In 2018, I watched my first Boston Marathon, and decided right then and there that I wanted to run THIS marathon. It was the year of torrential downpour, freezing temps, elites inevitably on the sidelines, and the runner I went to watch, totally killing it and blazing on through. Something about this race felt….magical. Raincoats, numb fingers, drenched runners, and all. Even as a spectator, you could practically absorb the energy. It was invigorating and I kind of developed a crush on Boston…yet I felt deeply inadequate and silly for secretly wanting this goal. Boston, in my mind, was for the big kids…not a 9 minute mile novice who’d barely run for 2 years, such as myself. I was practically a baby. It felt like being the awkward, puberty ridden 12 yo. who had sparks for the high-schooler. So, I kept to myself. That is, until our flight back home:
“You know Anna,” he said, “You could totally qualify for Boston.”
And those words and few sentences of belief were all it took.
One year ago today, I was supposed to have crossed the FINISH line, my legs were supposed to be ridiculously fried, the time chip was supposed to have clocked 26.2 miles at 3:25:00, and I was supposed to have been over the moon, slap happy about that BQ
I fought for. 7:40 pace felt “at home” – something only in my wildest dreams, could I have imagined for my fitness – and I knew that TODAY, 10/13/19, was the day. For 7 months, I practically dedicated my life to running. I envisioned every loop for some 800s as the finish line. When I wanted to break and grab my throbbing legs during a 20 mile long run w/marathon pace work at the end, I told myself that it was just a simulation for what was to come; that the pain was OKAY. I realized that I, the once twiggy, knobby kneed 10 year old who was seen as the weak, skinny, ugly little duckling of the bunch…could do hard things. I was fighting for that BQ, and I also was fighting for that 10 year old little girl who felt painfully inferior. And so, I set out. I set out to kill a marathon, and instead, the marathon killed me. I can close my eyes and feel 1 year ago in my body.
The nausea, the nervous breakdown, the stress and grief and stomach churning distress from the day prior. All of it. I can feel my body giving out. I can feel that death march from mile 11 to mile 19. I can feel my stomach rejecting 2 days of being force fed, painful words, and a burden I could not carry. I can feel my hopes dwindle and my heart sink, as I step off the course, and onto the sidelines. I can feel the sickest, most grueling sensation, as I unclip my bib#, and I walk the sidelines, while everyone else is on their home stretch. I can feel myself trying to hold it together, to not let a stupid race ruin the entire day. I prayed over that race and trained like a madman and did ALL the “right things”. I pretty much begged God to give me strength to (literally) endure. Something craaaaazy would have to happen for me to not only flunk the BQ goal, but pfffft, to not even finish the race? Yeah. Something real crazy.
But alas, something crazy happened, and instead of seeing my time on the Results page, I was mentally pinned by the scarlet letters: D.N.F.
1 year later, and I am grateful for this. Why? Because sometimes, God’s compassion looks like being crushed by his heel. I didn’t know that my body was deeply sick inside. I didn’t know that a pandemic would cancel Boston, even if I’d BQd. I didn’t know that I would spend 3 months rehabbing a hip injury, which would end up cancelling my training for LA Marathon, which was the last straw I had for staying in the city….and right before Covid19 hit. DNF: “Did Not Finish”. I feel this is something most people experience in some form or fashion. The words of what they didn’t do, could have done, wish they had done. But just because I didn’t finish, doesn’t mean I won’t still finish, or that I am “finished”. I might not have gotten my preferred outcome, but that doesn’t mean hindsight has to be haunting. This eve, I went for a sloooow 3 mile run in the dark at 9:00 pace, and ironically sporting the same, red top as last year. My, how things change. Here’s to embracing the suck.
One day, marathon, we’ll cross that FINISH line leg fried but strong. Until we meet again. 