It’s time,” I wrote to friends and family last week. “The Baltimore Marathon is just four days away. I have trained since May. I have woken early, run long miles, iced, and stretched. I have my sneakers. I have my racing jersey. There is nothing left to do but my best.”
Five months ago, I pledged to run the 26.2-mile marathon for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. While I had prepared for the race, I hadn’t expected it to be such a huge event. With more than 20,000 registered to run — 4,000 of us for the full 26.2 miles — the race rivaled the Boston Marathon.
I won’t say that I wasn’t nervous as I stood behind the starting line at 7:30 Saturday morning. We were divided into sections based on expected running time; elite runners first, and the rest of us spread out from there. My teammates and I wore matching purple jerseys, our numbers pinned to our fronts. The crowd of people lined up was so huge that I could hardly hear the national anthem. When the starting gun finally went off and confetti flew through the air, it took me five minutes to get to the starting line.
When the mass of runners crested our first hill, I got my first good glimpse of our crowd. The motion of bobbing heads made us look like a giant wave, a sea of runners. Even as I settled into my own pace, starting my own, solitary journey toward the finish line, my heart swelled with the feeling that I was part of something much bigger than myself, surrounded by others struggling toward the same goal.
As the racecourse took us winding through the streets of Baltimore, people came outside to cheer us on. Little kids, their braids still fuzzy from bed, lined up on the sidewalk to give us high-fives. Some waved signs and rang cowbells. All along the racecourse, Baltimoreans encouraged the runners: Bands played, volunteers handed out Gatorade and water, strangers cheered on strangers. One woman stood outside of her house distributing Kleenex, while another man handed out gummy bears. I fed on the festive energy of the crowd.
A husband who had already gone around one turn passed a wife some 10 minutes behind him in the race, running in the opposite direction on the same road; they broke ranks, leaned over the orange cones and kissed, then kept running in their respective lanes. The policewoman minding race traffic yelled at them. “No smooching in my intersection!” Everyone who could breathe laughed.
Slowly, I ticked the miles off. First it was seven, then 10, and then suddenly I was passing the 16th mile marker. The course took us back down to the harbor and across the other side of the city into my own neighborhood, where my sneakers knew the pavement well. I kept my feet going, not stopping, nor thinking about what I was doing or how far I would go.
At mile 20 I began to count the miles backward. I knew, then, that I would finish. I began passing people, knowing that if I slowed down, I would lose my euphoria and start to break. I picked out the purple jerseys of teammates, caught up with them and cheered them on —“Keep going, you look amazing! Stay strong”— and then continued on past them to the next person. A mantra repeated in my head, “Pain is temporary. Pride is forever. Pain is temporary. Pride is forever.” An ambulance went by, but I kept running.
My coach waited for me at the foot of the Howard Street Bridge: mile 24. “How are you doing?”
“Great,” I panted.
“You look strong. How are your legs?”
“Can’t really feel them.”
“OK, I’m going to run you up this hill— it’s the last one. Look at that green sign. That’s the top. Put your head down, and let’s go.”
The last two miles were downhill, and every pulverized muscle screamed with the new, braking motion. So many people crowded the sidelines that I could hardly see the route. I will never forget the relief I felt when I saw the banner marking the finish line. Heart in my throat, I tried to sprint.
Crossing the finish line, I slowed to a walk for the first time in 4½ hours, and everything became surreal and dreamlike. Runners wandered through the finishers pen in a similar, aimless state, some lying down on the pavement, others just standing in place. Salt visibly crusted our bodies. I wrapped myself in a space blanket and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, slowly, cooling down.
When I found my teammates and hugged them, it all became real to me: I had done it. I had finished my first marathon.
Today I am hobbling around, sore but happy. I proved to myself that I could do it, and that’s something I will always have.
Meg Adams, who grew up in Holden and graduated from John Bapst Memorial High School in Bangor and Vassar College in New York, shares her experiences with readers each Friday. For more about her adventures, go to the BDN Web site: bangordailynews.com or e-mail her at madams@bangordailynews.net.