I did 26.2

It's true what all those running articles and coaches tell you about your first marathon, "You can never fully prepare for all the things that could happen on race day." Take the beginning of my first marathon, ING Miami Marathon 2009. I waited at the starting line next to my husband, Carlos. The race was due to start in minutes. We normally begin our races together, but the difference between this race and all previous ones was that Carlos wasn't soon going off into that distant horizon of sub-10 minute mile runners. This time Carlos was nursing a leg injury so severe that running at my tortoise pace of 12 minutes per mile would be a struggle for him. That's a first, I thought to myself, as my stomach churned and the bowel movements I had been hoping would loosen an hour ago were finally calling my name. Seconds before the start siren sounded, Carlos turned to me with a frown and uttered the sweetest words which until then, I had only wished would save my day. "I have to use the bathroom." The siren went off and the runners dashed past the the starting line while we hooked a right to the port-o-potties. As we dodged eager runners on fresh legs, he turned to me and said, "Better to take care of this now." Practicalilty, one of the virtues I admire in my husband.

That was my first mishap. I had imagined crossing mile one with a cleaner fanny but soon dismissed the thought as I crossed the first bridge in Miami Beach and browsed at the oceanside mansions. But running for me has never been about taking in the view. Nor do I allow myself to focus on my increasing exhaustion. I can't even say I think about my deceased mother for inspiration. To be completely honest, for all the hours I'm out there on the road, my thoughts are reduced to answering two very methodical, calculated questions: 1. How far have I gone, and 2. How much do I have left?

This is the strategy that's always worked for me since I've embarked in this journey of distance running three years ago. As I pass the time pounding the pavement, I seek to metamorphosize into a female terminator planted in the middle of a deserted road to run with maximum efficiency as a means to obtain my ultimate goal. In the marathon, this transformation took place as I effortlessly completed my single digit mileage. Carlos lagged behind quietly, partly due to the discomfort caused by his injury and partly because he had promised not to impede with my "getting into the zone" throughout the race. Every now and then I downed some water, tore open my gu gel pack with my teeth, spit out the plastic with attitude, downed half the gel in two big gulps (eating all of it at once would upset my tummy), carelessly shove the gel into my short pocket, wipe the sweat off my brow with a hint of annoyance that a robot like me would even be perspiring, and continue plowing ahead.

By the time Carlos and I reached mile 13, he told me he was crossing the half marathon finish line since the pain from his injury wouldn't let him go further. Carlos waved goodbye and ran towards the finish line. For some unknown reason however, I felt as if he was running away with my mojo. As I continued the race on my own, my methodical approach to running slowly seeped out of my memory like a slow leak on a flat tire.

When I approached mile 20 some time later, with 6.2 more miles to go, I slowly came to a stop. My brain was engaged in internal battle. The calculated, mechanical side scolded me for daring to stop. As I commenced walking slowly and painfully on my severely fatigued legs, the tears began to gush down my face uncontrollably. I gasped for breath as a torrent of sentiments, physical pains, and thoughts overtook me at once. I'm so tired...I hope no one can see me crying...BREATHE...Why am I crying?...When is this over?! I struggled to control my crying and catch my breath at the same time. I needed to bring myself back to that state of mind where I was in control, not the other way around. But there was one final thought that kept nagging at me like a pebble in a shoe. I recalled my family members who cheered me on when I finished the half-marathon marker an hour and a half ago. There was my father Octavio who was determined to see me run, even though his arthritic knees made it difficult for him to stand for long. And there was my older sister who ran after me as soon I had passed her, clapping and cheering, while her toddler sprinted after her, enjoying the abrupt game of cat and mouse.

These were the thoughts that finally melted through my metallic exterior. For the first time in the race, I had stopped for something other than my fueling needs. Instead, I digested the twenty arduous miles and four plus hours of pounding the pavement and the fact that I was doing this to myself just to make my family proud of me. So maybe, running did have something to do with my mother after all.

I quickly wiped my tears mixed with the sweat drops on my face, took a deep breath, and realized my simplified strategy of miles run vs. miles left was no longer going to carry me through to the finish line. Shortly after I resumed my running, I found a running buddy, Eddie, whose cramps had limited him to walking. As he picked up his pace to run with me and cursed the skies at his misfortune, I knew I had instead been given the blessing of distraction which could take me to the finish line without another emotional relapse.

I finished my race in 5.22.21 with a severely cramped Eddie in tow and a newfound respect for the inevitable unpredictability of the marathon, and, to my surprise, the marathoner.