You just can’t fake your way through a marathon

Who knew?  No matter how much you rest up, man up, or drug yourself up, you just cannot fake your way through a marathon.

But that didn’t stop me from trying.

I spent all of last week drinking orange juice and green tea; popping antihistamines and advil; and talking myself up as if a full week without running was “actually a great taper for all the hard months I’ve put in.”  Going to the starting line in Hopkinton, I had myself convinced that I actually could pull off a feat of mind over matter. All I had to do was start strong, and then run tough.

Sounds easy, right?

In a weird twist of irony, the last thing I taught my kids on Friday was the meaning of the phrase “easier said than done.”  And boy did I learn that lesson the hard way on Monday.

The race started perfectly: Aimee, Fred and I were at the front of the second wave, which meant we didn’t have to elbow our way through any crowds.  We sailed through Hopkinton, Ashland, and Framingham at a comfortable 8:10/mile pace.  I felt great, and even remarked to Fred that my legs felt “excited and loose” at mile 5.  Miles 6 and 7 passed without incident, but with the soundtrack of a Poison cover band and the smell of BBQs.

At mile 8, I knew I couldn’t keep up this pace for all 26 miles.  So Fred and I said good luck to Aimee, and dropped back to about 8:25/mile.  Still felt good though.

At mile 10, my chest tightened up a bit.  Mile 11-12, had some weird trouble breathing.  By 13, my legs started to go…and that’s when the wheels really started to come off.

I won’t belabor the details of the last 13 miles.  I will just say that at the halfway point, we were still on pace to qualify for next year.  But every mile got slower, and included more frequent walking breaks.  My legs stopped feeling “excited and loose”, and instead felt like two long pieces of cement.  I thought about quitting probably 17 different times.  We walked, we stretched, we ate pretzels and water from a nice family in Wellesley, and we stopped at the medical tent at mile 18.

Boy does it seem insurmountable to walk/run 8 whole miles to the finish line.  But I realized somewhere around mile 20 that Fred was not going to let me quit:  “We WILL get there, Bets.  I don’t care how long it takes.  I don’t care how much we walk.  We WILL do this.  You can do this, you are going to finish this thing.” So we took it a half mile at a time.  Friends at mile 22 and 23, then family and roommates at mile 24, more friends at 24.5, and the Dana Farber cheering zone at mile 25.

As we turned onto Boylston, I gasped out “let’s just try to break 4:20.”  It was a hell of a way off from my 3:30 goal, but I had to focus on something.  We jogged across the finish line, and then I just let his arm fall around my shoulders.  No words, no tears.  Just a weird mix of pride and frustration: pride at finishing the damn thing on a very hard day–but frustration at the months of work I’d put in for this result.

With two days’ worth of perspective, I can now say that the marathon was a success [of a different variety than last year].  No, I didn’t run a 3:30.  No, I didn’t qualify for next year.  But I saw a sign in Wellesley that every marathoner should remember: “We don’t care about pace or speed…it’s the SPIRIT of the marathon that matters!”  I raised a lot of money for a great cause…I honored Karen and Theo in the best way I could…and I finished something I’d set out in December to do.

So there you have it.  You cannot fake your way through a marathon if your body is not 100%.  It wasn’t my persistent training that got me through;and  it wasn’t a feat of mind over matter that helped me finish.  In the end, what got me down Boylston Street was the love and encouragement of Fred on my side, and the thoughts of Aunt Karen and Theo in my heart.  Sometimes you just need a little boost–mental or physical–from your loved ones to help finish something that seems impossible.