The agony, the ecstasy, the whys of the run

I just set a new personal record: fourteen marathons in seventy days. This averages out to two a week. I haven’t had much time to think about these races. I’d finish one, and get ready for the next.

For the last couple of months, I haven’t had much time to think about much of anything. Not sure if this is a good or bad thing.  I run, sleep, eat, space out in front of  Law and Order repeats, sometimes read.  The last year or so, I’ve been having trouble focusing.

   

A friend pointed out that I should be documenting all my runs as I marathon my way through the fifty states. She reminded me that at one time, I was good at posting about each race. 

I haven’t been good about doing this lately. As a result I’ve lost a lot of those tiny snapshots, snippets of conversation, random wildlife sightings, silly and profound thoughts, that make this journey so worthwhile.

Right now, I have so many emotions bubbling up inside me, that I’m not sure I could write about any of these fourteen races in an orderly fashion.  I know it’s important though, that I get some of this written down.  

A lot of kind folks cheered me on via my Facebook race postings. They asked some good questions too. So I thought I’d start off remembering by answering their questions and making up some of my own to answer too.  Here goes.

Why are you doing all these races? 

My dad died in April. I haven’t yet even begun to come to terms with this enormous shift in my reality.  I am not myself at all. I veer between spaced out zombie and fight or flight nutso. Running makes me feel normal. Being around runners, especially marathoners, makes me happy. 

Are you committing suicide by marathon? 

That thought has crossed my mind and when it does, I laugh.  Marathoning is death’s polar opposite. It’s joyful.  I’m committing to life by marathoning.

Why fourteen marathons? Why seventy days?

First, it’s not staying at fourteen. Second it’s not staying at seventy days. Third, it was supposed to be fifteen. I had to no-show for one race because a loved one was hospitalized and I’m the only close family nearby.

What keeps you going?

My first race in this streak was my first ultra marathon – 50k, about 31 miles -- in Maine. It was a brutal day with rain coming down in sheets. I had to change my hat and my jacket several times and by the end was still totally soaked to the bone. I never once considered quitting. All I could think was how this great rift in my life – the death of my dad, required something big on my part. 

My biggest problem that day was finishing a race I’d chosen to sign up for. And a little bit of hypothermia. 

   

Sounds like it was easy then, all things considered? 

Ha! The first seven marathons were relatively easy, as far as getting in the right mindset. But I cried nearly every morning of the next seven, my seven marathons in seven days streak. I'm still not sure why I cried. I was sad. But I was happy too, and grateful.

My body gave out on day six of the seven, at mile 22. Up until then, I was following a terrific run/ walk program that was helping my soft tissues adjust to getting beaten up. I started walking at mile 22 of day six.  The day was super hot. Every day was crazy hot. But for some reason, at mile 22 that day,  my heart rate went through the roof if I so much as jogged slowly. 

Day seven I walked the whole thing. It was eighty-seven degrees at the start and every molecule in my being was spent before I even started the race. Plus, the soles of my feet were killing me. 

No soreness until the last day?  

Nothing before then that I couldn’t handle. I was careful. Took every run slower than slow. Focused on the big picture, which was to finish one run and have enough in me to do it again the next day.  I took in lots of protein, used a massage stick, stayed hydrated, bathed in Epsom salts, iced sore parts, and developed a deep and what will likely prove to be a lifelong friendship with my new best friend forever: Biofreeze. 

The only day I woke up so sore and thought: “I can’t do this,” was that last morning.  Immediately after I thought that, I had a panic attack.

You were ready to give up on the last day? 

More like I didn’t know how on earth I’d be able to finish.  I got dressed and got to the course in time for the 3:30 a.m. start.  You always have a better chance of finishing if you show up, right?

The worst for me was lap fourteen of eighteen.  Many runners had finished by then so the out and back route got pretty lonely. The sun was blazing. It was close to 100 degrees and the shade was long gone. The soles of my feet were on fire. I had blisters on blisters and still had another ninety minutes or so left on the course.  

What kept me going: a slide show in my head of my dad the last twelve months of his life.  

Well before his September 2016 lower leg amputation, my dad was diagnosed with peripheral vascular disease. Due to heart failure, which he’d been living with for twenty-five years, my dad’s body wasn’t pumping enough blood to keep the tissues alive in his lower right leg. He was in terrible pain whenever he walked or even so much as lowered his leg to the ground to prepare to walk.

Until that point, my elderly dad was always on the go: a walker – at least two miles a day, and a golfer – eighteen holes or more five days a week. My dad tried everything to avoid amputation. He endured all kinds of surgeries and spent over 180 hours -- three hours a day over a span of sixty days, in a hyperbaric chamber.  I was his chauffeur, his medical liaison, his sounding board.   

At mile 14 I thought of my dad and all his struggles. “I’m wasting my life away in hospitals,” he’d say. "This is no life." But he'd do anything to try to save that leg.

Gradually, I pulled myself together. My dad never gave up. How could I?

  

Plus, most of the runners still out on the course were experts at really bad jokes: “Have we built enough character yet?”  “Only a thousand laps left to go!” “I hate marathons!” The last comment came from a guy who’ll have over two thousand marathons done by the end of the year.   

Agony. Ecstasy.  Life.  What a rush.  

Stopping for now, but I’m sure I’ll be writing more. The more I write, the more I remember.  Right now, remembering is good.

Marathons: 37

States: 23