Finished Being Fat: An Accidental Adventure in Losing Weight and Learning How to Finish (17 page)

The Park City Marathon started officially at six thirty in the morning. Along the route there were two checkpoints that a runner had to clear by certain times to ensure that they finished the course in the allotted time. The organizers had thoughtfully provided an earlier start time at 5:00 a.m. for race walkers, allowing an extra hour and a half to reach the checkpoints. If I was going to have a snowball’s chance in Hades, that was the only way. I needed to give myself every opportunity and advantage that I could.

Two days before the race, I was still technically a question mark on whether to attend. A quick mile run would help me make my final decision. If it went well, I would show up on race day at the earlier start time with Jarom at my side. If I couldn’t manage the mile, then I would go with Jarom and cheer from the sidelines. For the past two weeks I had been doing everything physically possible to encourage healing: rest, ice, heat, compression, you name it. And it seemed to pay off. I completed a mile run at a slow jog without too much discomfort.

It would have been so easy to just say, “Hey I’m injured. I’ve got a doctor’s note to prove it. It’s not really quitting.” I wasn’t concerned in the slightest what anyone else would say. I’m sure no one would have faulted me for being cautious and passing on the race. But I knew that I would beat myself up for the rest of eternity wondering what if. Wondering what would have happened and how far I could’ve gone.

I personally can’t stand a cliffhanger, so I opted to drag my butt to the start line and the inhumane hour of 5:00 a.m. There was a good chance that I wouldn’t be able to finish, but at least I would be able to say that I tried. And I would keep trying, keep moving forward until I couldn’t anymore. Then I’d drag myself a little farther until they carted me off the course.

I had made a commitment to this endeavor, and while life had stepped in and put an obstacle in my way, I was going to find a way around it. I might not make the whole twenty-six point two miles, but that was better than not starting at all. I needed to tweak my goal once again, but just a little. Sure I wanted to finish, but I would not do that at the expense of my health. My new goal was to get to the starting line, participate in a marathon, and see how far my bum leg would carry me. And whatever the outcome, as long as I gave every ounce that I had, it would be enough.

O
n August 20, ten months after the thud, Jarom and I woke up at 4:30 a.m. and got ready for the biggest, scariest event of our lives—aside from becoming parents, that is. The night before, I had pinned the racing bib on my shirt so the number 346 was proudly displayed. I’d also pre-packed my waist belt with water, energy gel, anti-inflammatory pain medicine, and an ACE bandage. Of course I hoped my leg held up, but I wanted to be prepared just in case.

We lined up with the other penguins at the starting line just before 5:00… in the dark. Fortunately we had thought to bring headlamps so we could see where we were running. The race official welcomed us and gave us a few course warnings. The course wasn’t closed, so we needed to watch for traffic. Also, since it was so early, the aid stations weren’t set up yet, so we were on our own. And as a last piece of advice: don’t get lost. It was predawn and dark, and there was a turn somewhere around mile four that people often missed.

My stomach was already in knots of nervousness, but the thought of getting lost and running in the wrong direction made me want to hurl my morning bagel. I was terrified that with my poor vision in particular, that I would miss the arrow on the pavement and keep going straight. My heart was palpitating and my breathing was erratic.

I turned around to go back to the hotel, but Jarom wouldn’t let me. He said, “Ha ha, very funny,” like I was just being silly. I’m not so sure. Part of me was definitely being dramatic and funny, but the other half was scared to death. I have a phobia of being lost from way back when I was a kid and my parents lost me in the Seattle-Tacoma airport. They were through the plane gate before they realized I was missing. I envisioned running off miles away from the course, in some random neighborhood. Jarom promised that he would make sure I didn’t get lost, and if we both missed the turn, then at least we would be together. Somehow that wasn’t as comforting as he intended it to be. While I had been freaking out, the race official had positioned everyone at the start. It was time to go.

There was no gunshot in the air, no crowd cheering, and thankfully no large throng of sardines. Just a man saying “good luck,” and then twenty people with flashlights and headlamps started their twenty-six-point-two-mile trek. There were a couple of solitary runners that took off pretty fast, but most of us were cloistered in small groups, joking and jogging casually.

