Because I couldn't think of a reason not to?

Dear Cox Providence Rhode Races, 

Thank you.

Thank you for taking such a personal interest in my marathon quest. Normally, when I fill out a race application, I am used to filling in blanks: name, address, age, emergency contact.  I was a little taken aback when, after filling in the standard nuts and bolts stuff, I came to this charming nugget: Why are you participating? I confess here that my head started swirling. Where to begin?

I hadn’t anticipated an essay question. I was pressed for time. It was New Year’s Eve. I had exactly thirty minutes to get to the bank before it closed for the holiday. I badly needed a shower. I wanted to get this registration over and done with. I didn’t want to think too much. That’s why I typed a two-word answer: Why not?

I wasn’t trying to be snarky. There was no bravado in my intent. I was in a hurry. And I didn’t want to think.

Since then, it was exactly 2:04 pm when my credit card was charged, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that question, which in your web language is “Why am I participating?” In my language it translates to: “What was I thinking? Why on earth did I just sign up for another marathon?”

Here’s one answer I’ve come up with. I signed up to run your marathon because I’ve already run twelve marathons and it’s easy to stop at twelve. Twelve is a natural stopping point. Proof: When you have twelve of something, you have a complete set: an egg carton has room for exactly one dozen eggs, not eleven, not thirteen. More proof:  There are twelve days of Christmas, not sixteen, not eight. You want thirteen eggs? You buy a second box. You want another twelve days of Christmas? You wait a year.

Twelve is a nice round number. Twelve is finished. Twelve is complete. Twelve is done. And therein lies the problem. See, I’m not. Finished I mean.  And as for complete? Obviously I’ve got a few loose screws.  

Two years ago, just a few weeks shy of turning fifty, I completed marathon number twelve. It was in Manchester,  NH, an unpretentious mill town filled with hills like skyscrapers.

As I crossed the finish line, a volunteer said, “Congratulations.”

The race had been a little nutso. Besides the hills, there had been a scary driver at mile eight who disobeyed the traffic cop and nearly hit me. There were brutal headwinds the last three miles, the kind where you feel like you’re running in place. And yet, as I crossed that finish line, I felt immortal. I gave that race volunteer such a big smile, my face hurt almost as much as my quads. “I just finished my twelfth marathon,” I said. I was beaming.

“Oh that’s nice,” she said. “Here’s a medal.” Then she turned away to greet the runner behind me.

 I shrugged and blithely made my way to the marathon treat section, which in Manchester consists of tables full of crocks full of homemade soup. It was yummy.

After that run, I decided to take some time off from marathoning.  After all, I was now fifty and I’d just completed a dozen marathons, which is about twelve more than I ever thought myself capable of handling. I had nothing left to prove to myself. I was complete. I was done.

Well, one month off from long runs turned into three then five and then suddenly, nearly two years had gone by.   I should say here that the last year has been tough. A dear family member is battling cancer. I haven’t thought too much about running marathons. Summer was pretty crappy. There were lots of hospital visits, a few emergency room stops.

Fall was worse. My life got rather topsy-turvy, but it was nothing in comparison to what my loved one was facing. I managed to get some half-hearted runs in, but rarely got any joy from my runs and kept my mileage rather low. And then in October, I stopped running entirely. My brain was consumed with sad things. I didn’t have the energy to run. Instead, when I could, I ellipted. Ellipting isn’t exactly running, but it’s better than doing nothing at all. And it’s a good way to get in some space out time. I was spacing out a lot, possibly because I was sleeping just two or three hours a night.

I was feeling pretty much done. The opposite of immortal.

Then one morning in early November, I woke up with this thought coursing through my brain: I choose life. I don’t remember what I’d been dreaming. I don’t remember if it was a work day or a weekend. I remember sitting up in bed and instead of thinking I need coffee or what will I wear or which cat coughed up that fur ball onto my shoe I thought this: I choose life.

I choose life?

I had no idea where that came from. But it felt right. And what I did next felt more than right. That afternoon, I put on my running shoes and when I hit the gym, I headed toward the treadmill instead of the ellipticals. I ran for fifteen minutes and got so out of breath I wanted to quit. Instead, I stopped, sipped some water, then started again at a slower pace.     

