Boston Marathon: 4.16.12

How do you start to tell a story when you’re not really sure when it actually began? You could say it started on Monday, April 16^th at 10:20 a.m., but maybe it was at the finish line of the San Francisco Marathon in July of 2011 that even gave me the chance to show up in Hopkinton at all. Or maybe it was at the Austin Marathon, the first, the hook, the inspiration. Maybe it was years of running, years of injuries, good races, bad races, pessimistic doctors, encouraging coaches, or cheer leading parents and friends. Maybe it was time and time again of being in the crowd behind police ropes on “Marathon Monday” from the time I was waist-high at my parents side, to the BU years with a beer in my hand. Whatever it was, whenever it was, something, some driving force and the right series of events at the right time, somehow brought me to the most talked about marathon and so much sooner in my life than I had ever expected.

I boarded the plane in Austin just four short days before the big one and thought, is this the real life? Did I just pack my running shoes and a booklet from the Boston Athletic Association with the words “Welcome” on it? 

I arrived in Boston to the smiling faces of my wonderful parents. On the chilly, rainy drive along Storrow drive I stared out at the Charles’ perfectly flat basin water (rowing has forever ruined me from ever looking at a body of water without making note of its conditions), and felt immediately at home. On Saturday morning, a gorgeous 70-degree April day in Boston, the parents and I made a trip to the World Trade Center to get the first taste of Marathon Fever at the Expo. 

"Well I love that dirty water, ohhh, Boston you're my home, doot doot, doo doo doo"

As soon as we walked in, I was overwhelmed in the best way possible. I looked around and admired the orange-jacketed volunteers, the overwhelmingly huge posters of last years’ defending champions from Kenya, smiling faces absolutely everywhere, and the most athletic group of people all in one place with their fans at their sides.

To make things even more unreal, I was treated like a queen each step of the way. I proudly handed in my bib pick up form with my signature and license to a cheerfully smiling volunteer who congratulated me as she handed me a package with my number inside. I shimmied my way down the sea of orange jackets to claim my free goodies – a supercool long sleeve shirt and lots of snacks to last for weeks. Again, a cheerful volunteer delivered my gear with a smile on his face and words of congratulations for making it here.

We made our way around the expo where every brand that is any brand in running seemed to be present – Asics, Mizuno, Brooks, New Balance, Newton, Vibram (for our minimalist friends)… you name it, they had a booth. But the best booth of all, no doubt, was the City Sports booth. No only did it throw me back to the years of picking up phones with a (sometimes cheery, sometimes flustered, sometimes angered): “City Sports Comm. Ave., this is Mari, how can I help you?” Memories of clothing checks, dressing room keys, endless hours of folding, and the best co-workers, rushed through my thoughts. After some daydreaming and poking around I spotted one of the happiest, friendliest, sweetest employees City Sports has known – Miss Roz Baldwin! What a treat! We had a chance to catch up while eager shoppers waited in line to try on City Sports gear (a step which I bypassed, being that I have owned more CS t-shirts than I dare disclose).

As I continued to walk around, a lady with a camera popped up in front of me and with the peppiest of voices said “HEY THERE! Can I take your picture for the Boston Globe?” I looked behind me, wondering who she was talking to. Wait, me? What? Sure. She took a moderately awkward picture of me and then asked, "where are you from? Ha, WHAT a question. I figured now was not the time to delve into the ongoing question of my life, and gave her the simplest response. I figured the Boston Globe would not publish my picture if I went on the “well I was born in Argentina but then I moved to Boston and then I moved to Argentina and then I moved back to Boston and then I lived in Chile and Argentina and then I came back to Boston and then I moved to Austin but my parents still live here so I guess this is still sort what I call home” rant. Word vomit. SO instead I smiled and said “Boston.” She asked me my age, how I felt about the race, if I was doing anything special to train, and just one day later, I was a STAR.

After several hours of meandering around the Expo,  I figured I had nerded out enough with running stuff to hold me over for quite some time. Biggest expo of all time. No doubt.

That very same day, I put thoughts of running aside, threw on a tight black cocktail dress, strapped on my heels, and went to the beautiful wedding celebration of Miss Nora Buckbee Mannion. There is so much I can share about that night -- so many friends, so many memories, so many changes, so much emotion – but for now, cheers to the happy couple!

Brookline ladies, ready for wedding festivities

The newlywed Mannions

Sunday came, and the nerves grew. Now these weren’t just your regular pre-race jitters. These were the kind of jitters that came from B.A.A. (Boston Athletic Association) emails, weather advisories, news channel warnings, basically every available form of media telling me that Marathon Monday was predicted to have record-breaking heat, a “scorchah” as Bostonians might say, urging people to defer their entry for next year, not run the race if they were inexperienced, or run minutes per mile slower than planned.

Well the weather people are wrong, I thought. They have to be. But as the day went by, no matter how many times I checked weather dot com, the forecast did not predict anything lower than 87 degrees for the peak temperature of the day. Super. I started to think about my training, about my qualifying time, about my goal time, and everything I had planned to reach that goal. But now? With 87 degrees, would I be able to do all of that?

On Sunday night, I found myself reading one line from a B.A.A. email over and over again: "For the overwhelming majority of those who have entered to participate in the 2012 Boston Marathon, you should adopt the attitude that THIS IS NOT A RACE. It is an experience." No matter how hard I fought it, I had to let myself come to terms with this. They were right. It would be slower. Lame. 

*BEEP BEEP BEEP* 5:30 a.m. My eyes shot open, and I was immediately more awake than I have ever been just 2 seconds after the sounds of the alarm. I lay absolutely still in bed, staring at the ceiling for a few moments, awake, alert, but in a moderate state of shock. Much like the day I boarded the plane in Austin, I thought, is this the real life? I rolled over to my side and glanced across the room at my pile of sneakers, running clothes, watch, headphones, and at the top, bib number 14391. I smiled. This is the real life. Holy crap.

As I stepped outside to get in the car with my parents, I could already breathe the warmth in the air. Yeah, they weren’t lying, it’s going to be toasty, no doubt about that. Next thing I knew, we were weaving through the one way streets of downtown crossing until we dead-ended at the Boston Common. 

I looked up and saw lines and lines and lines of people holding orange bags, weaving through the paths of the common. Alongside the crowds, parked behind ropes and cones, were probably absolutely all of the yellow school buses in the Boston area. I hugged my two number-one fans goodbye and with a huge smile on my face, darted across the street to get in line for the yellow school bus.

After the first long row of buses loaded, they all took off in single file, and another single file filled in right behind them. I hopped on and began the hour-long ride out to Hopkinton. As we pulled farther and farther away from Boston, I let myself space out, get outside of my thoughts for a while, and just be. It was a calm ride, some people chatted, the woman next to me napped, finally, we pulled off the highway and onto windy roads. 

