On Friday, I predicted that I was going to walk my eleventh half marathon with my heart. Turns out, I walked it with my guts. Pure, obstinate guts.
You probably can’t tell from the photo above, but I was pretty nervous at the start of the race. My leg was taped and I was full of Aleve, I’d had tons of pasta and lots of rest on Saturday. But would my foot and leg hold up? How much pain was there going to be, and could I handle it? What were those 13.1 miles going to be like?
Turns out, they would be the most difficult of my racing career. By mile 4, I was already exhausted. My right calf felt like a steel bar. Things loosened up and I felt a little better during miles 5-8, but by mile 9 I was ready to be done. My feet were on fire, and my bad foot was really starting to hurt. I picked up the pace around mile 10, not because I was feeling better, but because the pain was getting worse and I just needed to be done. Every step felt like a spike was being driven into my foot. But I didn’t slow down. I willed myself over that finish line with every ounce of guts inside me.
I was never someone who pushed themselves physically. Why would I? I was a fat kid, and fat kids are picked last for teams, laughed at, picked on – discouraged, really, from being active – despite the fact that we are simultaneously told that we had better do everything in our power to stop being fat. (This continues when you’re an adult; no one wants to look at your disgusting, fat body, but they also don’t want to have to see you working out to make it smaller – and if you dare to work out in public, be prepared to be shamed and ridiculed. Makes a ton of sense, right?) So I participated in gym class, but I didn’t push myself, and I didn’t go out for any sports teams.
Fast forward to my adulthood, and suddenly I’m not only doing something very active – walking half marathons – but I am pushing myself way beyond my comfort zone. I am walking through injury and pain. I am at the limits of my physical abilities. Is this really me? Even six years on, it’s hard for me to believe this is the person that fat kid in gym class has become.
When I saw my friends and family at mile 13 and in the finish chute, I burst into tears. It was over, I was done, the worst of the pain was behind me. I crossed that finish line in tears not only because of the pain, but also because I had pushed myself to accomplish something I wasn’t sure my body wasn’t capable of. I never knew that person was inside me, but she is. Turns out, I am full of guts.
I don’t know what the future holds for me in terms of marathoning. A few weeks ago, the idea of never racing again was devastating. Today, retirement seems like it might be a smart decision. I’m going to take the winter to do other things, see if there is some other physical passion in my life. In the meantime, I have a collection of eleven shiny trinkets to admire, including this one:
Have you ever pushed yourself to your physical limit? Would you do it again? Share in the comments!
