I Will Be the Rabbit

This is going to hurt. No, it’s really going to hurt. Maybe I should have thrown in a last-minute 20-miler. Maybe I should have done something more. Why didn’t I do something more? Look at all of these people, wow…OK, too late now.

And then Heart chimed in.

“Stop wasting your energy on things you can’t change. If you were ever going to get to the other side of this half-way place, it had to be like this. You’re too hard-headed to listen to plain reason, so, let’s go. Now it’s time to show you.”

They say that one knows how a run will be by the first 10 steps one takes, I’ve never agreed with this because I’ve found myself swimming through expletives for three miles before feeling like I could run for 20 more. But in this case, the adage was very true. After the first ten steps of the 26.2-mile Chicago Marathon run I knew that this was going to be a very long and a very humbling crossing.

Six miles, the first 10K and I already had thoughts about just being done, though fortunately I was running with my friend and teammate Nancy, ironically the same person from my journey a year ago. She and her hilarious friends kept me going for the time being, and I was so grateful.

Physically there was no pain, but I’d neglected my long distance mindset for so many months and felt myself flailing. I knew it, I heard it all rattling loose in my head, but to my surprise I stood by and let it – an ironic, one-day embodiment of my last two months. Perhaps I let it all shake loose because I knew that it was inevitable and beyond my control at this point. Somewhere inside I admitted that I would have to just stand and watch and hope that my foundation was strong enough to bear the throttle of the impending earthquake of the next 20 miles. I suppose it was a test, after all, and I’d have to stand on the outside of myself and monitor as if through some kind of one-way mirror. I hated it.

“Look, this is the only way you’ll believe in how far you’ve come in a year.”

The next few miles were electric as I ran through Boys' Town. Crowds of people 10 deep lined the sidewalks, music flooded the air and full-grown men dressed in cheerleader garb sang and cheered on a portable stage. The crowd screamed responses, two bands played completely different songs, but instead of noise a strange three-part harmony resulted. I breathed it all in and remembered why I was running - why I began running – there is great passion in risk.



At mile eight I rolled my right ankle and it caught on fire. The heat shot up my Achilles tendon and wrapped around the outside of my foot. Small leaks started in the walls of my mind and soon streams of doubt shot out from various points. The floors flooded and I panicked the way one might with sudden wave of pain crashing into one’s face. And then I remembered, and the floor began to drain. Breathe, relax, slow down and it will pass. It had worked for the rip-tide, after all; at least I hadn’t lost everything that I’d learned.

Mile 11, my ankle still hurt, but not as much as the knowledge that I had the ability to go faster and stronger if I’d only put in the miles beforehand. The potential burned at the bottom of my stomach like a hot foreign spice, and this angered me because I’d let it become this. I stood by and watched it drift off, “just so that you can chase it down again. That’s what it will take to begin the other half of this journey.” I didn’t realize it at the time, but yes, this was how it felt at the beginning of it all - this knowing that it was in there if I’d only use it, if I’d only try. But at the time I was just angry, just like I was in the beginning.

Somehow I was separated from Nancy and most of her friends around this water stop, all except for one. He was a veteran runner, silver-haired and full of life. I started to fold in on myself, and then he said, “Come on, kid, we’ll get to the end of this thing.” Too many emotions exploded at the same time.

I was moved by this man’s gesture to run with me in my state of damage, even though he could have easily run a three-hour marathon. He called me kid, I couldn’t help but think that there was some strange supernatural force that surrounded me, that I wasn’t alone out there, out anywhere on this epic trip. And yet, I was angry that I’d let myself lose sight of so many things, of my goals, of my training, of my friend. I was plagued with ideas that perhaps I was slowing them all down because I hadn’t put in the miles, and this is when it started to erupt.

This moment was like oxygen for the fire in my stomach. It consumed all of the other fires of physical pain, and coming upon mile 16 I fell to the bottom of myself. I questioned everything all over again.

Why did I sign up for this stupid race? I hate this! I hate running! What if I never get faster? HOW EMBARRASSING that they might think that I’m slowing them down. AM I? I AM! Maybe I’m not built to be faster. Maybe I need to lose 20 pounds - that will make me faster. But who cares! I don’t care! I don’t want to be faster! I don’t want to run anymore! I’m an idiot! I signed up for this Ironman Wisonsin race like an IDIOT! WHY did I sign up for that!? THAT is really going to hurt. This is not fun. This hurts! I hate this! I HATE THIS! Look at all of these NUTJOBS out here running their fool heads off! Hey – HEY! They’re passing me! ” And then, looking around, suddenly things fell into perspective.


26.2 miles. Nothing is impossible.

Suddenly things made sense and I could run again. Maybe it was because of the crowds as I entered Little Italy. The air was warmer and lighter there, and I saw the familiar faces and smiles of people I’d never met. Someone laughed like my father, gestured to me like my mother, and I read a sign that said, “Run like hell!” A smirk snuck over my face as I heard my grandmother’s voice in my head, and caught up to the people who’d passed me.