It was sunny, serene, and suddenly... WHACK! What the!? I jumped in my seat and looked around as commotion and confusion overcame the busriders. Did we hit another bus? A side rail? A tree? And then a couple of small feathers floated past the window while the bus driver screamed: “OH MY GOD, I am SO sorry, I didn’t see it! It just ran across the street! Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod is everyone ok!? Ohmygod!” After an endeless string of “ohmygods” we arrived at the conclusion that we had hit a wild turkey! Terrible, and sad, and yet, sometimes when something as random as that happens, you just can’t help but let out a little smirk at the same time…

 Well, I guess it’s a good thing that that turkey shook everyone awake, because minutes later, we were there! We got off the bus and walked into Athlete’s Village…. Also known as a field lined with porta-potties. I walked around until I found a suitable patch of grass and plopped down. It was only 8:00, and the race didn’t start until 10:20, oof. And so the wait began. I dedicated my time to people-watching, and noticed some people who were very clearly veterans of the event – like the guy who had brought a blow up mattress, genius.

Thinking ahead

By 9:30 my starting wave group had been called, and we began the mass exodus out of Athlete’s Village and onto the ¾ mile walk down to the starting line. 

Somehow, this whole process took way longer than I would have imagined, because when I finally reached the starting area, it was 10:19 and I was being ushered into my starting corral, ready to go in one minute. I was welcomed into corral #6 by an overexcited man who greeted everyone with a fierce high five and a loud: “YEAH, Corral Six, welcome aboard!”

I stood there, smiling, looking up, down, around, stretching, kicking my heels back, staying loose, having completely lost the ability to focus on one thing. A loud voice came on a speaker, reminding all the runners of how hot it was going to be, to race smartly, and then she said something that really stuck with me. The real race happened when we qualified to even be here. The real challenge was all the training we did to get here. We were already standing with the select number of people in and out of the country who ran fast enough to get here. Today is the day to celebrate that hard work. So go out there, have fun, and stay safe. And she was so right.

Next thing I knew, people around me started moving, shifting, walking, shuffling, jogging, and then….running! Only a few steps later, I heard beep beep beep beep beep beep overlapping beep over beep, of all the timing chips starting as each person out of 23,000 ran through the starting line. Holy crap, I am on the course! I choked up a little, felt a tear duct get a little thick for comfort, but quickly focused, looked down at my watch, and firmly pressed start. 

There were people everywhere. Rows and rows on the sidelines, people in front, behind, to the left, to the right. I zig-zagged my way around until I found a comfortable pace, and settled into a groove where I could take it all in, observe the people around me, listen to strangers cheer, and even spot 5 or 6 men stopped at a row of trees with their backs to the course, in proper urinal pose. Classy. 

Perfect orange sign

The first 5 miles were a blur. I don’t know if it was adrenaline, confusion, a rush of emotions I can’t even find a word for, or what, but the next thing I knew, we were in Framingham/Natick and getting close to the first arranged meeting spot with my parents. I began to look around, to the left, to the right, desperately hoping to land my eyes on a neon orange sign. Did I miss it? And then, just as I had given up hope of finding them in the masses, I saw it! It was the brightest shade of orange, with the darker top left corner occupied by an Argentina flag! I darted across in its direction, smiling, waving until they saw me! Bouncy and full of energy I waved and powered on. I wouldn’t see them again until mile 20….oof, best not to think just how far away that was yet. Just focus on the stride, focus on hydration.

Ah yes, hydration, the word of the day. The heat was already palpable, and before I even neared the halfway point, I had already started the game of pouring water on myself. I made a point to hydrate at every water station. One Gatorade. One water to drink. One water for my head. Repeat in a mile. By mile 10, the B.A.A. figured that we would all be miserably hot, and brilliantly set up a small yellow tent with two rows of 5 showers each, designed for runners to run through and get soaked head to toe, five times. When I saw this, I did not even hesitate for one second before I bee-lined directly to the tent and slowed down, trying to make the cold waterfall last as long as possible. Out the other side of the tent, I didn’t even care that water was now splashing inside my socks, or that my toes were rubbing in a way that would develop into a gigantic blister in miles to come. The only thought in my mind was the refreshing feeling that, combined with the warm but ever present breeze, was a true treat.

Entering Wellesley 

When I saw this sign I couldn’t believe it, the half marathon was just around the corner. How was I already here? My chip beeped at I crossed the blue and yellow banners that indicated the half way mark, and cruised into the Screech Tunnel. If you haven’t heard of this before, the Screech Tunnel is how the ladies of Wellesley College are referred to, and I cannot think of two better words to describe the feeling and sounds of passing through this campus. Not only was this during a stretch of much needed shade from a long row of trees, but even before you could see them, you could already hear them. One after the other, rows and rows of women cheering at the top of their lungs, holding signs that said: “Kiss me, I’m _______” (fill in the blank with almost anything you can think of). I felt like I was flying past them as I tried to read some of the signs and even caught myself smiling at some of them. I couldn’t help but enjoy the one guy that was running next to me who probably stopped to kiss a good 7 or 8 of them… wise man I guess. I looked down at my watch and couldn’t believe the pace that I was running all of a sudden, overwhelmed by the excitement, enthusiasm, and emotion What a rush of energy!

Entering Newton

Through the other end of the “tunnel” the energy was not quite as intense, but the streets were still full. Friendly neighbors were out on their lawns with hoses and sprinklers, ready to soak whoever wanted it. Little kids held hoses up and high-fived you as you ran by. One house had even taken the time to mount the sprinkler onto a tree to get the most optimal angle of water to the course. By this point, not one of part of my body or article of clothing was dry anymore. I could feel the blister on my right toe bubbling up, as it's neighbor toe, soaked, rubbed up against it the wrong way. 

I ran past a group of kids who were holding a bucket of ice and slowed down just enough to dig my hand into the bucket, unsure how much I’d be able to hold on to. I pulled out two pieces of ice and held them momentarily in my hand, enjoying the feeling of the ice cold water dripping down my arm as the pieces of ice began to melt almost immediately. I thought about what to do with them, looked around, hoped no one would find me awkward, then realized I didn’t care if they did, and tucked the two pieces into my sports bra – one in the front, one in the back. At first it felt overwhelmingly chilly, a bit uncomfortable, but then, as the water started to trickle down either side of my body, I felt the perfect amount of cold to counteract the heat in the air around me.