Jarom and I started out at a fairly slow pace, even for us. We wanted to make sure to not push our injuries before the muscles had warmed up. Even at our slower start, within a mile we were at the front of the small pack, only three others ahead of us. Well, wasn’t that a change. Soon we were by ourselves with only the streetlights for company. It was so quiet and reverent that I couldn’t bring myself to break the spell with my headphones. So Jarom and I whispered back and forth to each other.

“Are we going the right way?”

“Yes, I saw an arrow just a minute ago.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, but you can go back and check if you want.”

“No, no I trust you. I can’t see a thing.”

“I know.”

Pause

“How’s your leg?” he asked.

I considered for a minute and took brief mental stock of my physical condition.

“Surprisingly well. And your calf?”

“Hasn’t bugged me yet.”

“Good, I’m glad. As long as we keep going the right way, I think we’ll finish.”

“I hope so.”

“Which? That we’re going the right way or that we’ll finish?”

“Both.”

And that was how we passed the first four and a half miles. As we approached the tricky turn, the morning sky began to bleed hues of pink into the void of black. It was a good thing the official had warned us ahead of time, because we would have missed it. You literally turned up someone’s driveway and next to their backyard to get to the bridge that helped you cross under the highway. One of the front-runners had missed it, because as we turned he came running back down the road from the opposite direction. “Oops,” he said as he passed us, earning a few chuckles in return.

As soon as we crossed under the overpass, the tension left my body. The dawn was beautiful, the world was still, and we felt as if were the only creatures on earth. The next few miles were magic, like Disney happily ever after magic. I’ve always enjoyed the benefits of running, both physical and mental, but I never actually enjoyed it while I was running. Sarah Michelle always said, “Isn’t it addicting? I just love the runner’s high.” My reply was that you had to be high to love running. Now I got it. I was in the zone and loved every step I took, knowing each one was taking me closer to the finish line.

Around mile eight, my leg muscles started twitching. I had been running for an hour and a half, so I reasoned that my leg must be getting a little tight. For the next mile, I backed off the pace a little bit but still said nothing to my running partner. By mile nine my hamstring felt like it was ripping itself in two. I grabbed Jarom’s arm and pulled him to the side.

“My leg is killing me. I’m going stop and try wrapping it and see if that helps.”

So I wrapped it and jogged a half-mile. It was better but still painful to run on. So I tried rewrapping it, trying to isolate the right muscles and bind them tight. For the next two miles I jogged, walked then stopped to reposition, run, walk and stop, and so on. It stopped getting better; it only got worse. Jarom’s watch beeping held no meaning for me anymore. I could only run for thirty seconds at time before the pain became unbearable. I was so screwed.

At mile twelve I knew that running was no longer an option. After only a few steps of running the pain was rending and excruciating, causing me to stop and rest for a minute by the side of the road. Well, now what? I wasn’t tired. I had the energy to keep going, but my leg said, “Uh-uh, no more.” I’d known from previous runs that stopping cools your muscles and that was a bad idea for me right now. So between miles twelve and thirteen I walked and pondered. What did I have to lose if I kept going? I wanted that stained-glass finisher medal, and I wasn’t going to get it if I gave up now.

It occurred to me that I hadn’t had to stop in pain recently, since I began walking in fact. Was it fixed? I hopped a little to confirm. Pain. Nope, not fixed. Okay then, running, jogging, or any skipping-like gait took my breath away it hurt so bad. Walking leisurely or even power walking, as long as I didn’t pick my leg up too high or bend the knee, was fine. Okay, that’s a lie. It wasn’t fine, and it still hurt like a son of a biscuit, but it was better. It was doable, and that’s all that I needed.

Jarom was a champ, sticking with me through the first thirteen miles, a half marathon’s worth. Our time for the first eight miles had been on target, but the last five had gotten progressively slower. I was going to give everything I had to get to the end, but I didn’t know realistically if that would be enough. Or how long it would take me. Jarom’s leg, on the other hand, was doing great, and he had an excellent chance at finishing the race, but only if he could clear the checkpoints in time.

“You need to go.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t run anymore. There is just no possible way, so I’m going to race-walk. But I have no idea how slow that’ll be. So you go on ahead and get past the checkpoints in time, and I’ll meet you at the finish, okay?”

