|
|
Mile 21
If my feet didn't hurt so badly, I'd really be loving this! The scenery is indeed BEAUTIFUL. Only my feet *do* hurt badly. We're meandering through a system of bike trails through the trees, behind the University. Beautiful... but I can't enjoy it.
Mile 22
Lightening up my mood, and those of others around us, I start multiple variations of singing the words "I am in pain" to the melody of Beethoven's 5th Symphony. Hey, what do you expect from a singer? My mom joins in, allowing me to pick up the harmony. It makes me laugh a bit more, which really seems to help. i still have my sense of humor... just in pain.
Mile 23
This isn't fair -- I *know* that they've been putting the mile markers farther apart since Mile 20 or so. Or at least it seems that way; I'm putting in the same effort, but it takes much longer to reach the next mile marker.
Partway into the 24th mile, I am able to concentrate enough so that I can pick up the pace. Ahh, that feels doable! Then suddenly -- SPLORT -- I feel the blister on my right heel burst. Aieeee, the burn! My quickened pace becomes a quickened limp. I guess someone must have wanted me to sustain *another* typeof pain to take my mind off of the pain that was already there.
Over the past few miles, I've been thinking about my friend Stacie. Now, Stacie was diagnosed with leukemia in early 1996, and underwent a bone marrow transplant that June. I met her through the Leukemia Society during her recovery... what a wonderful, brave woman. Well... she is here today, walking this marathon in celebration of her recovery! Go Stacie! I try to use her as my personal exapmle and hero, that the pain I'm feeling right now is nothing like the pain she felt while in treatment. Yet... despite my telling myself this over and over again... it doesn't seem to help much.
Mile 24
Here come some folks who have finished the marathon, walking backward on the course. They have medals. So the end *does* exist!
But the medals are so small; you mean I've been working over 7 hours to get a rinkydink medal?
Mile 25
"You're almost there!" I've been hearing *that* one for the past few miles. Look, don't tell me I'm almost there until I'm 10 feet away from the finish line, OK?
Just about 25.5 miles into the race, we turn around a bend and see that there's a HILL, a steep one, up into a residential neighborhood. I feel the tears well in my eyes, yet they do not fall. No, this hill gives me internal strength -- I AM almost there, I WILL do it!
Much to my surprise, the steepness of the hill brings some relief to my aching feet. Alongside us is a group of marathoners from Michigan, Illinois, and San Diego. According to one of the coaches who has come back to walk us in, all we have to do is walk around a high school. But just how big *is* this high school?
More poetry on the signs alongside. I read something about "legs lead." Is that *lead* with a long E, or *lead* as in the metal, weighing heavily?
Forging on ahead as best we can, I see a building ahead in High School Beige. I turn to speak with the entourage following: "Ladies, I *do* believe this is a high school!" with the cheers in return.
We're in the high school parking lot, in the last little bit of the race. One woman of the group says something about wanting to hear some NOISE -- we're finishing, after all! So in my normal form... I lead our pack in a cheerful round of "If you're happy and you know is, yell Go Team (GO TEAM!)" which brings smiles to everyone's faces.
Mile 26
I have to stop and get a picture taken with the sign held by the Leukemia Society volunteers: "Oh, hell! I've come 26 miles, I may as well make it to the finish line!" YES!!! There's the Mile 26 marker, just the other side of that sign!But we're still not "legally" close enough to announce that we're "almost there."
I see the finish line just immediately up ahead on the track. Funny... now that I can *see* it, it almost seems so far away. I guess before, even though it was indeed farther, that I had just the notion in my head of it "being somewhere" and not a few hundred feet up ahead... now that I can see it, it feels so far.
Still. my mom and I sling arms over each others' shoulders... and someone from the sidelines runs ahead to snap a picture with my camera *just* as we cross the finish line. This is my slowest marathon by far -- 8 hours and a bit of change. But not bad for someone who was in a car accident 5 days ago, suffering a mild concussion and head/back strain. I honestly shouldn't be here at *all*... bu here I am.
Mile 27
I immediately sit down to relieve the ache in my feet. It doesn't seem to help. Training to *run* a marathon and then *walking* it in the end is not a smart move.
Still, I have my pride. I know a lot of folks who have a hard time removing the timing chip from their shoelaces at the end of the race, due to fatigue and swelling in their hands. I was determined to get mine off... and I'm able to get it off myself, to prove... what?
To add insult to injury (quite literally!), they are out of finishers' medals and sweatshirts. AUGH!!! Twist the knife *further* into my side!
Nothing at the finish area is clearly marked, which makes me even *more* irritable -- as if the pain isn't enough. In my other two marathons, after sitting down a few minutes, I was fine walking again, relatively slowly. This time... I can barely walk at all. It's a huge struggle to get the few hundred feet to the bus pickup area.
But... I did it. And no one can take that away from me!
Marathon Postscript
Alaskan Adventure Home
|