It was 4:30 a.m. and already raining outside. My first half marathon was to start at 7:00 and the forecast indicated I might have to swim half the race. This day has the potential to be seriously miserable. But I'm going to at least have a blog post to show for my trouble:
4:31: I don't know if I can get back to sleep, but I should probably try. I need all the rest I can get. Wait, is that thumping noise on the roof rain or have Santa's reindeer landed out-of-season?
4:56: Ok, now I'm up. Time to change, and eat a light breakfast before leaving to catch my race shuttle in 45 minutes. I don't hear the rain anymore, at least.
5:15: My brothers, one of whom finished chemotherapy last year, are running the race with me. It's to be a symbolic victory for overcoming the struggles in our lives. Also we're all competitive to a slightly unhealthy degree. I've been training the longest, so I have a 2-hour goal, while my brothers hope for 2:15.
5:17: As we get ready to leave, we try to make small talk, but everyone is tired and there isn't much to say. My oldest brother Paul fills the space by debating his wardrobe choices. Waterproof socks? Sunglasses with a built-in mp3 player? Utility belt with built-in water bottle holders? Meanwhile, my brother Scott and I lace up our decades-old running shoes and curse under our breaths at our lack of suitable rain gear. I can't believe our bad luck.
5:19: I just wish I could use the bathroom. My stomach unraveling moments before the start of the race is pretty much my worst nightmare. And I just know that will happen if I can't make myself go beforehand.
5:38: It stops raining. Maybe this won't be so bad. Time to go.
5:40: Wait, I need to use the bathroom. Badly. Now.
5:43: Drive to LP Field to catch the shuttle for the race. Paul regrets not buying that waterproof hat. I can't seem to secure my timing chip within my shoe laces. Scott is cold. The race has way too many people left to shuttle over to start on time.
6:02: Park, catch shuttle to start of race. There are lots of open port-a-potties, but thankfully none of us has to go.
6:05: Pack sardine-like into bus and take longest-ever 3 mile trip to start of race. Discover I have to use the bathroom again. Arrive at 6:30, and a light rain starts falling almost immediately upon our exiting bus.
6:35: We all sort of have to go to the bathroom. The race starts in 20 minutes and the port-a-potty lines are 20 deep. This is going to be a race against the clock...
6:50: Getting nervous.
6:52: As we get close to the front of the line, a woman scrambles out of port-a-let screaming, "Someone took a sh!t on the floor!" I guess that's one potty out of service.
6:54: Business accomplished. Whew. Go to coral #11 for staggered start to race. Sky immediately opens up, with a steady downpour replacing the earlier light rain. It's starting to get damp and miserable.
7:05: The race hasn't started yet and my brothers scavenge for discarded ponchos. We really hope they start this thing soon. It's cold.
7:15: Finally, we're moving. Let's do this thing.
7:16 Cross start line. My friend Les and his band are playing at the stage in front of the start line. I yell to get his attention, but I don't think he saw me. I hope I don't regret expending this energy later.
7:25: I stop noticing the rain that's falling from the sky, but the rivers running in the street are unavoidable. Suddenly wish I had my brother's waterproof socks.
7:43: 3 miles down, all of us running at a perfect 9-minute pace. Feeling great, except that we keep having to dodge slow movers who started in front of us, and my shoe is untied. Should I stop to tie it, or just keep going? Meanwhile, Paul gives up on his mp3-embedded sunglasses, a cool technology that's of limited use in the rain.
7:44: There's a Gatorade stand. I can tie my shoe there without getting trampled, and catch up with my brothers later. Going to try it.
7:49: Shoe is tied. That's better.
7:50: My shoe is untied again. And now, somehow, the other one is too. But screw it, I'm just going to keep going. In this rain, my laces are too slippery.
7:53: 4 miles down, but my watch says 36:20 has elapsed. Starting to lose the pace. Scott tosses the poncho he found near the start line. It's time to pick it up.
8:11: Somewhere around the 5 or 6 mile mark, I pass the woman running with the 2-hour pace banner and leave my brothers' view. The herd is finally starting to thin. I'm feeling great, except that the rain soaked my shorts, and the added weight keeps sagging them downward. The spectators lining the course might be in for quite a view. Regardless, I tell myself that I was pacing myself for the first half, but that I'm going to make the second half of this thing my female canine.
8:23: Around the 7-mile mark I lose the ability to think rationally, or think about anything other than finishing. I turn a corner expecting to cross back into downtown Nashville, where the race finishes, only to remember I have two more neighborhoods to run through first. As I pull my soggy pants up, I notice a cross-dressed man standing alongside the race route and begin to wonder how I'm going to finish. A runner beside me yells "Only 19 more miles to go!" and I vow that I will never, ever, venture to run a full marathon.