Jarom looked at me dubiously. “Are you sure? You’ll be okay?”

“Yep, I’ll be fine. We’ve both got our phones, so I’ll text you if I get stuck.”

“Okay, I’ll text every couple miles and see where you are and how you’re doing.” He kissed my sweaty head and resumed Jarom speed.

Most of me was happy to see him go. This had started out as his dream, and I didn’t want to be a hindrance to his completion. I mean how awful would I feel if my slower pace made him too late, missing the allotted time to reach the checkpoint at miles seventeen and twenty? Honestly, only about 10 percent of me was staring at his back indignant in unbelief that he actually took off without me.

Not too long after Jarom left, a man flew by me. This was most likely the eventual marathon winner. I’d had an hour and a half head start, and around mile fourteen, he had caught up. As he whizzed by, I clapped and whistled encouragingly. He smiled graciously and didn’t miss a step; he couldn’t because his competition was hot on his heels. It was pretty cool to see the fast runners in action. They were pretty amazing. Not too much later, the fastest female passed me. She was long and lean and actually waved at me as she passed my hooting and hollering.

I wanted to stop and get her autograph she was so awesome, but that was not really practical in the middle of a race. For a minute I had actually forgotten that, since I was going at such a leisurely pace. Not to mention I wasn’t tired at all and was having fun. My phone shrilled at me, indicating I had a new text. Jarom was letting me know he was now at the first checkpoint a mile ahead. I checked my watch and realized that as long as kept the same pace, I too would reach the checkpoint in plenty of time. Well, hot dang, my race wasn’t over just yet.

I picked up the pace and pushed myself faster until my leg protested, then I eased off a little bit. My own fancy watch said my pace was averaging fourteen-and-a-half-minute miles. Not too shabby for walking. I did some quick math and realized that as long as I kept going, I was going to make it; I was going to finish a marathon.

The first checkpoint was at the ski resort, and one of the first real challenging aspects of the course, a steep incline. Halfway up the hill, Jarom texted his progress again, and I texted back that I was almost at the checkpoint. He seemed a little surprised that I hadn’t fallen further behind. I admit I felt a little bit of competition. It was blatantly obvious that Jarom was going to beat me, but I was going to narrow that gap any way I could. On the way back down the incline from the ski lodge, I had the brilliant idea to see if I could run briefly on this quarter-mile stretch of downhill. Stupid, but my leg was feeling so much better, I thought it might be worth it to try again. The only thing I accomplished was maybe gaining ten seconds and making my leg sore all over again.

My renewed pain made the next mile stretch the most difficult of the whole marathon, it was mile eighteen. When I passed that mile marker, I realized that this was the furthest I had ever run (walked, limped… whatever) in my life. I hit a wall. Not literally this time, just figuratively. People were now passing me left and right, and it was a little hard to be left behind. There were eight miles left, and I wasn’t sure I had them in me.

Running over a wooden bridge, I saw a little girl on the sidelines, ringing a cowbell and holding a sign for her mom. She was a little blondie just like my girls. When I passed her, she waved and smiled and rang her cowbell for me. Tears ran down my face of their own accord. Lily and Autumn were at home with Grandpa, but I imagined they were here watching me and cheering me on. As I passed other people, they too shouted encouragement and clapped, and I’m sure I looked like an idiot, walking as fast as I could, crying. I smiled through my tears and kept moving, never breaking stride. I’m pretty sure if I stopped, even for a second, I would not be able to get going again.

It was getting harder to continue, and my chest was tight from trying to keep from crying. I didn’t know what the tears were about. I was happy and touched by the crowd’s support. I was also overwhelmed and in pain. Before I knew it, I could see the bigger steep hill ahead, the reason this course was labeled as difficult. What if I couldn’t climb it or had to stop because my leg stalled out? It looked really hard. At the base of the hill, next to the arrow, was a frowny face spray painted on the pavement. Good to know it wasn’t just me that didn’t like this part. Looking up, I could see lots of runners that had breezed by me not too long ago leaning over and panting. As far as I could see, not a single person was running up the hill; they were all walking or hiking.