Lots of big feelings, overwhelmingly big feelings, during my 100th marathon last week, which I’m still attempting to come to terms with.
Yesterday’s music post was one step in the process. Today’s post is another. Here are some thoughts about that day.
I told no one – other than my daughters, a friend or two at home, and a friend who would be volunteering at the water stop, that I was doing my 100th race. One reason: I didn’t want to count my blisters before they hatched. What if something bad happened and I didn’t reach the finish line? Tokyo still stings.
Sadness. Those 100 marathons took me 24 years. Everything is different now. Some things are good. But there have been some horribly overwhelming events. The deaths have been relentless and life-shifting: Both my parents, my paternal grandmother, so many beloved pets, and too many dear friends. Last visit to this race, I roomed with one of those friends. She passed, suddenly and unexpectedly, two years ago. This 100th race was a moment for celebration, yes. But it was also a time for remembering.
When my father died in 2017, I had finished 23 marathons in the previous 16 years. In the year after his death, I did 30 and then kept going. I started running races abroad after my mother passed in 2023. In total, seventy-seven marathons in eight years? Absolutely positively without any doubt whatsoever a massive coping mechanism. Yes I was joyful, but too, my heart was heavy on 100 marathons day. That’s an understatement.
Imposter syndrome. Not sure if that’s the right phrase here. My thinking: There are so many more people out there who’ve done so much more than I could ever hope to do. My achievement is minor in comparison. Proof: That day I was surrounded by people who normally do 30, 40, 70 of these races or more a year. These folks have done hundreds, even thousands of marathons. Add to that the fact that I was walking this race, not running it – which is what “real” marathoners do, what I wanted to do, what I can’t do much of any more. . . talk about feeling inadequate.
And reading that over I feel like a huge asshole because it sounds like I’m denigrating folks who choose to walk vs. run. I’m not. Let me be clear. I’m not judging anyone but me. I used to be faster and I want to be faster. I always think I should be able to do more. Even when concrete evidence shows that I can’t. Even when I let my own laziness gets in the way. Always been and continue to be my own harshest critic. This has nothing to do with anyone but me and my mindset. My feelings of inadequacy: infinite.
Center of attention. No thank you. At this race, one in a series, they make big deals about achievements. Ugh. I’m not a fan of being the center of attention. For example, I hate surprise parties. For example, one of the most uncomfortable days of my life was my wedding. It was big and over the top. I hated being dressed up and on display. If I ever get married again, God forbid and shoot me if I do, it will be a spur of the moment thing at a Vegas drive-thru or in some backwater town hall with no one else around: The bride wore sweatpants. . .
Some words/ phrases that played on repeat that day, some with attributions:
“In the course of a lifetime, what does it matter.” (from Walk Two Moons, by Sharon Creech)
“I miss my mother.” (ditto)
“The birds of sadness were nesting in her hair.” (ditto)
“Impossible is nothing.” (Muhammad Ali)
“Live your life. Live your life.” (My dad, who’d say this to me while we were out at yet another of his medical appointments. In the next breath he’d remind me that we also needed to go to X, Y, Z, A, B,C, etc. after that appointment or on the next day or week. . . and so on).
“The only way over is through.”
“If you can hold on, hold on.” (“All These Things That I’ve Done,” The Killers)
“Life is short. Running makes it seem longer.”
“I’m not dead yet.” (Monty Python and the Holy Grail)
“He’s only mostly dead.” (The Princess Bride)
Age is only a number is what I tell myself every birthday. 100 is only a number is what I told myself on race day. I could have just as easily been finishing marathon 15, or 99 or 120. I used to not think this way. I remember finishing marathon #12, Manchester, NH, 2010. I was beyond thrilled. A dozen marathons? Who’da thunk I had it in me.
At the finish line, so beyond ridiculously proud of myself, I said to a volunteer, “I just finished my twelfth marathon!” Her response: “Hey great. Here’s a medal.” Then she moved on to the next person. Felt a little deflating but didn’t in any way hinder my joy. Though I think it’s interesting I remember that moment.
At the end of my 100th, I rang the bell I was supposed to ring so the race guys could write down my time. “Congratulations. We heard the news,” one of them said.
“I finished about three hours later than that first one 24 years ago,” I said.
“I’ve heard that’s how it seems to go,” one said.
I couldn’t help but laugh at that.
There were two women there as well, deep in conversation. They’d finished right before me.
“That was my 100th marathon,” I said to them.
They both replied with something generic, like, “That’s great.” Then went back to whatever they were talking about.
A few folks at the water/ snack table congratulated me and we got to talking. Some then used the opportunity to talk about all that they’d accomplished. One runner mentioned how he’d only started marathoning ten years ago, at retirement age. He’s accomplished a hell of a lot more since then than I think I ever will. I started feeling inadequate, like I needed to explain why it took me almost a quarter of a century to get to 100. And I began talking about how hard it was being a single mother while training for my early marathons. But then I thought: “What’s the point? He doesn’t want to know and I don’t really feel I need to justify anything. I’m just grateful to be here.”
“Everyone has their own agenda,” (WTM, Creech) that’s another line that kept playing in my head while I was out there, pounding my way to the finish line. We all have our own reasons, goals, obstacles, that play into doing what we do. I still don’t know why I did what I did. (Well, I have a rough idea and will likely write more about that another time.) I still mostly don’t know why I do what I do.
“There is beauty all around me.”
That’s a line, corrupted by memory, from the Navajo Blessing Way Ceremony, which celebrates walking in harmony with yourself, others, nature. It’s been in my head constantly for months now. In Australia it played non-stop. Ditto on 100th race day.
Here’s more of it, more accurately:
In beauty I walk
With beauty before me I walk
With beauty behind me I walk
With beauty above me I walk
With beauty around me I walk
It has become beauty again
One of my favorite quotes from The Princess Bride, one of my favorite movies, is “Go back to the beginning.” Inigo Montoya, a drunk who’s made a mess of his life, does this at the instruction of his boss, and that action changes everything. On race day, I mentally went back to my first 26.2, Boston Marathon 2001, and then to before that -- raising my girls, then being a girl myself, and so on. It’s all part of my process.
Always loved this quote, too: “Finish lines are starting lines in disguise.” By the end of the race, you’ve lived a whole other life. At the finish, you’re not the same person who started. Still the “gold-hearted girl I used to be,” way back at my first marathon, (misquote of the Killers’ “All These Things That I’ve Done”), though my hair is grayer and my heart, like other body parts, has been broken and mended more times than I can count.
What’s next? I don't know. I have some plans, but nothing is set in stone. Lots to think about. Lots to not think about. But one way or another, I’m at a new starting line. I am on cloud nine. I feel so lucky to be right here. Right now.
Ready, set, start.
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