Running the Philadelphia Marathon

Alas, that fateful day has come and gone. A marathon under my belt and four giant ice packs on my legs.

So I’ll preface this by saying, this is not a story where everything clicked into place, the stars aligned, and I effortless cast myself upon the finish line. This is more like a modern day Disney film. There’s a happy ending, but certainly some heartache along the way.

I woke up Sunday morning with a range of emotions spinning inside my head. I picked out my outfit the night before. Sitting on the hotel room desk was my black and white running shorts and a cotton Livestrong t-shirt that sat comfortably across my shoulders and was just soft enough to prolong any nipple irritation.

Along with my predetermined apparel, I practiced choosing my attitude as easily as I did my outfit. A positive mentality seemed to be one of the paramount tips to running a marathon. Seems easy enough reading it in a 300 word article, but walking at 5:30 in the morning amongst thousands of other runners to stand behind a long, narrow, white line makes it a little bit harder to maintain this focus.

I found my starting corral. They were separated by colors and mine was green. I also found a tall, sturdy spruce tree that was currently unoccupied. I reached out my hand and leaned on it’s coarse bark as I stretched my quads.

I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by all the people. They walked by with all these little running nicknacks. I saw it all.

Gel packs tucked into tiny pockets in their shorts, small water bottles sitting on lightweight belts strapped around their wastes, and flat Camelbak backpacks that could hold two liters of water with a nozzle that would run right to your mouth.

I don’t know if I was stretching or admiring or nervous, but before I knew it people were beginning to line up.

6:57am. They were getting ready to send off the first wave of elite runners. I don’t remember being all too nervous here. To my left was a man wearing a green jets cap who was well into his fifties. To my right was a younger woman. Tall and slender, she had two tattoos of angel wings on her calves along with some more down her arms that I couldn’t quite make out.

I thought to myself, “I can do this.”

As runners took off we got closer and closer to the starting line, until there I was, a few steps away from running 26.2 miles. I pressed play on my marathon playlist and “Ours” by The Bravery came on. I couldn’t help but think this was the perfect song to start a marathon to.

I crossed the starting line. The adrenaline felt like it was thumping against my heart as a cool rush ran up my head. 25,000 people were running in this marathon, but the amount of people watching must have been twice that. We ran through streets piled with people holding signs, cheering, clapping, smiling.

The surge of energy in those opening miles was palpable. “I was doing it,” I thought to myself, “I was about to run a marathon.”

It took my body till about mile 9 to realize that my novice stretching job was going to have some major repercussions. My calves tightened, I started getting shooting pains in my knees, and for some reason the outside of my left butt cheek was much stiffer than the right. And this was mile 9! I still had 17 miles left to run. I started getting nervous.

“Be loose.”

“Trust your training.”

“You’re only on mile 10.”

“Just be loose.”

“I can’t stop. It’s not an option.”

“Ow, my knee hurts.”

“Yep. Still on mile 10.”

This cycle of thoughts perpetuated through my head like the yin yang of marathon running. With every negative thought came a positive one to follow it, and for that matter, vice-versa.

Before the marathon, the farthest I had run was just over 17 miles. I thought this was quite the accomplishment at the time, but when your body is beginning to break down and you have another 9 miles to run, well, that’s when you understand what a marathon really takes.

My feet ached, my legs were burning, my left knee was starting to give, I was incredibly thirsty, and I was beginning to worry that I might not be able to finish.

By mile 20 my pace had slowed down dramatically. My focus shifted on just moving my feet forward. All this physical pain had created some of the most significant doubts I had ever faced.

Mile 22, photographers. Shit. I’d say about 90% of me didn’t even care about my slow pace being photographed. But that other 10% wouldn’t have it. My pace quickened, as I covered my facial expression with a neutral tone.

Snap. Snap. Snap. Only 4 miles left.

Honestly I’m not sure what happened in these last few miles. I have a theory that, I just blacked out like Will Ferrell did in Old School during those college debates. But what I do remember, was the most memorable experience for me. It was the final mile.

People lined up and down the streets stretching to the finish line. I unplugged my headphones to hear people cheering, “Come on Chris, you can do it!” “You’re almost there Chris!”

The bib numbers had each runner’s name printed on the side. It was quite extraordinary. With the help of literally thousands of strangers, I was able to keep moving forward, keep pushing. And with each step forward, the finish line grew closer and closer. Till there it was.

Like a nomad who has found water in the desert, the site of that finish line was truly sublime. I crossed that same long, narrow white line I had started at 26 miles back and heard two voices off to my left.

There stood my parents. My dad nodding his head in my direction, and my mom with the most heartfelt smile stretching across her face.

I did it. I had accomplished something that at one time I thought of as profoundly ridiculous.

A friend who had run the marathon as well, and many before this, said to me, “now you know.”
He was certainly talking about what it’s like to run a marathon, but he was also alluding to what is possible when you commit to an outcome.

Running the Philadelphia marathon was an extraordinary experience. It was the discovery and rediscovery of one’s potential. It stripped away every other superfluous circumstance and acted as a connection to and instigator of the visceral possibilities that continually lie within us.

As for my next marathon, who knows what’s possible, but I’m thinking New York.

This post is dedicated to two very loving parents who endlessly support and believe in their truly grateful son.