I completed a half marathon.
Yes, little old me, the girl who was picked last for every physical education class sports activity in elementary and middle school.. the girl who waited to take her sole PE class of high school until the last semester of her senior year (and then got out of most activities because I was the token senior).
Last April, I had decided that I would sign up for the Sarasota Half Marathon. I figured, "Heck, it's a year away, and it will be a great way to get back into shape after the baby." I never imagined my life would have taken the turn that it did, and after my cancer diagnosis and treatments, I put my marathon registration packet at the back of my desk drawer.
While recovering from chemo and the mastectomy, my energy levels were diminished, and my upper body strength was next to nothing. It took me nearly two months just to lift my kids in and out of their car seats. Each day slowly got better, and I was able to see the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel.
So, four months after my surgery, I got an itch. A small thought crept into my mind... perhaps I could do this marathon... And then the thought got bigger. And more persistent. And then it turned into, yes, I'm going to do this.
I needed to do it. I needed to prove to myself that cancer would not win. That I was o.k.a.y. enough to train, run, and cross the finish line.
The marathon was a metaphor for my journey.
Slowly, I began to train. I was going to the gym a few times a week doing strength training. I was running my neighborhood in the afternoons. And my co-workers joined in my task of practicing running the Ringling Bridge after work.
Oh, and did I mention my best friend Amanda was doing this with me? From afar, she was my biggest cheerleader. And I was going to need her more than I realized when it came to the actual day of the race.
I knew I wasn't as ready as I would have liked to have been, but my goal was just to cross the finish line, and hopefully not be last.
Race day came, we were at the starting line at 7am, and we were off. I did well until Mile 8 where I started to have pain. Apparently, those twinges of pain became some epic blisters on the soles of my feet. Amanda kept tugging me along as more and more people passed us by. Around Mile 11, I looked back, and we were the last two people with the bus following us in. So much for not being the last one across the finish line...
I had one small emotional meltdown at Mile 12. The very sweet people in the bus asked if I wanted a ride for the rest of the marathon. I said, "Absolutely not. I didn't beat cancer and make it through 12 miles for you to pick me up in these last few moments..." Amanda grabbed me, and our friends who had finished the race an hour earlier came back to cross the finish line together with us.
The race had a four hour time limit. I crossed the line with a time of 3:52:45. While I was literally the last two feet that crossed the line that day, I didn't end up having the longest time. So, technically, I achieved my goal. My feet were burning, my legs were cramped up, and I could barely see through the tears.
This race really was a metaphor for all I've been through. I had a challenge. I trained for it. It was harder than I had ever anticipated. Parts of it were easy. Parts of it sucked. There were laughs. There were tears. There was pain. But there were family and friends that carried me through it.
And I won.
P.S. - The following week, I registered for next year's half marathon. I have to redeem myself!