As we trudged closer and closer into Boston, both the miles and degrees of heat increasing in numbers, the crowd of spectators never faltered, but the energy level of runners seemed to have droppecd. It was around mile 18 when I noticed how many people were walking, cramping up, stopping at the medical tents, probably wondering what had possessed them to do this to themselves. It was only when I took minute to scan my body after checking out the other runners that I really noticed my feet were achey, that one blister on my toe had definitely gotten bigger and by lower back was killing me like I had been shoveling snow for hours. 

Sure, things hurt. But then I thought, I could complain to myself about it, or I could practice what I preach. I thought back to just a few weeks earlier when I had been talking to my rowers before a race, a 1000 meter race, after they had raced down the course many times that day. Overcome by fatigue I told them: “Is it going to hurt? Sure. Will you ask yourself why you even enjoy this sport? Sure. But the pain will go away, your legs will go back to normal, and when you have a medal around your neck, you’ll remember all the reasons you enjoy this sport.” And only 4 short minutes later, they crossed the finish line to earn themselves a silver medal.

So here I was, aching, but I thought, if I could convince an entire team to go hard with one short speech about pain being temporary, shouldn’t I be able to convince myself with the same words? I knew going into this that it would be no walk in the park, this was no surprise, and it was certainly no surprise that all these thoughts rushed into my brain at the time they did: the famous mile 20 "wall." But what was particularly special about this mile 20 that made it stand out in the minds of runners even more than any other mile 20 on any other course, was that at this very mile was the oh so famous Heartbreak Hill that Boston in known for.

Interestingly enough, this hill is the last of a set of hills throughout Newton, and the last real uphill of the course, perfectly situated at mile 20, usually the longest duistance in marathon training, the peak fatigue point of the race. But the incline is not so terrible, so why does it break any hearts? Where does it's get the name?

From what I understand, in the 1936 Boston Marathon, John Kelley, Olympic runner and defending Boston champion, caught the runner who was in the lead on this very stretch of the course, patting him on the shoulder as he cruised past him to take the lead. But his opponent, not willing to give up, mustered up some energy to later re-gain the lead and take the victory, therefore "breaking Kelley’s heart." 

You put all these factors together and it created a perfect storm of catastrophe in the runners mind. 

Thinking ahead to this very moment, to the moment I arrived on this talked about hill, I had situated my parents, my favorite spectators, the faces I knew I would want to see, that I needed to see to keep me going when my legs would just want to walk me off the course and into my bed, on one particular corner of that hill.

Thinking about my very own words to my rowers, thinking about how to apply that to myself, I eagerly scanned the crowds, once again looking, searching, longing for that orange sign, until… THERE! For a few moments, the pain was gone, my blister was not there, the sun was not melting my face off. For a few moments, I felt happy, energetic, proud. As I ran closer to them, all I could think about how perfect it felt to see them, and my only reaction was to smile from ear to ear and blow them a big ‘ol kiss as I galloped passed their smiles, probably bigger than mine.

Besos!

After that, heartbreak hill had nothing on me. I thought back to an old cross country teammate in high school, who once told me during a tough hill workout, that the way she got through hills was to imagine herself climbing up a rope. For some reason, that image always stayed with me, and it came back to me now. Arm over arm over arm, I tugged on the imaginary rope in front of me, leaned into the hill, and before I knew it, it was over. I was at the plateau before the descent. And with the descent, came one of the most amusing stretches of the entire course, Boston College.

You might wonder why this was amusing. And if you are wondering that, then perhaps I need to take a minute to explain or remind you of what ‘Marathon Monday’ means to just about every college student in the Boston Area who is not running in the race. This longed-for Monday, being Patriot’s Day, is a holiday for all college campuses in the area. One might think that poor exhausted college kids would take the day to relax and take a break from their studies, but one would be wrong. Clearly, when you are in your early 20’s, a day off is basically a free excuse for daytime drinking. I’m not saying it’s intelligent, but it’s certainly the way it is – meeting up at friends’ houses at 11 a.m. to begin a day of beer, grilling, cheering, and being in bed by 8 p.m. after a full day of beer, grilling, and cheering.

So here we were, approaching BC, where I could guarantee you that a solid majority of these people were several beers in, making them some of the most energetic, excited, expressive spectators out there. As I began the down hill on the other side of the big up, lines and lines and lines of students stood there, screaming at the top of their lungs, hands out, waiting for high fives. I couldn’t help but smile as I shimmied my way through the crowd of runners towards the right hands side of the course where I extended my own hand, and suddenly: slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap… I couldn’t even count how many high fives I got. My smile grew bigger, and I could feel my legs turning and turning around quicker and quicker down the hill. I looked down at my watch, and I was going significantly faster than my qualifying pace, which was significantly faster than the pace I had been holding along the 90-degree infested course. Up ahead, I saw a woman in the crowd holding out a blow-up, basketball-sized “angry bird” head and noticed her encouraging people to slap it. I kept it in my sight and as I approached it, picked up my hand and whacked it with all my might. Wow was there something satisfying about that release of energy. I heard a guy scream: “YEAH, my money’s on you girl, you’re gonna WIN!” He was of course wrong and most likely a perfect example of the marathon-Monday college kid I was talking about, but for some reason, the total untruth of a total stranger gave me an extra boost into the next few turns of Comm. Ave.

But the unknown faces of Boston College were followed by one very known face just before the corner of Chestnut Hill, just  where she had told me she might be. Before she could even see me, I heard her, that familiar voice that I knew so well in college, that loud voice and that I heard on the banks of the Charles back in October for the Head of the Charles. Before I knew it, I was reaching out to her, grabbing her. SCORPPP!!, I yelled. My dear friend and roommate Lauren Scorpio! She reached out to me, and next thing I knew, yelling my name, she clasped hand, and not even thinking, I kept holding hers as I continued to run for a short moment with her hand in mine. All smiles, after what felt like ages, we let go, and I ran, but her not so faint voice could still be heard as she told a friend: “That’s my roommate, Mari!” My back to her at this point, I smiled, and could just picture her perfectly mouthing those words. As I lost her voice into the distance behind me, I kept smiling as fond memories of The Vern (as we called our college home of four on Verndale Street) rushed into my mind, too many good ones to even list. 

I turned the corner onto Beacon. BEACON. How was I already here? Just 3 miles away, I could already sense the finish line excitement.

Suddenly, familiar colors caught my eyes. Light blue, white, light blue, white….Argentina! I looked over, and just a few steps ahead of me, struggling to stay in stride, was a tall gentleman with Argentina written across his shirt. I kicked myself into second gear and accelerated to catch up. As I cruised past him, I turned back, smiled, and yelled “Vamos Argentina!!” The man, who looked more ready than anyone else around him to be done, perked up, extended his neck out of his shoulders, smiled, and in the most porteño accent with an arm wave that is typically saved for the fútbol stadium, yelled: “Ehhh, vamos che!!!” A rush of energy bounced through my body as yet another stranger found a way to, just for a moment, let me forget about my screaming, aching body.

