My First Marathon

My First Marathon

            I lost my chip. I’ve been training for over six months for this moment, and I won’t have official documentation of my run. I have no idea when it happened, but my chip fell off somewhere between my apartment and the starting line at the American Airlines Center.

            I see my coach and run over to her like a lost first grader. “Jen, my chip fell off! What can I do!?”

            In her usual gruff but positive way, she responds, “Nothin’. No time now, and they couldn’t program a new chip for you anyway. Remember, you’re doing this for you! You are gonna be awesome. You’re ready!”

            Half smiling, I fall into my favorite stretch. I bend at the waist and let my arms dangle to the ground like pendulums. OK. This is it. There’s nothing I can do about it now. Walking toward the starting line, my heart races with anticipation. I cannot believe I’m about to run 26.2 miles.

In elementary school, I couldn’t even do a chin-up on the physical fitness test. I couldn’t run a lap without my side hurting. I wore husky jeans! And now, at 32, I’m taking my fitness to the highest level.

            The signal blows, and we’re off. A chilly dampness fills the air as rainclouds loom, and I feel validated for wearing my water-proof toboggan and windbreaker. I’m relieved as the crowd scatters, and I have room to breathe and run more freely. For the first several miles, I try to occupy my thoughts with anything other than the regret of losing my chip. We run across Dallas, through uptown from the AAC and then cross 75 into the M Streets and Lakewood neighborhoods. It drizzles on and off, but I’m no longer cold. My body temperature has adjusted. Each time I pass a photo stop, I lift my windbreaker, so the photographers can see my bib number. If my mileage cannot be documented, I will have as many pictures as possible…proof that I ran a marathon.

            As I approach White Rock Lake, I have a disturbing realization. Without a chip, my friends and family cannot check my progress and know where I am. For all they know, I passed out where my chip fell off and never made it past the starting line. I start to get panicky, so I slow to a halt at a water stop to call. I ask a random but friendly-looking woman if I can borrow her cell phone. She immediately hands the phone over, and I call my friend Teresa, whose phone is like her sixth sense, so I know she’ll answer. “My chip fell off somewhere! I’m running around the lake. I’m about halfway, so it should be a couple of more hours.”

            I don’t even wait for a reply as I hand the lady her phone with a grateful sigh. Turning around, I notice a long table full of beer shots. They offer beer shots on marathons because beer is loaded with carbs. I shrug my shoulders and down the Dixie cup full of beer as I return to my run on the trail. Who am I kidding? I take a second shot before returning to my run.

            As I continue rounding the lake, I remember my coach’s words. “You’re doing this for you…” but that’s not entirely true. I was doing this for myself, but a part of me was doing it for my father. When he was alive, I was never athletic. My sister was the athletic one, and I was the artistic, musical child. This is another one of those milestones where I want my dad here, like graduation or awards or my promotion. It’s still so difficult not to have a relationship with him, even as an adult. I wish I could see him cheering me on.

            As I continue to feel sorry for myself, I see a towering, middle-aged man holding a fluorescent pink poster board with the words, “Have you seen my daughter? She’s one in a million!” in huge capital letters. Tears immediately sprout from my eyes and mingle with my rain-soaked face. Thank GOD for the rain. After reading those precious words, I am filled with a menagerie of emotions and memories. I am reminded that I take my father with me wherever I go. He is with me, beamingly proud of his son the way that man is of his daughter. As I round the lake, I am smiling and misting and inspired as I begin the last leg of the race.

            The last mile is the most difficult. When I begin to see the AAC in the distance, I feel hopeful but drag at the same time. It can’t be more than a mile away, but my legs feel like overcooked spaghetti that will soon detach from my body. Flailing along, I keep telling myself to hold on. A woman probably 20 years older than me appears on my right with a smile. “Almost there… You can do it! Lookin’ good!” I want to hug her and push her down at the same time, but I give her a pseudo-smile and say, “thanks,” lumbering on.

            Almost there, I remind myself. I hear the crowd cheering. When I get to the big finish, some energetic miracle pushes me to sprint the last few yards. As I near the finish line, I see friends and family cheering to my right side. My mom and Teresa are jumping up and down, and my sister is taking pictures. They are probably freezing but not showing any signs of discomfort.

            I cross the finish line, and someone wraps me in an aluminum-looking tarp and leads me to pictures. A volunteer places a medal over my head. I stand in front of the camera, dizzy with pride and exhaustion.

            I walk back towards my family and friends. I see them in the distance, smiling and proud themselves. In my mind’s eye, I see my dad with a fluorescent orange poster that reads, “Have you seen my son? He’s one in a million.”

Russ Weeks