I mean, if I close my eyes right now and try to picture it all, there are some vivid flashes, but there are also a lot of blanks.
There are actual miles I cannot remember.
I can see the start line.
I can see the sun, just coming up, in front of a sea of runners waiting for their timed corral to be released.
I see the helicopter circling above us and I can feel the goose bumps I get every time a national anthem is sung live.
I can see the military runners who carry a flag for the entire distance.
But generally speaking, I don't remember the crowd.
I can't think of one outfit or one person who stands out in that two hour time frame that I can clearly envision.
I did, however, see every one of those Mile Markers.
I made sure after my GPS lady on MapMyRun told me a mile had passed that I double checked and made sure the banner was there and I wasn't too far off. I focused on the math after each mile, calculating what my best and worst case finish time could be.
I can see the littered Dixie cups at every water station that I skip around so I don't slip on one.
I see Angie and Brenna at mile 7 cheering me on, as I throw my long sleeve shirt at them and keep going for the second half of the race.
And then it all gets kind of hazy.
My legs feel strong.
Much stronger than last year.
There is no cramping.
My toes don't even cramp when I get close to the end.
I'm taking deep breaths in and out.
I feel calm.
I am completely in a hypnotic trance.
As I turn the corner passing mile 13 and enter into the stadium towards the finish line, I can see the spectators are a few deep on both sidelines. I can't see Angie and Brenna. I'm looking where Angie was last year and I can't see them. My pace is solid, just humming along at a 9:30 mile, slow and steady, and then I see the finish line.
As I round the last bend, I start to sprint.
It still feels surreal that I'm going to beat my goal.
The last probably 60 feet I ran faster than I have since grade school.
I used every single last second of effort I had on that football field.
They announced that I crossed at 2.05.27
The photos show that it was actually 2.07.27
(let the record state that technically the results are incorrect and I ran 6 minutes faster than last year, not 8.)
I grab a bottle of water and wrap myself in one of those silly tinfoil sheets they hand out at the finish line and start to walk to cool down.
My lungs are on fire.
I can't get enough air.
I'm breathing deeply but there is no air getting in.
I'm flat.
Emotionally, I'm completely flat.
I have NOTHING.
I start to mentally survey my body.
I think I have shin splints.
I'm pretty sure I have blisters.
My clothes are sopping wet.
I can taste the salt from the sweat on my face.
I forgot my medal.
I need more water.
I am now starting to limp.
2.07.27
Wait a minute.
I should be over the moon.
Why do I not feel anything?
I need an inhaler.
I haven't had sports asthma since I was a child but it's completely flared up right now.
I don't even have an inhaler here.
I'm completely spent and I can't breathe.
I have to get to Angie and Brenna.
I don't even know where they are.
It feels like it's too much work to get my phone out of my pocket to text her.
I screen shot my finish time and post it to Facebook.
I mean, that's what this is all about, right?
I wrote a post on setting goals and I talked every single reader through my training plan. I told you everything I had done to try and ensure that my run this year was going to be better than the last. Set out to complete a goal time, created an action plan, and checked everything off the list. Setting a marvelous example for everyone to goal set and achieve what they set out to do.
So, why do I feel nothing?
I outran every emotion in my soul.
I couldn't think.
I was numb.
Somehow, unintentionally, I gave up my enjoyment of this run.
I wasn't present for any of it.
I have learned that, for me, the high isn't about running a personal best if it comes at the cost of being completely immersed in the experience.
I missed the true beauty of all the other runners around me, the spectators in the local community and how it shuts down for this event.
I pushed my body to it's limit and saw only tunnel vision for the finish line.
I beat my goal but I didn't beat my experience of the year before and I didn't actually become truly present until it was over.
***
I am standing waiting for Angie's husband Mike to run in as the first full marathoners start to make their way to the finish.
There is a young man who rounds the last corner and his legs buckle. He grabs on to the railing where the spectators are standing and his legs are like rubber as he tumbles to the ground. You can see the pain on his face from how little he has to run to cross the finish line. He forces himself back up and his sheer determination and will allow him to finish just as his legs give way. He crumbles to the ground and the medics rush out onto the field.
My heart swells as I see Mike.
He's hurt.
I can see he's hurting.
He's limping and grabbing onto his calf.
We're screaming from the sidelines.
"Come on Mikey!!!!! You are almost there!!!! You can do it!!!!!!"
I wanted to jump over the guard rail and bring him in. Just let me get in there. He can put his arm around me and I can walk him to the end. It was breaking my heart to see him struggle.
"Come on Mikey!!!!!! You got this. One more minute!!!!!!"
I am absolutely overcome with emotion as I watch his arms go over his head in celebration as he crosses the line.
His toes are cramping.
His calf is cramping.
He is dehydrated.
At what cost do we complete this race?
***
It is hours later and I am sitting in a lawn chair in the driveway with a Bud light (there is nothing wrong with this by the way), a bag of frozen blackberries on my shins, diaper rash cream nursing the welts on the inside of my legs, a blood blister airing out on my left toe and Angie's inhaler beside me so I can breathe.
This is what fit looks like.
This is what achieving goals looks like.
And I actually said to her - "Ang, you should seriously consider running a half marathon."
I mean, how comical is that, really?
Look at the state I was in and I was trying to sell this idea like I was the poster child of running sitting with frozen fruit on my legs.
So if you were to ask me if it was worth it, I'm not sure last Sunday I would have said yes.
I am proud that the efforts and steps I took paid off and I achieved my goal.
But I wouldn't do it again.
I would definitely run again.
Just not like that.
I would still train the way I did but I would make an effort to be much more mindful and soak it all in.
I wouldn't care if I stopped for 8 seconds for a cup of water, instead of running trying to drink it, having it drip all down my shoes.
I would take one extra second to appreciate all of the volunteers who patiently handed out liquids to every runner who needed hydration that hardly got a smile of thanks.
I would slow down when I saw a sign that said "press here for power" and smile and thank them for their support.
I would stop before mile 8 for water.
I would show gratitude to the spectators.
I would wave at the police officers redirecting traffic.
***
I thought the journey with this goal was in the training, and the race itself was the destination.
I was given a good reminder last Sunday.
The destination isn't the race, it's the finish line.
And the journey isn't the training, it's appreciating and taking in every single mile and moment on that 13.1 mile course.
"Joy is found, not in finishing an activity, but in doing it."
- Greg Anderson