My feet hurt, but worked together. My back ached, but held me up. My face was melting, but water was in sight. I felt pain and invincibility at the same time.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times"

The next thing I knew, I was approcahcing Coolidge Corner, a spot that I had made my own each year that I came to this course as a spectator, the spot that I had watched by last Boston Marathon with my Vernmantes (aka, Verndale Roommates), the spot where….. “MARIIIIIII!!!!!” The spot where my thoughts were interrupted?

Louder than anyone I had heard all day, I looked up, feeling like a celebrity, wondering who had spotted me now? I scanned the crowd and immediately saw her, perched up on a bench, flailing her arms and reaching for a camera at the same time --Chris Santos, the most energetic, happy, and wonderful mother of my longtime Brookline friend, Calli. Surprised and impressed by her ability to spot me in the crowds, my smile was big enough to reach into the crowds. I waved, yelled back, and without the smile ever washing off my face, pranced on.

Before I even had the chance to think again, right outside another very familiar landmark, my brother’s old apartment on Beacon and St.Paul, I found another very familiar face. Someone from my family of rowers, someone who I knew would have no trouble spotting my red Brookline Rowing hat, someone who didn’t even need to yell before we made eye contact, finding each other in the sea of people, Miss Katy Ruderman, smiling, clapping, sending me into the final 2 miles with an extra boost of energy.

As I approached Kenmore Square, I wondered if I would be able to find my final set of cheerleaders. I looked and looked until I started to make myself dizzy from focusing on so many faces, hoping to find my most wonderful fish-loving friend, Sam Cheng. She was around here. But where? As I started to climb the hill into Kenmore, I began to accept I had missed her. Dammit. But little did I know, that not only had she seen me, but she had warned the others of my approach into their area! The other two, who shortly after receiving a text message from Sam saying : “blue shirt, red hat,” spotted me just as I spotted them.

There they were, at the tippity top of the hill that no longer felt like a struggle to overcome when I saw them standing together, all smiles, my two favorite Brookline High School boys, my prom date and his best buddy, my friend who believed running was not a sport, still there, supporting me in this “non-sport” quest to Copley Square-- Nathaniel and Fran! Knowing that these would be the final familiar faces, wanting to hug them but knowing that my sweat, water, and Gatorade covered body would not be something they’d want to come in contact with at that moment (or ever?), I flailed both arms in the air and, with a smile that could extend for the whole last mile, yelled “eeeeyyy!" as loud as I could.

They made me forget that I was on a hill. They made me forget that it was ninety degrees. They made me want to be stronger than everyone else around me walking up the hill. They made me want to carry on and make them proud. Later that day, I even received a text message from mister Nathaniel himself saying: “Why were you running? Everyone else was walking and looked like death and you were smiling. Weirdo.” And that is something that you might never be able to answer until you have been running for over three and a half hours in one of the most well known races in the world and you see people who are there for you, the people who are waiting for you, the people who are proud of you, the people who make you want to run instead of walk, smile instead of cry... in the end, the people who are there to make it all worth it.

I flew past them, past the mile 25 sign, past Fenway Park, past the BU Bookstore, past the old Howard Johnson Hotel I used to call come, past the Dunking Donuts that once upon a time knew my regular order, past the Seven Eleven that gave way to endless good laughs on so many late Saturday nights, past the corner where I once met a particular MIT frat boy on my way out of Bertucci’s, past every landmark that I could point out with me eyes closed and that brought years and years of memories rushing back into the present. 

And then, before I could even think about it, I was angling my body to the left as if I were turning the corner of a track, but this time, turning the final corner onto Boylston Street.

There it was.

Mile 26.

Zero point two miles left.

I could see the giant blue “Finish” sign. I choked up. I took a deep breath and started to charge, started to let myself go, started to… “MARIANAAAAAAAA!”

Everything was interrupted when I heard the unmistakable voice, probably louder than I’ve ever heard before. As if I had just been woken up from the deepest of sleeps, I jumped up and looked to the right, just in time to see them. The most wonderful surprise of my life. They had snuck through the crowds with the bright orange sign into the most perfect spot. I had not expected to see any more familiar faces. I had not expected to see these faces until the finish line. I had not expected to ever feel such an extreme level of happiness. I had not expected to experience such an intense level of what can only be classified as a textbook definition of “runner’s high.” There they were, my mom and dad, the two people who I can probably thank the most for their never-ending support, encouragement, and love that got me to that very point – yelling, clapping, taking pictures, waving the orange sign with the Argentina flag, helping me bounce with all of my energy, smile with all of my might, and begin to sprint at a speed that I never would have dreamed possible at this point of a marathon.

High off running

The end!

Faster and faster, the line got closer, my legs turned and turned, the line got closer, my breathing got faster, the line got closer, my sweat dripped faster, the line got closer, the cheering got louder, the line got closer. I could feel the smile on my face, stuck, not wanting to go away, getting bigger, wider…

And then, unable to think anymore, with every ounce of energy, every muscle and every sore spot in my body, I raised my arms, smiled the biggest smile, and leapt across the line. 3:51:38.

Still smiling, I felt my eyes get misty again, emotions rushing through my body, trying to find their way out. For a moment, all of the pain was gone. For a moment, it was in true bliss, pride, ecstasy. Is this the real life?


Finally, like a pinch to see if I was awake or dreaming, somebody placed a medal over my head.

So maybe it was not my fastest time. Maybe I was not able to re-qualify for next year. But I had done it. I had beat the heat. And I had done it with many smiles along the way.

I can say, with no hesitation at all, it was the best-deserved, hardest-fought, most satisfying medal of my life that will always proudly remind me of my very first, and hopefully not last, Boston Marathon :)

Sweet taste of victory

The face of pure joy and pure exhaustion

Mission: Possible

Exercises in Writing: Excerpts from a Writer's Workshop

Lately I've been having a hard time thinking of what to write about. There is a lot going on and just about anything can be written about, but nothing has caught my attention enough to turn it into a post. So I decided that instead of sitting here and rambling about nonsensical things, I would do something a little different and share some things that I've written over the past few weeks in non-blog form.