Mile 17, two of my good friends sprung at me from the crowd screaming my name and jumping up and down. YOU are AWESOME! You’ve run 17 miles!!! YOU ARE ALMOST DONE! YOU ARE FREAKIN’AWESOME! Have you run this whole time!? Glenn, the sage runner who’d stayed with me told them yes, and they exploded again in fireworks of OMGs!! and YOU ROCKS!! I was so flooded with emotion that they’d driven two hours in marathon traffic, navigated their way on their bikes to wait for me in the cold, biting wind only to jump out like psych-ward patients cheering and leaping around before they started to RUN with me! For several minutes they hugged me and yelled and cheered words of encouragement, and then they told me that they’d be back at mile 20, and mile 22, and mile 25.2. And they were.

They jumped out of the crowd like nutcases at me at each stop still screaming and jumping around with the same energy and enthusiasm. They asked if I needed anything, …a candy bar? Ice? Anything? Name it. I had to choke back tears, I couldn’t believe they’d come out for me. Glenn stayed off to the wings until they’d been absorbed into the crowd for another three miles. He checked on me constantly to ask how I was feeling, he told me I was looking strong or rough and when it was rough he pointed out people who looked worse. He handed me Gatorade, reminded me to take a gel, and told me that everything was just fine. You’re really doing great, kid, really great.”

Nancy called my cell phone and checked in on me. She told me that she’d been talking on the phone to my husband for me, as I’d been disconnected when I tried to call. He’d been on a rooftop somewhere trying to coordinate it so that he could take a clear picture of me in the sea of runners. He’d been walking and running to ideal locations and playing phone tag with anyone he could get in touch with in order to make sure that he’d catch me go by. I shook my head in amazement. Nancy told me that she was a few miles ahead of me and was, for the moment, separated from her other friends. … all by herself out there and she thought to call and check on me… I thought, and I smiled to myself at how lucky I was to have such amazing people in my life.

Mile 20 started to hurt a lot. I was tired, my legs were fine, surprisingly, but my toes really started to hurt. I wondered if I had blisters, but I doubted it because it wasn’t a burning kind of pain. It was a growing ache, and I tried to put it out of my mind. My friends popped again from the crowd cheering and jumping. They’d changed into bike shorts and hugged me as they yelled, “20 MILES! YOU HAVE BEEN RUNNING STRAIGHT FOR 20 MILES! You’re SO almost DONE! YOU ARE AWESOME! AWESOME!!!! Just a little bit more now, you have it in the bag! You are almost done with the CHICAGO FREAKIN’ MARATHON!!!” I smiled and laughed and hugged them and thanked them in all manner of incoherence, but they understood, and they told me that they’d see me in Chinatown. Two more miles. Just two more miles. I’d waited weeks to get to Chinatown, I could go two more miles.

I had a rush of energy after my friends’ motivation session and I wanted to go FAST, be damned whatever hurt. Glenn smiled and told me to just cool it or I’d be crawling across the finish line. He advised me to just stay steady, “We’ll get there, kiddo, we’ll get there!” I could have flown to the moon for the next two miles.

I couldn’t stand how beautiful Chinatown was. There were bells and gongs and costumes and more children, and I went to snap pictures but had somehow run out of film! I was furious, but also soon engulfed in the magic of this place. My friends bounded again from the crowd, and moments later we came upon the dragon.

I jumped straight up in the air and screamed and clapped like a seven-year-old at the circus. It was all so ridiculous but I didn’t care AT all. Glenn ran ahead like he had several times before, and revved up the crowd as one might before the main act of a rock concert comes on stage. "Let’s hear some noise!! CHEER!!!!!" And then the already cheering crown became deafening. There was so much noise that I found myself in a kind of suspended silence. Everything was in slow motion and I heard just single chimes, a single child laughing, and I think that time stopped for a while that day in Chinatown.


This is probably one of my favorite pictures from the race. You really feel every emotion out there. I think that this is what builds strength - you learn to tell yourself that it will pass, and you learn to believe it.

Though as quickly as it came on, at mile 23, it all spilled out and left me dry. Jumping up the way I did at the sight of the dragon had done some additional damage to my toes. I’d since taken Advil for my ankle, but the toes still hurt. They’d slammed up against the fronts of my shoes after I’d jumped, and I felt it happen but was too excited to care. At mile 23, they demanded their postponed attention in a big way. Every step was a sharp, stabbing pain.

“Glenn, is breaking five hours still possible?”

“Not at this pace. We’d have to speed it up.”

