to get out of the apartment and feel normal. I’d see other people on the lakeside trail and feel a strong kinship with them. This was our normal. It was therapeutic.
My boyfriend Andy was also a runner. We met online, though it turned out we lived within running distance of each other. We shared the same trail, just on opposite sides of the lake. When we started dating we made a tradition of going for Sunday morning runs together.
(On the days I went on solo runs, I’d sometimes run past the turnoff to Andy’s place and imagine racing down the quarter mile to his apartment, knocking on his door, and - as I stood there in workout clothes, my skin gleaming with sweat - simply saying, “I just need a kiss.” We’d lean forward and kiss over the threshold, then I’d wink and turn, off to finish my run. I envisioned this as a romantically impulsive gesture, yet I never actually did it. My daydreams would take into account the realistic possibilities of how it could go wrong: Andy would be on the phone or in the shower, or he’d see me and be alarmed, thinking there must be some kind of emergency so I’d have to awkwardly explain it was an errand of love, not panic, which would kill the vibe and leave us both feeling bad. All of this played out in my head as my feet crunched on the gravel path and music danced into my ears from my headphones. Maybe I’m enough of a realist to save me from some, yet not not all, of the whimsically ridiculous urges my romantic side concocts.)
My basic method of training was a long run each Friday which would increase most weeks by 1 mile (though some weeks I’d stagger in shorter runs so as not to push my body too fast). I’d have a recovery day on Saturday, a short run on Sunday, then a couple of mid-length runs (5-8 miles) through the week. The first week, I began with a 7-mile run. Each Friday I’d get up earlier as I’d increase the distance by one mile, until I was getting up around 5:00am. I distinctly remember the day I ran 14 miles - the longest I’d ever run. It was such a personal accomplishment. Running so far without stopping was grueling at times, yet made me feel unstoppable.
I charted a course for myself which I loved to run. I’d follow the trail along Ladybird Lake until I reached Zilker Park, right in the heart of Austin. I’d run through the park and into the neighborhood where my brother lived. It was hilly there, a push up many challenging slopes before flying down the other side with long strides. I’d go a little farther each time, or add an extra loop somewhere along the way before heading home.
Winter arrived. I wore gloves and a hat, flexing my fingers as I ran when they grew stiff from the cold. In the dark, I carried a small flashlight and wore reflective arm bands. Parts of Zilker Park became blocked off for their annual Trail of Lights. Some mornings, the giant Christmas tree made of lights was still lit in the dim hours before dawn. True magic.
I made it to 15 miles, then 16. I still had a daunting 10 miles until I’d reach 26.2, yet I felt I could do it. Then, two things happened.
First, the marathon was canceled. Straight up, “We’re not going to have the race because of Covid, sorry.” No matter that it was part of a series of marathons which were used as qualifiers for runners wanting to get into the difficult and famous Boston Marathon, or that Covid is not transmitted outdoors. Originally set for February, the race officials canceled the marathon and created a half marathon for the end of April instead.
The second thing was that not long after the announcement (and after I’d reluctantly signed up for the half so I could use my training for something), my knees began to hurt. I recall a particular 8-mile run which I had to cut short because of one of my knees aching, causing me to stiffly walk the rest of the way home. It seemed that I may not have been able to run the full marathon after all.
I ran shorter distances while trying out athletic tape and icing my knees as needed. As the date of the half trundled closer, I considered what to do. If I ran, would I injure myself and regret it? Or could I handle it and regret if I didn’t?
Meanwhile, Andy surprised me by planning a trip to Hawaii at the beginning of May. I wanted to complete the race, yet felt it would be unfair to him if I was limping around Hawaii just because I’d stubbornly insisted that I could run. I talked it over with him. I think if it had been solely up to him, he would have said, “Don’t risk it.” Yet, he knew how hard I’d trained. He knew my passion for running, so he said he’d support me either way. With one week to go before the race, I decided: I’d do it.
“I promise, if anything happens and I don’t think I should finish the race I’ll call you,” I told Andy. “My right knee has only been a touch sore lately. I’ll be careful.”
The morning of, I was once again up around 5:00am. My pre-race rituals include eating a banana before I leave for the race, braiding my hair, applying moisturizer to my face and lips, and of course pinning my race number to my jersey, both of which I picked up as part of my runner’s packet the day before. I stretched and bounced on my heels, jittery and excited.
Andy drove me to the starting line.
”You don’t have to come, it’s okay! It’s so early,” I told him.
”Of course I’m coming!” he insisted.
”Okay. I’ll have my Apple watch, so you can see when I’m nearing the finish line. If there’s a crowd coming through, just remember: I’ll be the girl with the blue-taped knees,” I quipped, glancing down at the athletic tape I’d applied to both knees as a precaution.
If I close my eyes, I can not only picture the race course, I can feel the crisp April air and hear the sound of thousands of feet hitting the pavement. At the beginning, the crowd was packed in tight. As we crossed the iconic Congress Street bridge, the faster runners pulled away and the crowd evened out. I zigzagged past people to find a clear spot to run at my normal pace (which isn’t fast, I have endurance over speed and can run a steady 8.5 - 9.5 minute per mile pace for ages), then leaned into the first hill. Cresting it and sailing down the other side was glorious. The course looped through downtown, then skirted around it before returning to its heart at the finish. A few miles in, sweat made the athletic tape begin to peel off. This seemed like a bad design flaw. Rather than let it flap in the wind, I yanked it off and threw it in the next trash can I saw. My knees felt fine. My breath was ragged at points, but my body felt strong. I could do this.
I’d never had someone wait for me to cross a finish line before. I’d run a couple of 10k’s with my brothers and we found each other afterwards, yet having Andy there was different. When I crossed the finish line (in just under 2 hours), I heard him calling my name. I found his face in the crowd and saw that he was filming me. He captured the joy and accomplishment I felt in finishing the race. I held my medal aloft and leapt in the air, exhilarated. My face was red and my hair was wild, yet in my eyes was elation and thankfulness.
It could be easy to feel as though all my training for the marathon was wasted because of not getting to run it. By the time a year had passed, I was farther than ever from making it to a full marathon … in a wonderful way. During that May trip to Hawaii, Andy proposed. We were married 4 months later, and the following May we welcomed our first son. Raising him takes a whole new level of endurance - the very best kind.
These days, I go running while pushing my baby in the jogging stroller. My pace is about an 11 minute mile, and so far I’ve only done about 2.5 miles in one stretch. The early morning trainings when I ran along Lake Austin feel as though they’re from another life. They were difficult; sleep tugging at me as my alarm went off, face both cold and pouring sweat as I ran, and muscles sore afterwards. Each time, it was just my mind telling my body I could do it. No coach or companion, just a competition against myself. Those runs were hard, and I kind of adored them. That trail will always be a sacred space for me, one I knew, conquered, and loved.
26.2 miles is still a dream I keep tucked into the “maybe someday” drawer of my heart. Yet if I never achieve it, it’s okay. I made it to 16 miles. I made it that far, and then I made it here, to the jogger stroller stage of life. It is enough. For now, and maybe forever, it is more than enough.