I've been going to a writing workshop every week, a quaint little setting at a man called Ron's house. There are usually between four and seven of us there to write. I arrive every Tuesday after a half hour commute through the rolling hills of the Austin back roads, trying at all costs to avoid rush hour traffic. I usually arrive straight from the rowing center, fatigued, wearing a Texas Rowing Center shirt (which the other workshopees must think is the only article of clothing I own at this point) and I let myself into this charming house, to be greeted by Tess, a dark gray standard poodle. She licks me a few times, sniffs me, and finally walks next to me towards the kitchen, where I find a countertop full of food -- pasta, salad, sauce, bread, sliced avocados, iced tead, hot tea, water... On certain tuesdays, I get there just in time to smell the fresh brownies that have just been pulled out of the oven and will be ready to fill my belly when we take a writing break later in the evening.

I make my way into the back room, what looks like it used to be a porch that got walled in, and find a spot, not always the same spot, at a dinner table. As close to 7:15 as possible, sometimes later when we get distracted with some conversation about the happenings of that day, we all plant our feet flat on the ground, let our arms hang loose by our sides, close our eyes, and are led through a short group meditation. I've never been one to meditate and have never thought myself to be too good at it, but there's something about Ron's voice, or my level of fatigue by that point of the day and the energy I put into staying awake to hold my head up while my closed eyes try to take me into a seated nap, that allows me take some weight off my shoulders as he walks us through the mental exercise. We always finish it up by rubbing our hands fast fast fast super fast creating heat, creating energy faster faster, and then gently placing them over our eyes. At this point, happy I washed the boathouse filth off my hands before I sat down, as I feel the weight of my hands, of that heat resting on my eyeballs, at that point, I am ready to open my eyes and pick up my pen.

He usually gives us a prompt, or an object, or a word, or something to "do." The rule is to keep the pen moving, whether you are inspired by the prompt or decide to go off in your own direction, it doesn't matter as long as the pen is moving. He gives us anywhere between 10 and 20 minutes, and off we go, into what usually, if you are having a good day, seems like too little time to get everything you want down on paper.

Below are three little things I've written in class. As you read them, keep in mind that (a) some are fiction, some are not, some parts are true, and some parts are not, (b) there is zero room or time for editing (c) there is not always enough time to wrap up. Some might sound familiar, and some might seem totally random (because you don't always know where the piece is going until the time is up).

1. Given all the awful and sad stories we've been hearing about people losing their homes to the Bastrop, TX fires, think about five things you would take with you if you had to leave your house. Now pick one from that list, the one that stands out the most, and write about it.

A box. I never even cared enough to buy or make a nice box. It's an old shoe box. And it's purple. It matches nothing in the room, but for some reason I never seemed to care, because it was always a place for all that stuff, all those things that your mom might call junk, or maybe all those things that if you spent your entire life collecting could get you nominated for that show Hoarders. But it's all that stuff that no matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to be able to crumple, to toss into the trash can with last night's dinner leftovers without the desire to pull it back out. It's stuff like a race number. Why in the world would I want a piece of paper with the number 5335 on it? If my house was burning, what will I do with this? Further ignite the fire? But how can I not keep a box that holds this crinkled piece of paper, probably still covered in swear? How can I get myself to leave in the flames something that took me almost a year to achieve? Months of waking up at 6 to run, to lace up my sneakers and try to beat the Texas heat. Months of rolling out of bed when I wanted nothing more than to keep my eyes closed at least until the sun came up. All this just to show up in San Francisco one chilly Sunday morning at 5:45, once again, before the sun even thought to poke its head out, and wear this piece of paper. To wear this piece of paper and do the very thing I had been doing for months. But this time, with the number 5335, for 26.2 miles, at a pace I never thought I could hold for so long. And all this to cross the finish line three hours and thirty three minutes later and qualify for one of the most sought out marathon by crazy runners like myself. Crazy runners who keep this wrinkled number, medal, and memory in a purple show box that cannot and will not be left in flames. 

Of course there are other things in this box, other perhaps "useless" things in a stranger's eyes. Stuff like other numbers. I miss you letters. More pictures. Happy notes. Sad notes. Love notes. A love note from eight grade. How can you make it for more than ten years with a goofy letter from a goofy boy asking you to circle "yes" I like you like him too, or "no" I think you have cooties? Ten years of holding onto all this to let it be slowly devoured by the hot orange fire? Hell no. Let's just say it's a good thing that letter made it into the purple shoebox with number 5335, because the purple box is coming under my arm when I walk out the door.

2.  Think about the 5 objects you love the most in your life. Pick one and write about it.

The numbers go up to twelve, the way the Romans would write to twelve. Why twelve? And why Roman? I never really thought to ask, to be honest, perhaps because when someone you love and you'll miss, and you know you'll never have enough words to tell them how much they've changed you and how much they'll stay with you, when that type of person gives you a gift off her own hand, you simply don't stop to ask them at that very moment, why twelve? You also forget to ask, why do the numbers star counting at 2 instead of 1? Or why is the four written with four I's and not and I and a V as real Romans would write it? Please forgive me if I can't come up with all the answers to the flaws of this beautiful treasure. 

The day she gave it to me, the sterling silver could have blinded me on the spot if the sun had hit it at just the right angle, but the deep blue strip that ran through the middle of it, opaque yet vibrant, must have caught the ray that saved my eyesight. Perfectly round, simple, curious, I had always admired it on her right middle finger. We used to laugh about what an important finger that was to have an illumination band wrapped around it... just in case the moment ever presented itself to tell someone off with class. 

I often wonder if it was pure luck or one of those curious things about life when we discovered that my right middle finger happened to be the same width as hers the day she took it off her hand, gave it one last glance and told me to keep it. I promised her I would never lose sight of it as I held her close for the last time until... well, until we met again. An entire continent would separate us, and before the days of facebook and email, we had no choice but to revel in the cheesiness of this ring. 

It had been over two years, and the only time I could remember taking it off my right middle finger was when a bitter official at an indoor track race had instructed me to take it off if I wanted to stay in the race. I slowly pulled it off as I marched to the starting line, thinking about how naked I felt without it. I promptly placed it back on its spot after completing my race, and went back to never taking it off -- not to shower, sleep, or row. My finger was pasty white beneath the millimeters of skin that it covered, while the rest of my hand turned toasty brown in the summer heat. 

I'll never forget the morning that I walked out of the house, softly playing with it loosely in my right hand when it escaped my grip, and rolled, rolled, rolled away. I thought I saw it roll into the bushes by the car. I searched, and searched, got to school late because of it, came home and searched again, and finally, devastated, left it for lost under the pile of autumn leaves I had forgotten to rake. Was I giving up too easily? Should I be searching the yard more methodically? But no matter how hard I looked, how thoroughly I stared at every inch of grass in front of me, it was nowhere to be found.

The cruel Boston winter came and went, snow piled and melted. One particularly sunny spring morning, as I walked to my car where icicles slowly melted off its tail, something caught my eye. Something shiny peered out from underneath the pile of leaves that still remained unraked. It was unreal, like a sailor lost at sea finding his way home.

