Marathon #2

After I finished my first half marathon my senior year in college, I swore I would never run again.  Well, never run further than 6 miles again anyway.  It was the worst running experience of my life.  Temperatures in the high 80s (which, for a Chicagoan, might as well be running in a desert), no shade, poor training, and no fan club.  It was miserable.  I finished in about 2 hours and then spent the rest of the day curled up in the bathroom sick from dehydration.

And yet, here I am, three 10-mile races, three half marathons, and two full marathons later...

My first full marathon was the Chicago Marathon last year.  I signed up for it one night at 2am when I was still at the client site and decided I needed a new goal outside of working ridiculous hours.  My colleagues who were present at the time told me I was crazy... and still think I'm crazy.

Papa Phil, aka Daddy, came in town for the event.  He navigated the "L" train system to catch me as at many points as he could and was there to cheer me on through the finish line.  Arguably most importantly, he was there to practically carry me from the post race celebration to the closest L station, hold me up in the throngs of other runners on the train, and get me home safely in my post-race state of delirium (which was not helped by the fact that upon crossing the finish line, the nice people from Goose Island Brewery hand you two delicious 312 beers. Amazing).

I finished the Jacksonville Marathon this morning.  My mom, having never attended a running event before, cheered me on the entire way with my dad.  I would not have been able to do it without them.  Seriously, at about mile 11, I was convinced I was done.  The first 10 miles were awesome, just under 8 minute pace and cruising, and then... I realized that no, eating pull porked sandwiches and drinking beer the night before was in fact not a good idea. 

My dad made fun of Mom when her advice to me at the beginning of the race was, "Focus, take deep breathes, and you'll do great!" but the deep breathes got me past the painful miles 11 - 16.  Most people struggle after hitting the infamous wall at mile 20, but for me the middle is the worst (especially the morning after a family Christmas party).   Fortunately, my parents made it to every single spectator station. Their cheering was so amazing that after the race, a couple fellow runners approached my mother and thanked her for her enthusiasm!

The finish, however, was bittersweet.  I missed Boston qualifying by one minute.  One. Measly. Minute.  3:42.  I needed 3:40:59. BUT I beat my Chicago Marathon time by seven minutes.  Guess I'll just have to qualify at the Houston Marathon on January 30th...

And yes, if you were wondering, I did wear my Finisher's medal all day long. Even to the grocery store.  Because I'm just that cool.