I am self-medicating, I thought. This was good.  

I kept at it. Every week, I made sure to run at least three times. On Sundays, I did a long run. Over time, the running got easier. The long runs got longer.

It’s been two months. Each time I falter? Each time I want to quit? My brain starts attacking me with motivational quotes.

Fall down seven. Rise eight.

The miracle isn’t that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start. (John Bingham)

Don’t put me on the back burner. (The Killers)

Rise up. (Springsteen)

If it was easy, everyone would do it.

And instead of stopping, I continue.

Once the encouraging voices in your head stomp out the pity party poopers, you find yourself with lots of time to think. For a month now, I’ve been thinking about doing another marathon.   Being able to say you’ve run twelve marathons is pretty cool.  Twelve is a solid number. When I think twelve I think, rows of boxed donuts, bags of bagels, Christmas ornaments in cardboard compartments.  

Thirteen would mean starting over in a way. It would mean opening up a whole new box, metaphorically at least.  You can’t stop at thirteen. There’s too much space left in the box. Fifteen? Maybe. Twenty? Yeah. I could see it. But thirteen? It’s too unsettling a number to stop on. If I ran a thirteenth marathon, I’d likely feel obligated to run a fourteenth, right? And then of course a fifteenth. Sometimes, when I run, I wonder, if I keep at this, how old will I be when I finally hit the twenty-fourth finish line?

When I pictured myself crossing that twenty-fourth finish line – I’m rich and retired and living in San Francisco when I do it by the way – I knew it was time to run another marathon.

I’ll start by doing Providence, I thought. That made sense. I liked the idea of running my thirteenth marathon – unlucky thirteen – in a place that means heavenly care. Yeah. That would totally work.

Take your best shot. Let me see what you’ve got. Bring on your wrecking ball. (Springsteen)

Last Friday, I waited nearly ten minutes to get on a treadmill. The gym was packed with college kids home on break. They were thin, young, lithe and totally unaware of my existence. They were me, thirty years ago.

I stretched while I waited. Remembered being twenty.  Before mortgages, children, divorce, frown lines. Knew I needed to take it easy. I’d run several days in a row, which is not always a good thing. I just wanted to limber up the old muscles, get my heart rate up a notch or three. Do a couple of easy miles, then call it a day.

When a machine finally opened up, I started slowly and lumbered along pleasantly. If I was a dog, my tail would have been wagging and my tongue lolling. I was mumbling along to Echo and the Bunnymen, live at Royal Albert Hall 1983.

Never stop never stop never never never stop.

I was keeping pace with the guy to my right, an older gent with a brace on his knee, and was trying to ignore the skinny thing on my left, a toddler doing six-minute miles. In other words, it was a regular treadmill session. I wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary. Out of nowhere came a quick jab to the ball of my foot. I punched the console and cut my speed. The pain swam up my arch and I decided to play it safe and stop. It was mile 1.94.

I exited the treadmill and finished my work out on the elliptical.

Never never never stop.

When I got home I iced, adviled, and searched out “foot pain.” I think I have tendinitis – an overuse injury I am more than familiar with -- but I’ll see a doctor this week just to confirm that I’m doing what I need to do.  

I haven’t run since Friday. Instead of running thirteen miles on Sunday, I cross-trained for two hours, then did another two hours yesterday too. When I got home yesterday, all sweaty and endorphinated, I signed up for Providence.

Why not?

I realize I’ll always be battling something. Today it’s foot pain.  Next month it might be my knee. Then there’s that monster, the big C, lurking in the shadows, biding its time. Quiet now, yes. But for how long?  

Yup. I signed up for the marathon knowing I have an injury and I might have trouble getting to the starting line. I signed up knowing that I might not get to the starting line because family responsibilities might take precedence.

So why on earth did I sign up?

I can joke about numbers. I can shrug it off and say, “Hey! Why not?” But honestly and truly, I don’t know why I signed up. But I do know this. Each step I take brings me further from where I was, and closer to where I need to be. The journey is heavenly.  And for number thirteen, fingers crossed, so is the destination.   

See ya in May,

Maureen