It's not quite as shiny anymore. Or quite as round anymore. The blue is not so blue anymore. But the number one is still missing, the four is still four I's, the numbers still go up to 12, and ten years later, somehow, it still sits on my right middle finger. 

 3. We each pulled out a page from a calendar. Each page had a picture of a shoe with a brief description of it. My shoe was a red pump, called Ravishing Ruby. Write whatever comes.

They called her Ravishing Ruby because she could turn heads left and right even if she walked by in her sweatpants and yesterday's make up, slowly spilling her coffee and looking around her to make sure no one had seen her clumsy moment. 

But her fans never seemed to notice these details. Men fantasized about her and women envied her. She walked tall her in her five-foot-eight athletic body and carried herself flawlessly on her red stiletto shoes. How was it that she could make red match just about anything? 

The red of her shoes was a distracting a sight as the kindness in her eyes. Wide open, as if trying to ensure she didn't miss a second of the life in front of her, with a small wrinkle in each corner as she softened her glare to emanate comfort and understanding. 
She easily gained the trust of her clients, although she never dared called them clients. Client had such a harsh ring to her ever attentive and all absorbing ears.

Top of her class at the Harvard Med School Department of Psychiatry, she had every reason, or every stereotypical right to call them clients, appointments, chart numbers, and only vaguely show interest in their latest problems as she peered at them over her yellow legal note pad. But not Ruby. Instead, she leaned in with utmost desire, showing more than her perfectly round nose, to hear every word, every story she was told as if it were the script of the next Oscar-winning thriller. 

Home (away from home)

They say that “home is where the heart is,” but do you think it’s possible to leave pieces of your heart scattered around the world and call each place a little bit of home? As of lately, I think I do. I can think of countries, cities, people, and moments, that have given me something to remember, to feel, to talk about, to take with me, but who have also taken something from me, a little piece of me that stays there and somehow takes me back there. Maybe we don’t always go back to all of these physically, but we become kind of like marionettes with countless strings scattered all over the map, and there are so many strings that one alone can’t control you, but it can have a little pull, a little nudge in a certain direction, in a certain thought or feeling, or way of understanding what’s in front of you.

As it turns out, not too long ago I started to feel that string in Argentina give me a little extra pull, so I said hey, what the hell, I don’t know what I’ll be doing next year, if I’ll have time, money, or desire to go, so why not go now? I knew this wouldn’t be the kind of vacation where you see amazing new sights, or learn a lot of cool history, or bask in the sunshine on a beach covered in white sand, holding a margarita and staring into crystal clear turquoise water. It would be more a trip to the known, to the comfortable, to the lounging around and sitting around a table talking to people about nothing and everything at the same time. It would be more like getting a really expensive cup of coffee with an old friend, if you think about it.

Now maybe AmeriCorps doesn’t quite pay me enough to make it worth the expensive cup of coffee, but then you have to wonder, why do we spend years saving money if we never use it for what we want? Besides, MasterCard once told me there are some things money can’t buy, and the Beatles told me you can’t buy me love, so maybe sometimes it’s worth one pricey plane ride for moments that you can’t find anywhere else.

So I started the trek to the motherland, and I know I’ve talked about how that whole “where are you from?” question can be so confusing, but it really hit me harder this time around when I arrived at Ezeiza international airport in Buenos Aires a few short weeks ago, with a navy blue American passport in one hand, and a navy blue Argentine passport in the other. As a newbie to American travel, I was confused as to which immigration line to approach when I finally got off the airplane.

In line number one: Argentina passport holders. Oo, me! In line number two: USA passport holders. Oo, me! In line number three: Passport holders who are waived of reciprocity fees. Oo, me! Well then, what gives? I approached a security man who promptly noticed my American passport and immediately addressed me in English. In Spanish, I expressed my confusion, and he explained that I belonged in line number three for being born in Argentina, but needing my US passport stamped without having to pay to enter my own country. Hm, interesting how a question that can keep coming back to you can be so easily answered by a man in uniform. How come he didn’t exist in my daily life to clarify things like that? Anyways, as it turns out, this is why line number three was created, for those people like myself who can only be explained as that little overlapping piece of a Venn Diagram. I looked over and there were just a few other people of my variety. Score. I made my way over, no questions asked, U.S. passport stamped, done. Easy as 1, 2, 3, as the Jackson Five would say.

The day after I arrived, after chatting with my adorable yet testy grandmother and having a friend come over to cebar me my first mate, I left for Mar del Plata to celebrate my friend Sandra’s birthday (*Cebar is the act or perhaps art of preparing and pouring a mate adequately).

Just 48 hours earlier, I had been in Austin, a place I call home these days, but now here I was, in the place I used to call home, greeted by some of my favorite people in the entire world. As soon as I got off the bus and saw my friend’s face I felt alive. I felt giddy, but also relaxed. It’s a feeling that is so hard to put into words, because it’s a combination of the excitement of running into the boy you have a major crush on in the street, and the comfort of saying hello to a family member.

As the week went on and I began to see some of my other friends – Paula, Carla, and Ana, who I went to school with, and Emilce, who I’ve known since the day she was born two days after me. It felt like nothing had changed. Ten years later, ten years after we all gathered outside my house to say goodbye before my final trek back to the U.S. of A., we were all sitting around the fireplace at Paula’s house, chatting, laughing, sharing fun stories, sharing difficult stories, cooking, drinking, playing monopoly, and never running out of things to say. It was like I just…belonged.

Monopoly Champion, Sandra, Carla, Paula, Mimi (the cat):

There is something, a je ne sais quoi as they say, about the ease and warmth and immediate throwback to the old days that rushes through my body when I spend time in this place with people who I left so long ago but somehow feel like I see them every day of my life. It’s a curious thing, no?

In Mar del Plata I went back to some favorite restaurants, my old neighborhood, my old house, where I couldn’t resist taking a picture with my mom’s lemon tree that once came up to my waist and seemed to have no hope of ever producing any lemons…and here it was now, full grown tree, full of bright yellow lemons.  

Mi casita:

One day I went to the beach, layered in clothes, but eagerly kicked off my shoes and rolled up my pants to feel the sand between my toes and touch the frigid Atlantic. Whenever I used to go to the beach, the very first thing I (and my dad) would do when we arrived, before we even lay a towel out in the sun, was walk to the water and touch it. Just to test it, just to see if it was still as cold as it always was, and to see how much motivation it would take to actually jump in. Of course in the winter now I had no desire to actually jump in, but old habits die hard, you know?