I just wanted it to be over. It was either going to hurt a lot for a little while or a lot for a long while. There was no negotiating with anything except time. We started to run at about a nine minute pace, and the pain was making me nauseas. I couldn’t keep it up for more than a mile and slowed down again. I thought of the whole day, the whole year, of how badly I wanted to come in at 4:20. I watched that slip from me because I hadn’t put in the long miles. 4:30, 4:45, I let them all slip, and I suppose that at this point something gave way inside of me. I couldn’t stand watching it all be wasted like that.

“OK...OK...let’s go then.”

Just then we were upon the next to last water stop. Glenn turned to me, “If you want to get there under five, this is the last one we’ll stop at. There’s one at mile 25, but we’ll blow through.” I nodded as we got our water/Gatorade. It was insanity trying to start running again. I’d forgotten about this kind of pain – better to not have a break from this kind of pain because the worst of it is the initial nauseating wave. Mile 23-24 was by far the worst mile of the race.

It’s only a mile, one mile, and then this place will light up like a rock concert. One more mile... And at mile 24 and change, the crowd started to come apart at the seams.

“Glenn, I don’t CARE WHAT I have to do, is a sub five still possible?”

“We have nine minutes and a little more than a mile to go.” He left the answer to me.

"OK." I didn’t want to know how fast I had to run, I just ran as fast as I could without throwing up.

“There you go,” he said, “keep it up just like that. Awesome, you’re doing an awesome job, kiddo.”

I looked at the ground and breathed out hard through my mouth.

“Put the pain out of your mind, you’re almost there.” he encouraged. And in this moment I saw what it would take to get to the other side of this half-way point of my journey to Ironman. I’d been in pain, more due to my pride than not, I’d stepped outside of myself and had seen all of the unbelievable support and sacrifice made on my behalf by those around me. I felt that I owed them, that I owed myself at least one mile of everything that I could get to inside - it was so close now.

My friends appeared from the air at mile 25.2 …"Over the hill! You’re almost there! Over this bridge, just cross this bridge and you’re there!!! It’s all downhill after that, just cross the bridge, one last climb, COME ON! YOU’RE ALMOST THERE! LOOK HOW FAR YOU’VE COME!!! CROSS THE BRIDGE, CROSS THE BRIDGE!!!"

And everything went silent and slow again. I didn’t feel anymore pain, I didn’t hate running, I didn’t feel like I’d held anyone back, I left all of that at the bottom of the hill, and I started to climb. My friends continued to cheer, Glenn continued to throw up his arms and pour gas on the open flame of a crowd, but I couldn’t hear a thing in the deafening roar. My friends mouthed thank-yous to me for running this race, so that they could experience it, too. This baffled me at first, for I was the one who owed them! And then what they were thinking and trying to say suddenly all made sense.

They were there for me, they wanted me to succeed. They wanted to share it and because I’d run this race they could experience it, too. I was never so humbled, and I had no more words. I looked at their faces, and knew that they wanted nothing more than for me to simply run.

From the top of the hill I saw the balloons of the finish line, and in that instant something clicked into place. I felt alive. I felt the way I knew I’d feel one year from now on the Ironman Wisconsin course after two years of firing and shaping and transforming. “Now you see. Now you see…”

And I ran. I heard my friends continue to call to me from behind, “WHOA! GO!!! GO!!! Did you see her take off? She just TOOK OFF! GO!!! GO!!!! WOOOOOOOO!!! ” Glenn caught up to me and yelled, “YEAH! Holding out on us, huh!? GO KID, GO ON IN!!!!”

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

The silence crashed all around me and the roar poured in.

“Time? Glenn, what was the time?”

“5:04:15, nice race. Heh!! Yes, very nice race.”


At the finish line with Glenn - what an AWESOME guy!

And my friends crashed into me with hugs and congratulations from behind. Everything flooded together and I thought that I’d explode from the exhilaration. I knew then that this race wasn’t about the time - those 26.2 miles taught me that it was about how far I’d come in the time that I had. And they reminded me that this is what a journey is, after all.


At the finish with the friends who cheered me over the big bridge.

Yes, and now I do see. It took me 26.2 grueling, under-trained miles to see, but now I appreciate the 16 effortless, trained miles of the first marathon in June, and the 65.3 strong and trained miles of the half-Ironman in August. It even taught me to appreciate the miles of those races that hurt because I crossed the finish line knowing that I’d earned my place, despite my just before the cut-off times.

I believe that there is no victory without sacrifice, that there can be no joy like this without pain because it is the conquering of the pain itself which produces the joy. So, I will look forward to the imminent pain and sacrifice on my horizon knowing that it will make me the champion that I aim to become.

I see what I have around me, and I know what's inside of me.


My wonderful friends and tri-teammates, Nancy (left) and her husband Tom, together with me at the finish line.


The man behind the lens on the other side of it for once! -- My incredible husband and me at the finish line.

I will be the pace rabbit someday.

Just give me a little more time.

I will be the rabbit.

I just need the speed. I am already lucky.