8:27: Pass by a Gatorade stand in favor of the stand offering a cool-looking yellow energy drink. It turns out to be beer. Not what I was looking for, so I keep running, but I laugh in my head as I keep going.
8:38: Around mile 9, I realize I've been running too fast the last several miles. My thoughts go from counting down until my strong finishing kick to just hoping I can finish. And then I pull my pants up. As I turn onto music row and see hordes of people wishing me well, including a sign reading, "Go random stranger!" I almost start crying, touched by the outpouring of support in the pouring rain.
8:47: Hit 10-mile mark. "Surely I can do 3.1 miles more," I tell myself, but I'm really starting to feel the distance. I enjoyed the first 7 miles, endured the last three, but now I'm starting to suffer.
8:55: How is it that I can't even see the 11-mile mark? I demand a recount! It feels like I've gone 15 already. And now my running jacket is bunching upwards, leaving an open patch of skin between it and my sagging wet shorts. This is soooo not funny. Next time, I'm going gear shopping with Paul.
8:56: There's the 11-mile mark, but I don't know if I can go two more miles. My legs are on fire. Ever step is agony. The people who saved some energy for the end are starting to pass me. At least I'm still on my pace. As long as I don't stop, and my pants don't fall off, I will make my time. But the race turns through a park back road where no encouraging spectators stand. I'm going to have to do the rest of this race on my own. It suddenly seems much harder.
9:00: I'm running about 2 minutes ahead of pace. It occurs to me that I could stop and rest for one minute and 59 seconds and still break 2 hours. But I fear that if I try it I won't be able to get started again. I ran 11 miles in training for this but it never hurt like this. I can feel the lactic acid bouncing around my legs with each step.
9:05: About 100 people have passed me in the last mile, and the two-hour pace setter who I whizzed by at mile 6 is now directly behind me (running ahead of pace, it would turn out). I don't have strength to go any faster. But I tell myself that if my brother can endure 12 sessions of chemotherapy, I can go another mile at this pace. I've never voluntarily hurt this badly before, though.
9:08: Right when I think I'm turning the last corner, the route doubles back in the direction from which I just came. This is just cruel. From a physical standpoint, this is the hardest thing I've ever done before. But I'm still clinging to a slight lead over my two-hour pacesetter.
9:11: Hit the home stretch. I speed up just a little, not to get a better time, but to hurry the moment when I can finally stop running.
9:13: I look around in search of my wife and niece as I cross finish line. I don't quite have the strength to hold up my hands in victory, but I got them about half-way. It's over. I did it, and with three minutes to spare.
The sky opens up, going from steady rain to full monsoon. Minutes, later I'll be freezing and want to die, but at that moment I couldn't care less about the rain. I really did it! 1:57!
9:15: It sure is cold out here, when you aren't running.
9:15-9:30: At the finish line, they hand out water, Gatorade, cookies, power bars, bananas, apples, muffins and various other goodies. I take every single thing they offer and scarf them all down, including two packs of cookies. But I'm freezing.
9:32: Can't find my family at our designated waiting area. Go stand under a tent to get out of the rain. Cold and miserable.
9:45: Find family. Learn my brothers were just a few minutes behind me, well in front of their race time goals, and amazingly fast for the limited amount of time they had trained. But we can't find our car. I parked in the dark this morning and, in the excitement, I didn't notice where. Everyone wanders in the rain.
9:50: Find car and everyone pours into it. Paul curses his waterproof socks, which turned out to be not match for the flowing river in the streets. I finally tie my shoes.
10:10: Beat the traffic and arrive home. Paul immediately runs hot bath. Scott dives into bed and wraps himself under the covers. I make a double pot of coffee. I guess we all cope in different ways.
10:15: Savor my warm coffee. I ponder what we've just done. I understand that beating a half-marathon won't keep Scott's cancer from coming back. I realize it won't heal my disappointments, undo the past or keep my polyps from returning. I accept that finishing the race, standing alone, won't transform me into the person I'd like to become.
But, as I delight in my hot coffee, I appreciate that life, like a long race, keeps on going. Sometimes it's fast, the course is downhill and everything feels great. Other times, it's a grind, the rain is pouring, every step is agony and you can't believe the end isn't in sight. In those times, it's wonderful to have someone cheering you along, but you can't always count on that happening.
If you just keep going, though, you're capable of persevering beyond what seems possible, even in the pouring rain. You just might accomplish something important to you along the way. And you'll have a nice warm bath, or comfy bed, or warm cup of coffee waiting for you when you reach the other side.
And that coffee tasted better than any I've ever had.
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