Dancing in the water, making sure it's atlantically cold:

After about a week I headed back to Buenos Aires and make some rounds there. I saw my grandmother, relatives, faux-relatives, old friends, new friends, went back to my old salsa class, went salsa dancing (can’t get out of the habit), took millions of buses, gave lots of hugs, lots of kisses, shared laughs, and shared more stories.

And now in two days I head back to my other home, which I am excited to do, but also un poco triste. Coming to Argentina is like playing with a double-edged sword you see, it’s bittersweet, whatever you want to call it, something that is fulfilling yet heart wrenching at the same time. But, as Dr. Seuss said (and as I quoted under my Senior picture): “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” Truth. Hasta la próxima, argentina amiga. Austin, here I come. 

A 26.2 of beauty and achievement

Sunday, July 31st.

I was sleeping like a baby without a worry in the world when the clock turned 4:15 and my alarm woke me up. I jumped up and turned it off, letting myself snooze only once today (as opposed to my usual three times). At 4:20, I knew it was time to get up. In the dark, I searched for the neat stack of stuff I had arranged the night before. I felt the Bay Area chill as I got out from under the down comforter and changed into shorts and a t-shirt after applying Body Glide to practically my entire body (I won't over share, but I'll just tell you that after running for hours, your body starts to chafe in places you didn't even know could cause friction).

Emily woke up a few moments later and turned the bedroom light on, making the process easier. We both puttered around in silence, each of us doing our thing (Emily was prepping to run the half), put some layers on, toasted some english muffins, did a quick check for all the things we needed, laced up our shoes, and hopped in the car to meet Dan at the course.

I felt awake, alert, excited, nervous, but not completely aware that this was actually happening, that only five months later I was doing this marathon thing again. Now is not the time to question my sanity, I thought.

As we got downtown, traffic got a little heavier, but I was able to find Dan standing on our arranged meeting corner. Emily wasn't racing for another hour, so we gave each other a giddy hug, wished each other much luck, and said see ya at the finish!

5:10. The race started in "waves" and I was scheduled to start at 5:43. Ok, still have some time. Dan and I checked our bags and went over to the bathroom line. Here we were surprised by a photographer who tried to take a picture of me and the random girl standing next to me in line. Finally, he understood we didn't know each other and snapped a pre-race shot of Dan and I. (Apologies for the watermark, I haven't committed to purchasing any of these yet). So here we are, still a little sleepy, still a little surprised to be photographed in the bathroom line.

Finally, we made it through the line and jogged over to the starting area. I suppose that was our warmup. Dan's wave had already left, but completely unstressed, we both started in my wave, which just meant you were held back from starting for just a few minutes. We pushed our way through people and suddenly, sooner than I expected, it was 5:43 and we were running, running faster, and then we stepped over the starting line and off we went!

My initial idea had been to start with a 3:40 pace group, but since we missed the previous starting wave, we were running close to the 3:50 group. And so we started the classic beginning-of-a-race-weave-through-the-people game... weaving to the left, to the right, past the man running wrapped up in a blanket, past the 3:45 pace group, to the right, past a bakery starting to make some bread and teasing us with its delicious scent, to the left, past the 3:40 group, in, out, around, and finally, we seemed to settle into a comfortable pace. Way ahead of the group I had intended to start with, I looked down at my trusty Garmin watch, and we were running sub- 7:30 min/mile! Holy crap I thought, we need to slow down or I'm going to explode before we get half way. But the surprising part was, it didn't feel that fast, it felt manageable.

So I relaxed and just ran with it. I took a moment to look up past the crowds and remembered where I was. At that moment we were passing past Ghirardelli Square and a wonderful little beach, with the Golden Gate ahead in the distance, behind a light layer of fog. As we passed the beach I stared out towards the water to take in a deep breath of pacific bay air,  and suddenly saw a guy in a wet suit and swim cap pop his head out of the water! Just as I was about to nudge Dan to point out this guy, the swimmer yelled out: "You all are awesomeeeee! Keep it up!" Great way to start the day.

Smiling, I continued on, thinking about how easy it was to breathe, how easy it felt to move through this high-50-degree weather, and how mysterious the Golden Gate looked up ahead. The bridge appeared to be sitting much higher up than where I stood, so I thought, hmmm, the only way to gere there is up...And just then, as we came around a turn, I saw a sign on the course, asking "do you know what the steepest hill in San Francisco is?" This would be the first of many trivia questions along the course. I didn't know the answer, but I sure hoped it wasn't something along the lines of "this hill coming up, suckers!" The next sign read the real answer, telling of the steepest hill and it's % grade, and the sign just behind it read: "Aren't you glad you're running this one instead?" Phew, I thought. And so we hit the first water/electrolyte station of the day in preparation for the first hill of the day. Nothing terrible, a steady incline up and up towards the bridge and suddenly, we were on the majestic red structure, leaving a quiet and sleeping San Francisco behind us.

Here we are, filled with mostly excitement, and moderate awkwardness on my behalf:

On the way out and over the bridge, I had the pleasure of spotting a man in full out Elvis costume (big hair and bellbottoms and all), and another man in Minnie Mouse garb (dress, ears, the whole deal). Impressive.

As we turned around and began to double back across the bridge, it became a wonderful opportunity to people watch and to city watch as the sun tried to come up over the foggy city. Crowds and crowds of people now filled the bridge, as the half marathon had started. I searched the crowds for the entire length of the bridge in search for Emily, but no luck finding her.

As we finally made it off the bridge we headed into the Presidio, an incredibly attractuve park with a few long, steady, not super steep uphills. I felt as though I had been transported somewhere else. The course was quiet at times, there was no sight of the city buildings, no sight of the Golden Gate anymore....just runners making their way together through a forest.

As we wove through the park, the hills began to get to me. Dan and I were still together, still way ahead of pace for my goal of 3:40, but he began to pull ahead on the hills. It became a game of push and pull at the crest of each hill. I knew I wanted to stay with him, I knew he was helping me pace myself, I wanted to stay on that pace. Around mile 12, he pulled ahead and I stayed a ways behind. And then he pulled ahead a bit more, and I stayed a bit farther back.

Dammit, I thought.

Still moving faster than my planned pace, I decided to forget about catching him and instead I settled into my own race. I felt a twinge of fear. I was responsible for my pace now. I could still see Dan up ahead, I was still moving, so I looked around, took note of the people around me and thought, ok, these are my people now.

As an old Brookline cross country coach used to say (and his saying made it onto a moderately inappropriate high school sweatshirt), you have to run "hard but relaxed." He was never my coach, but I never forgot the line. So I did. I took in a deep breath and let my shoulders drop, my fingers unclench, my eyes relax, and made myself more comfortable in my own stance. 

I realized that I was now running next to a woman called Faye (her bib told me so, she did not seem like the kind of person who was eager to exchange pleasantries during the race) and stayed close to her for quite some time.

