There is a mental note we make in our minds that list the hundreds of feats we hope to accomplish and, with time, we check some of them off and say, “I did that.”
On my list somewhere between getting married (October 5, 1995), attending my first Republican National Convention (August 1996) and graduating from college, was running a marathon.
New Year’s Eve 1996, my girlfriend, our husbands and I toasted 1997 and vowed not to make any resolutions, until we collectively realized the incoming year was the year we said we’d do the unthinkable. We would set out on the morning of March 2 and run the Los Angeles Marathon. Right, I laughed and had another glass of bubbly.
Begrudgingly, that week, my husband, Steve, and I halfheartedly started to train, but until March 2, I could not quite fathom what an accomplishment it would feel like to run the entire way in a marathon.
Two weeks before the race, as I cursed myself out for even entertaining the idea aloud that I would actually like to do this sometime in my life, I promised myself I would throw out my running shoes and never buy another pair after the race.
Two days before the race my husband made me run two miles. They were the longest two miles in my life. I knew race day was less than 48 hours away and I prayed for an earthquake.
As expected, the day arrived and the four of us drove to L.A., each of us strangely quiet. I knew we were all wondering who was the smart-ass who had too much champagne on New Year’s and opened her big mouth? Alas, at 8:45 a.m. we started our long, long five-hour-plus journey.
The first few miles were easy but I vividly remember mile nine and wondering to myself, why? Aren’t there better goals to accomplish like not bouncing any checks or eating five vegetables a day?
I remember the half way point and trying to smile when I saw my father and mother-in-law take pictures of me and Steve in all our glorious misery. My mouth smiled, but my eyes were singing a different tune.
Mile 16 was ridiculous, mile 19 was absolute hell and when my blisters began to pop somewhere in the early 20s I started repeating, “Pain is temporary, pride is forever.” Or vice versa.
Steve was my coach the entire way. He talked to me, he cheered me on, he told me I could do it. I could barely speak, let alone muster some kind words of encouragement for him but I think I grunted something and he understood.
Alas, just like I was told, there was a God, and a finish line. No way, I thought, it can’t be. Steve told me to get ready for the most amazing thing I’ve ever done in my life. I kept my head down and my feet moving and prayed that I would not fall until after they took the finisher photo.
At about this time, our long, lost friends appeared and we grabbed hands and ran across the finish line together. I knew going in that Steve would be there with me every treacherous step of the way, but only I could make myself run.
At the finish line, a man put a medal around my neck, said congratulations and took a picture of me on a pedestal that so simply said, finisher.
I had never been so happy or proud to have accomplished something. My sister gave me flowers, my parents brought champagne and we toasted the moment, all of us, looking downright exhausted, but perfectly happy.
I haven’t washed my running shirt yet but I did stop wearing my medal around the house. My toenails are still black from running and secretly I hope they stay black for a long time. I look at them and smile because they are a reminder of the check mark I made in my mind.
Lori Cruz, a senior political science major, is editorial director of the Campus Times. She can be reached by e-mail at cruzl@ulvacs.ulaverne.edu.
