The Second Half of the Marathon

You know that saying...that the first 20 miles are the first half of a marathon? Well, I'm glad I didn't know this before, but it is right. This may not be the case for most people, but it certainly was for me.

The last update took us through mile 21, so let's continue.

Miles 21-22: I'm not sure when it happens, but somewhere between these two miles I literally feel my training running out. I start thinking about how long these last miles are, and how much they are going to hurt. A swift TNT coach from another chapter runs up behind us to ask us how we're doing. This group is so supportive, and I'm so happy to be surrounded by great teammates, coaches, and volunteers. I figure that even if these miles hurt, I'll make it through this.

Miles 22-23: We stop for a quick stretch and walk break in here somewhere. We walk about 50 feet before I realize walking is infinitely more painful right now than running. My hips feel as though they could just pop out of their sockets...totally unrealistic, but that is how they feel. As much as I think walking would solve all my problems, it can't, I have to keep running...that in itself feels a bit scary.

Miles 23-24: We run underneath an overpass and pass a couple of Army Rangers. These are the tough guys. I have been able to recognize them since I was a little kid because of their haircuts. One of them is barking at the other one, trying to encourage him in a very male/testosterone-filled way. I am thankful I am running with über-positive Julie, and I feel bad for the guy, briefly considering telling him he can run with us if he wants to...we are nicer (or at least Julie is).

Just before this photo, Julie tells me I need to start smiling more because it looks like Mark is getting really worried.



We start thinking about our honored teammate, Jodie, and about how positive she always is. About how much she has had to endure. About how this is nothing compared to the leukemia treatments she's been through. I start thinking about my dad. I remember him in the hospital bed in the ICU and I know for certain that this is nothing compared to that. I start to get a little teary, but the lump in my throat makes it harder to breath so I try to turn that faucet off and instead use their experiences as inspiration.

We run through some really lovely parts of Anchorage en route to the finish.



Miles 24-25: We start running around the lake and see Steph, our TNT organizer. She is so happy and cheery and proud of us that for a minute I forget how bad I feel. We pass her and I look across the lake and see these little ants, quickly realizing the ants are other runners, and that we will be running around the entire lake before the hill up to the finish. We can hear the announcer up in the high school stadium where we finish, that gives us a little hope. I have a bit of a headache and feel a little fuzzy and odd. I assume that is probably because I haven't had enough of my energy gel, so I force myself to get more of that down. Blech!

We pass by a woman named Faith standing on the right side of the path. We have heard about her, and we are so happy to see her. Faith is a survivor, and she is out on this course for hours every year to thank each and every TNT participant and offer much-needed encouragement. When your lives cross paths with special people like this, it almost seems as though now and then our names really do match who we are. I know Faith's does.

I feel like I am crawling along at a snail's pace, but Julie keeps telling me I'm starting to run too fast. Now and then I feel completely out of breath and ask she and Heidi to slow up a bit. Strange...how could both of these things be happening from one minute to the next. It finally dawns on me that I must be completely unaware of running speed right now.

Miles 25-26.2: We get around the lake and I feel like I can run up "Insult Hill." I feel like I have just one shot and I can't mess that up. Coach Sue takes our photos at the bottom, but I am pretty incoherent so I'm not sure I even want to see that photo. I feel like I can only focus on small goals. I may hear the finish, but this hill is my main problem at the moment.

We turn a corner to see that the hill continues. Ugh!

Finally, at the top of the hill we start the run in to the stadium. We pass Travis, the lone guy on our TNT team, and he is wrapped in one of those silver, paper-thin emergency blankets everyone gets at the end of a marathon. That snaps me back to reality. We will finish this. Others from our group have finished. We only have a little ways left to go.

I see Mark just outside the school. We have seen him at least 3-4 times in these last miles. He is always there when we round a corner to offer encouragement...as Julie told me, "He is a good man." He looks so happy and proud of me. I momentarily forget all this pain searing through my legs and body. We keep plodding along. From somewhere out further than my vision can currently see I hear Jodie yell, "Go Michelle! Go Julie! Go Heidi!" She is so great.

We are really close to the finish when a woman yells out, "Only half a mile to go." This is not what you want to hear when you thought you had only maybe 400 yards or so left. We get past this, and then I suddenly see the finish.

We somehow manage to run as though we haven't already run 26 miles. We turn the corner onto the track and start smiling. We are so close it is ridiculous. We run through the finish with our arms in the air. We pick up our finisher medals. Mark takes photos of me with my fantastic running buddies. Can you tell it rained on us for 4+ hours?



I start to walk and remember how painful it is. I slowly hobble my way toward getting my own emergency space blanket. It is so wonderful to be finished and surrounded by so many happy people.

Later, Julie's stepdaughter Kate mentions that, wrapped in our silver space blankets, we all look like baked potatoes. I feel a bit like a baked potato too.