I started training for my first marathon accidentally. I'd been jogging regularly, maybe 15 or 20 miles a week, for about six months, when I tripped and fell and broke my heart. A little Grey Goose, some lying eyes, a vulnerable moment, and a little too much naïveté, and suddenly I was face down on an emotional sidewalk. So I got back up and did the only thing I knew how to do, which was to keep on running. Four-mile mornings turned into five miles; four days a week turned into six; sluggish Saturday mornings in front of Ronco infomercials turned into six- and then eight- and then twelve-mile runs along the river trails. At first it was anger and disappointment and resentment that kept me going, but they were gradually replaced by adrenaline and exhilaration and strong quads and smaller jeans. I started sleeping well and eating better and working harder and smiling more. I read a couple of books on running and ran a few 5ks, from which I learned the importance of CoolMax and that I had no interest in running faster than a slow plod, respectively.
A few weeks of this and the tiny bell that went off in my head when I heard the word "marathon" started getting louder and louder, until I talked with a friend of mine about the St Jude Memphis Marathon a few months away. She told me she was following the Hal Higdon novice training schedule, and I pulled it up online and saw that by coincidence, my running schedule that week was exactly the same as what he'd suggested. That was the sign I was looking for, so after a few days of mulling it over, I sent in my registration to officially commit myself, told a few people—with a lot of disclaimers—that I was going to run a marathon, and showed up for a Saturday morning run with the Little Rock Marathon Training Group. I was nervous and shy and I'd never run in front of anyone else before. I didn't know you were supposed to bring water or that I'd be expected to follow course directions, and after about forty-five minutes of running around lost and thirsty on a golf course (far behind the pack) I ran into a woman who was helpful and knew the course and even offered me some of her water. A couple of miles later we discovered we were from the same hometown, and a mile or so after that we figured out that we were both training for December marathons—Memphis was the first week of December, and she was running in Honolulu the following week.
So I started showing up every week, and trying my hardest to keep up with Amy, and after a few thirsty weeks and some very warm-hearted nagging from the training group's excellent coaching staff, I started carrying my own water and learning how to swallow Gu without gagging. I talked incessantly about training to everyone I know, quit going out on Friday nights, bought better shoes, and kept on running. I was scared the whole time: of sprains and falling and the dreaded 20-mile point and the even more dreaded DNF. I raised a few bucks for St Jude Children's Research Hospital, the race's beneficiary. And suddenly it was December.
My sister, brother-in-law, and three nieces live in Memphis so I had my own support crew—pasta and homemade four-layer coconut cake for carb loading, a bed more comfortable than my own, and the confident support that only your family can have. The two-year-old chanted, "Go Aunt Rachel! Go Aunt Rachel! To infinity and beyond!" for three days. The five-year-old didn't care how long it was going to take me; she was just amazed that I could run as long as the drive from home to gymnastics. The four-month-old didn't say anything; she just sat on my lap and smiled and quietly spit up from all my nervous bouncing. My brother-in-law and sister just had absolute faith I would finish, and finish well.
By race morning I was just kind of dazed. I had my clothes, shoes, gels, mantras, lucky sports bra, lucky piece of gum, timing chip, number and a ride to the start. I hung around on the block south of Beale behind the starting line, by the chatty and relaxed 10-minute milers, and walked up to the front once to see what real runners looked like. They looked stringy. And then we just started running, and it was cool and my legs felt great and I saw Sun Studios and a few Elvises and a couple thousand cheering people and the fall leaves and the Pyramid and even our beloved Coach Tom from the Little Rock group. It seemed a lot hillier than I'd ever thought Memphis could be, but I was having the time of my life. In all my race photos I have a huge grin on my face. It didn't occur to me a single time that I might not finish. We were all just out there having a long morning run on a cool sunny Saturday, throwing Powerade around and cheering each other on. I saw my family three times along the route—14, 21, and about 25.5—and around about mile 22, still waiting to hit the point of exhaustion, I started getting disappointed that it was going to be over so soon—one of the best days of my life, and it was going to be all over in less than 45 minutes! I realized when I had five miles to go that I wasn't going to reach my pie-in-the-sky goal of finishing in under 4:30 without really hating it, so I just relaxed and talked to people and drank till I was sloshy and leaped over some potholes and high-fived every single kid along the curb.
I am not a natural runner. I don't count grams of protein and carbs, I don't cross-train, I have almost no technical clothing, and my stride is shorter than a two-year-old's attention span. But the four months between getting my silly heart stepped on and stepping across that last timing mat turned me into the strongest, happiest version of myself than I could have imagined. I know you only run your first marathon once, but I can't wait to run my second marathon once, and my third, and my tenth.
Rachel K. 2004
