in their own words...
Most every marathoner can relate to Amy Ryberg Doyle's recap of her race in Chicago
Who do you run for? I was asked this in the Atlanta airport after I struck up a conversation with a woman carrying a familiar looking Chicago Marathon poster. All the posters in the airport that Monday morning had the distinctive red banded “Bank of America” Chicago marathon logo, and were being carried by limping people. These hunched over athletic people also had a look of worry that escalators in the airport may not be in order.
She was asking if I ran for a charity. Uh, no. I don’t run for a charity. I don’t have someone’s name on my back. I actually don’t run to raise money. It’s not like I don’t have charities I support. I do and I was brought up with philanthropic parents. But, the reason why I get motivated to run a race,
train with a group, stay motivated, is purely for me. I run for me. My running keeps my whole life together. When I am training I am too tired to fight with my husband so I just go to bed. Everything looks much clearer at daybreak when I realize he was probably right.
Why do people run? Even more puzzling is the question, “Why do people run a marathon?"
There is no way to describe the grueling despair that comes upon a runner at Mile 23. It is the most
brutal mile ever. There should be a book specifically about that mile alone. Maybe an entire section at the bookstore under Health and Craziness. Every other mile pales in comparison.
The story starts many miles before. Creating a training plan is exciting; 16 weeks of training on a piece of paper is ambitious. There is real purpose. The track workouts look great - 800s just like high school. This will be such fun! And, then the miles start to tick away...
The track, the tempo miles, the 5am wakeup calls, the long miles, the music playlist becomes boring and old, the injuries, oh no, it is not an injury... false alarm. Keep going. Then, my running partner, Stephen, gets injured but he says he will only be out a week. My confidence wanes. The plan still looks good on paper, but the date is looming. Folks are setting goals, changing goals, dealing with injuries, every runner’s story is the same and unique.
Race Day. A guy in the corral has a tattoo, but he does not know if it is a gecko or a lizard
on his own leg?! We laugh nervously. The miles start slowly. Why is Mile 4 so hard, I think to myself? I come upon Mile 10 and I lose my friend and running buddy, Clevey. I try to give him the hard coach speech. It does not work. I worry for a mile. I am never going to finish this race.
And, then the beloved natural drug adrenaline kicks in. People look clearer. The sky is bluer than ever. I run over the bridge and the Chicago River looks muddy and green and the iron on the bridge looks rusty. I can feel the grate of the bridge through my shoe. The skyline is wonderful and clean.
A man is holding a baby and screams my name on my t-shirt. The baby looks like he
had chocolate for breakfast. The father’s t-shirt says “MY WIFE IS NOT THE HOT ONE.”
I put it together and I laugh for a mile. At the same time, I feel terribly homesick.
I pass a wheelchair racer. He is taking turns using his right then left arm. His muscles in his arms are pronounced and I become aware of his struggling breath as I pass him. I feel the weight of the road under my feet.
People become clearer. Children look happy, but I cannot hear their little voices over the crowd. We turn and I see the trees have turned a beautiful yellow. People yell, “You go girl!” I can see the skin on a woman in front of a church and she looks really tan
with a soft sweater. I almost feel the sweater. There is Elvis and he is singing Frank Sinatra
or is it the opposite? I laugh thinking about the opposite and I also think I may have
missed the last mile mark. What a relief. The intensity is brilliant. I become acutely aware of my breathing in my head and it feels great. Miles are ticking but I know this feeling will not last.
People scream, “Only 5 miles to go” but it may as well be 20. I hate running; I hate this sport. I want to go home and be with my children.
Mile 23. The death mile. The mile of lost hopes. Why don’t I stick with 10Ks? I hate
this distance. The lesser goals become important: making it through the Gatorade, then
the water, then the turn, then the bridge. Please don’t trip me. I see my friend Andy and he is struggling. I try to cheer him up. He says, “No fun,” and I manage to laugh. God help him, I pray.
I feel the sun on my neck and I think I may catch on fire.
Then the end does come; I struggle and try to look upright for the last photo. I don’t care about photos. Someone trip me and make me stop. The finish line. I say,"Thank you, God" out loud.
And, then I see my friend Richard. He has finished before me and hands me a Gatorade. He is smiling and looks recovered. He starts rattling off percentages and numbers of why we did not hit goals because of the heat. I cannot compute basic math because I am looking at the lime green Gatorade and I try to assess whether my neck actually did catch on fire. My 24-hour headache starts at this moment. I look back at my watch. 3:16. I missed my goal. Ugh.
Then, the post race stories and laughs start. And, everyone speaks of the hilarity and the pain. Each story is the same and different.
For my friends who ran their first marathon, congratulations. And, to the runners who ran their personal best, WOW! And, for my running friends I trained with, it was an honor.
Runners are not born; runners are made. And, good runners only become great with more miles. So, more miles it is...
- Submitted by Amy Ryberg Doyle; mother of three and member of Greenville's City Council. |
