“The world could use more people like you; that’s what we need.”

A mile or so into my first marathon, from a front porch spectator, we were graced with these words. The glory of the marathon was at hand.

The night before, Joy and I shared a room with our friends Karin and Chad. Karin ran the Green Bay marathon last year and was excited to watch me run my first one this year; we had run together in high school. With Teslin, their dog Jake, and Houston (who they were dogsitting) in the room, there was some excitement before bed, but we eventually all crashed around midnight.

5:20 am, I woke everyone up. I had to eat, get some fluids in me, and make sure we got to the start in plenty of time. Despite my nerves starting to get frazzled, we were on Capitol Square by about 6:45, and we met up with another couple, Ann and Scott.

I found my pace leader, Eric, and headed into the starting corral. We shook hands and the racers gathered. At 7:10, we were off.

The first several miles were a blast. Eric set a pace to finish in 3 hours and 40 minutes, which was an 8:23/mile average. I’d been a little concerned because that was a little on the aggressive side and I wasn’t sure I could hold up. But with the energy of the runners around me, the miles just slipped on by (cruising through mile 8). I mean, there were a few little hills in there that weren’t any fun, but for the most part it was easy going.

We zipped on through Madison. Joy and the rest of the gang caught me in several places (mile 10) and the cheering was just such an awesome feeling. Thanks to Eric’s pacing, I destroyed my half marathon time: 1:49:53 (previous was 1:55:17).

I think it was around mile 15 when I realized “holy crap, there’s still 11 miles to go!” But then I decided that this was somehow delicious. Honestly, I have no idea what I’m doing in either picture.

I finally fell behind the pace group around mile 15. I was simply running out of energy and couldn’t keep up anymore. But I was happy; I had done so much better at this point than I had anticipated, and I could still make my goal of breaking four hours quite easily. Well, easily as long as nothing went wrong.

Somewhere between miles 16 and 17 I encountered the Monroe Street hill. It killed me. I don’t know how big this hill is other than it took me forever to crest it, and when I did, nothing was the same. Within a mile, my left knee started to fail to cooperate. Not long after, it convinced my quads in both legs to start randomly seizing up, so I had to break up the monotony with some walking and cursing. This would be the end, my friends.

For the next 8-plus miles, I ran, walked, and hobbled my way through. At times the pain was excruciating. All I wanted to do was fall down on the side, throw up, and wait for someone to shoot me. I wanted to quit and never run again. But since that wasn’t realistically going to happen, I instead kept going. When the four-hour pace group passed me at mile 22 and I couldn’t keep up with them, I decided, “all that matters now is finishing. I HAVE TO FINISH.”

So that’s what I did. When the final stretch came into view, I started to run, right through all the pain. Karin was cheering me on and running along the sidelines. What I really wanted her to do was shut up so I could concentrate on running, but her enthusiasm and energy pushed me harder anyway.

And then it was over. Someone was handing me a bottle of water, someone else was putting a medal around my neck, and I was gently guided to have my timing chip clipped off my shoe. I looked dumbly at my watch. 4:15. Not what I had hoped for, but I was so proud of myself for finishing. I’d done it - I’d run a marathon.g

I meandered through the “runner’s village” and got some food before I headed out to find my people. Karin, Ann, and Scott found me instead and led me back to Joy, Chad, and Tes. We collapsed under a tree and I ate my bagel and ham sandwich, took off my shoes, and reveled in the company of my friends.

“The world could use more people like you; that’s what we need.”

That short piece of exposition stuck with me for the rest of the race. It put in perspective just what it meant to not only the runners, but their families and friends who have supported, dealt with, and sacrificed to the training. A marathon is just one day, one little “race.” The true strength and dedication is the months (sometimes years) building up to that point. It’s the three-, four-, five-hundred miles spent pounding pavement. It’s pushing on when every fiber screams, “it’s only a training run! Go home!” It’s going out when the wind is howling and the rain is coming in sideways, or when the snow and sleet turn you into a bright-colored popsicle.

People used to ask me why I wanted to run a marathon, and I would answer “I want to see if I can do it.” Now, perhaps they’ll ask why I want to run another one.

“Because I can.”

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