During the Vancouver Marathon a few weeks ago, I was doing really well for the first 13.1 miles. I’d spent the first few miles running and talking with Liz and Leanne. Then we spread out a bit so I slipped on the headphones and let Taylor Swift, Kelly Clarkson, and some other powerful singers keep me moving forward. I even kept up with a faster pace group for about a mile and enjoyed just listening to the sneakers slap the pavement.

But the bad thing about marathons is that after that first 13.1 miles, there’s another 13.1 miles. In the words of Stephanie Tanner, “How rude!”

The second half was a lot tougher than the first. I had been training, without injury or illness, but not at the level I would have liked. It was an accepted consequence of full-time worker bee and full-time student lifestyle. Not enough time to run around in circles. 🙂 I’d completed four half-marathons since the New Year, but not the number of long training runs that would have made me feel confident. A few more double-digit runs would have definitely helped with the 13.2+ experience.

Each time I hit a wall, a point where I had to either walk or fall, I repeated aloud: “Finish. Don’t get hurt. Don’t hate.” The first two ideas are probably easy to translate but the third was the most important. Each time I had to walk, I would get angry at myself. Angry at the birthday cake I had eaten a few days before. Angry at every television show I’d watched the previous month. Angry at my homework struggles that took more time than they should have. I just hated my failures. I would also get angry at all of the happy shiny people passing me. Why were they still running up this darn hill? I had to remind myself that no matter what, I was completing a marathon and that those happy shiny people were just doing their best, as I was trying to do too. Each time I walked was a practice in forgiveness as I accepted, for possibly the tenth time, that I was human and was loved no matter how fast or slow I went.

After a minute or two of walking (and accepting) I would flip the mental coin over. Yes, it didn’t matter what time the clock said when I crossed the finish line. But it would be so much more fun if it said 5:29.59 or less (beating my 5:30 time goal). So I’d run to the next block, or next big tree, or next telephone pole, or definitely down that long hill because that was extra fun. “5:29.59” was the second mantra in my head, the one that got me to move again. Although I was mostly solo for the second half of the marathon (every once in a while I caught up to Liz and we debated who talked us into doing this), I definitely had an ongoing conversation about when to walk and why, and when to run and why.

And in case you didn’t see the picture on Facebook, my official time was 5:28.08. And the happy dance was a few days later, after in could fully move again.

“For this one day, we had converged from around the world; we had attached our microchips and we had pinned on our numbers. We had gone through our pre-race rituals, and then we had stood together at the start, perfect strangers to each other and yet brothers (plus a few sisters) in the maddest feat of endurance known to common man.

With our different-coloured vests, our different hopes, our different worries, we had set off as one. With our different gaits, some super-smooth and slick, other straggly and inelegant, we had surged forward, stretching slowly in the next few hours to cover mile upon mile of Mallorcan road as sweaty humanity pushed itself to the limit. And that was the joy; I realise it now. Not to do well, but simply to be part of it.”

I’ve been slowly reading this book over the past few months, alongside homework assignments and random entertainment magazines. I wanted to share this one quote from near the end, but there were several more than resonated with what I often attempt to say and explain about running. Now if I could just be this philosophical and global around mile 20 of a marathon.

Before my first marathon, I created a list of five goals:
1. Don’t die.
2. Finish.
3. Run the entire race (except for water stations).
4. Finish in 6 hours or less (the winner would finish around 2.5 hours).
5. Recover enough to attend Kaity’s baby shower.

When I finished the race over 6 hours, I managed to achieve 4 out of the 5 goals and hobbled away satisfied at my 80% success with hopes to improve my time the next go around (which if you read my blog about Newport didn’t happen).

Skip forward to Summer 2013 which included an injury that kept me from running for over a month and the start of a doctoral program that turned everything else sideways. My longest run during the summer should have been 20 miles, but instead it was just 8 miles. So goals shifted as I planned for the Portland Marathon this October. For months I said out loud, mostly to myself: time doesn’t matter, just finish.

I once again started the race with a set of goals:
1. Finish.
2. Don’t hurt myself.
3. Have fun.

Luckily I’d learned a few things over the past year that made for a good start. Last year I arrived downtown two hours before the start, which was freaky since it was super dark and the volunteers weren’t even there yet. So this year I went for a later bus and arrived 30 minutes before the start, and was in my corral with plenty of time to spare. I also bought a cheap shirt at Fred Meyer the day before so if it was chilly I could toss it at the start without regrets. It was warm enough I was fine in my t-shirt and shorts as I waited to go so I still have that spare shirt for next time. Now next year I need to be smart enough to take pretzels with me (only gummy bears on the course made for an unhappy stomach by mile 20) and that if I take Advil with me, they need to be in a plastic bag rather than in my mesh fanny pack (a definite “duh” moment as I found white mush all over my cell phone).

Somewhere in those first few miles I remembered my 3 goals and focused on them as permission to walk when I needed, to take photos if I wanted, and to not focus on time (though that 6 hour idea was there in my extra-stretchy goals). I ran along streets I’d travelled many times on Saturday and Sunday mornings and realized, I think for the first time, that my goals for the previous year didn’t include having fun. All of my goals were tangible and valuable, but none of them just focused on the hundred moments of a long run. This realization shaped the rest of my Sunday morning as I tried to high-five cute kids, as I charged up and down St. John’s Bridge, as I accepted the gift of walking in NE Portland, and as I said thank you to those who shouted my name (last year I kind of hated those kind people by the end because of the distraction; this year they were angels and the pit crew I needed). I was shocked that I hadn’t sought fun the year before and hoped I would not make the same mistake again.

Oh, and I managed to finish the race in 5:36.38 which was fun icing on a fun cake.

Now when you are running and/or walking for over five hours, you have lots of time to think, so my mind wandered in a lot of different directions, including to a group of my students who were grieving.

I learned Saturday night that one of my advisees died unexpectedly Thursday in his sleep. I didn’t get full details until Monday, but I knew already that I would be visiting that group on Monday night and had no idea what I would say. There are never good enough words in times of loss and I had no intention of trying to be good enough or holy in that space. Instead I knew I had to be honest; I had to just admit the loss and remind them of the resources available to them (myself, the school counselor, their churches, their families, etc).

So amid the joy of Sunday morning were moments of prayer and grief as I missed a good man and thought of his family. And there was worship for the beauty of the day, the community of runners and volunteers, and the ability to run (which I was worried I lost during that summer injury).

With the experience just a few days behind me, I’m still trying to understand how such joy and sorrow combined into a good day. I’m not sure how, but it did. It was a day dedicated to joy and to loss, to Portland and to David, to the future and to remembrance.