The thing is, as I've said before, the marathon becomes a mental game as much as a physical one. It's not just, can my legs do it? It's also the feeling of being supported, almost being held accountable by someone for what you're doing, that really keeps you moving. When I was running next to Dan, I knew I had to stay next to him. When he pulled away, I was alone. There is nothing worse than being in a park you don't know, when you're in pain, alone, right? So I felt this need, an urge, perhaps, to have some kind of support. And so while Faye never spoke to me, and she may never know that she helped me, she did. Because for many miles, almost the entire back half of the race, I could feel her close to me, just ahead, just behind, just next to me, as if she were my running buddy to keep me going. Maybe it sounds bizarre, but it's even more bizarre how your brain reacts when you test it in such a physically taxing situation.

So here I was, out of the Presidio, now running through Golden Gate Park. I passed the brightly-colored flowers outside Cnservatory of Flowers, Stowe Lake, the Japanese Tea Garden. And then, the finish line for the half marathon. This was probably the most demoralizing moment of the day, when the course split into two chutes, one for the half marathoners to finish, and one for the full marathoners to carry on. I enviously stared at finishers with their blankets, bananas, and medals, celebrating, staring at the rest of us run by to do the entire distance we had just done.... all over again. For a few moments, I felt my energy level drop. I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to stand there and chug an entire water bottle, rather than taking a sip out of a cup and spilling the rest all over my face (this actually happened at about every single water stop, including the one where i managed to get gatorade in my eye and be blinding for a few steps).

But then I remembered why I was here, what I ran for hours in the Texas heat for, why I was signed up for the longer race. I decided I had to cut the crap and pull it back together. So I picked my pace back up, and next thing I knew, I was out of the park, past the 20 mile mark, into the Mission neighborhood, ready to start the final push.

Around mile 22 I hit the biggest downhill of the day. Now I know you probably think, great, a downhill! And that was indeed my first thought. But then I started to make the descent and picked up some speed, and some more speed, and some more, and the next thing I knew I was running so fast I didn't think I'd be able to stop myself, but most importantly, I didn't think my legs would be able to turn around so quickly and hold me up anymore. I zoomed past other runners on the downhill, my heart pumping, adrenaline rushing, pure focus on the bottom of the hill, overwhelmed by how my legs were managing to do this right now. I pictured myself lying on my side, arms and legs stretched out, and rolling all the way down, like a kid on a grassy slope. However, I didn't think that would fly here.

Finally, I hit the bottom, still standing on my two 'ol legs. Phew. After I set back into my pace, I felt amazingly better than I expected to at this point in the race. I was still trucking ahead of pace, and suddenly it hit me, holy crap, I'm about to qualify. If I keep this pace up, I am going to qualify. I was overcome by joy and anxiety at the same time. The little devil on my one shoulder started to think, what if you cramp up right now and fall and have to slow down? But the little angel on my other shoulder thought, I've felt better than I ever have in my life during a long run, why would this feeling just go away now? Lets do this.

As I hit mile 23, I was ready to be done. I was ready to be there. I wanted to say eff this, but for a few miles, I was able to turn off my brain and put my legs in cruise control to haul myself the rest of the way. By mile 25, it seemed like it had just taken me forever to run 2 miles. My legs wanted to quit. I needed an extra boost. I thought, c'mmon arms, be useful for once in your life! So they started pumping, giving my body a little extra oompf that it needed. I pictured someone running behind me giving me a nudge forward.

I came around a turn and saw the Bay Bridge. I knew we had started just on the other side of it, and we would finish just on the other side of it, so I thought ok, just have to get to the bridge. Stride after stride, the bridge did not seem to be getting any closer. Neither did the Mile 26 marker. I found myself trying to peek around each turn, thinking, are we there yet?

Finally I saw it, 26 miles. Alright, this is it, point two, POINT TWO, that is absolutely nothing. So naturally, it was the longest point two miles of my life. I eagerly searched for the finish line, where is ittttttttt. I was cruising at a rate that would get me there in under 3:35. This is not real, I thought. This isn't happening.

Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, I spotted it. The finish line. I turned off my ipod; I wanted to hear crowds, I NEEDED to hear crowds.

My legs were spent, my arms were spent, I wanted to cry and smile at the same time. My body wanted nothing more than to stop immediately and curl into the fetal position. But more than that, I wanted to take that last step across the line. I looked at my watch 3:32....holy crap, this is happening. I picked it up to what felt like the fastest sprint of my life (but of course was not), an leapt across the line.

3:33.22. Seven minutes to spare!? Did this just happen? My old buddy Faye came across the line moments after I had managed to catch my breath. We didn't exchange any words, but just looked at each other and smiled. She gave me a head nod and I smiled again. Classic.

I hobbled through the finish chute, and headed straight for the wonderful man handing out water. I grabbed one, and greedily asked for another, fumbled both of them, and dropped both of them just in time to have the photographer catch me. He laughed and said, "shall we try that again?" I smiled back, and said sure, as long as he didn't publish the first one online (Which he actually did, but I won't embarrass myself by showing making it public). 

I kept walking and had a space blanket wrapped around my body. I hadn't realized how cold I suddenly felt until it radiated heat through my body. Mmm.

I kept walking and was handed more food that I could hold.

I kept walking, and had a medal placed around my neck.

I felt so pampered, so dazed. I finally made my way out of the chute, and since Dan was nowhere in sight, I made my way to the finisher's Beer Garden, our initial meeting spot. I mean, you know me, how can I say no to free beer? They poured me a wonderfully chilled Sierra Nevada, and I plopped down on the ground with it. Here, I befriended two dudes, one from San Francisco and one from Canada, who kept me entertained for about half an hour, before I realized I should probably go find my people.

So I peeled myself off the ground like a crotchety old lady and wobbled over to our second designated meeting spot with Dan. There he was, sitting on a corner, relaxing. We smiled and hugged, he had finished just 2 minutes before me, and beating his previous marathon time by 5 minutes. Congrats to Dan! Shortly after, we met Emily(who finished her half and beat her previous time, congrats!) and her wonderful sister Eleni who had come all the way from Chicago just to support us. She even made a wonderful shirt for Emily and I, with a most ridiculous picture of the two of us Argentina.  

Here we are, all smiles for the three finishers:

 All smiles with Eleni (note ridiculous yet wonderful shirt):

 And exhausted, doing a whole lot of sitting back at home:

So here's to a day of successes. To 26.2 miles of San Francisco beauty. To a huge accomplishment. To achieving a goal I used to think was unreachable. To incredible soreness with a purpose. 

Cheers, and hope to see you at Copley Square next April!