After completing my first marathon in January 2008, I decided to keep this running thing going. Having a goal in sight usually made training breeze, and I guess the extra muscle tone that came along with it wasn’t so bad either.
Apparently still on my ‘runner’s high’ that March, I registered for the Disneyland half-marathon, scheduled for Labor Day weekend. I remembered how great I felt crossing the ‘half-way there’ mile marker (13.1 for those of you non-runners) and thought if I could do 26.2, 13.1 would be cake.
The goal was to start training in April, but I didn’t really buckle down and get serious until late June. Still, I wasn’t getting in the long runs I should have been, and by late July had still not broken 7 miles.
Nonetheless, I continued my trainings and eventually did make it past 7. I made it to 8.
Whoops.
But even though the 5 mile gap between 8 and 13 sounded big, I wasn’t too worried about it. I knew I was in good enough shape that if I kept my pace, I could pull the rest out with no problems. Besides, 8 miles is about where I reach the point where I can’t feel anything anyway.
My family, being the dedicated fans they are, flew out from the east coast. Yes, it was not just a running affair, it was a family affair.
With a crowd like this, you would think the pressure was starting to get to me—but I kept my cool and enjoyed spending a few leisurely days doing the Disney thing before race day.
The night before, I laid out all my gear and hit the sack early for a good night’s sleep. When 4:45 a.m. rolled around, I was up and ready to do all my race-day rituals: eat at a packet of strawberry oatmeal, make at least 3 trips to the bathroom and lube up with body glide (the stuff that prevents everything from chaffing to spontaneous combustion).
I said my goodbyes and took for the start-line along with thousands of other runners and walkers. The first part of the course led us through both parks—Disneyland first and then California Adventure, passing through Sleeping Beauty’s castle just as the sun was rising.
But it wasn’t all so magical.
The runners that flooded the course made the park more crowded than Miley Cyrus’ birthday party. It was almost as bad as the normal Disney traffic that usually includes strollers plowing you over ruthlessly like bulldozers. Not to mention it was impossible to keep a pace with these jokers stopping to take pictures with the characters that were swarming the course. You would have thought Mickey was a real giant mouse or something.
And with Snow White yelling “raise your hands if you are having fun” in her high-pitched Disney voice from the top of Mark Twain’s riverboat, I seriously contemplated heaving myself into the water between Tom Sawyer Island and Adventure Land.
Too bad Grumpy wasn’t on the course. I’m sure he would have felt my pain.
By the time we got through the second park, things had spread out. I was on pace, and it was a perfect day for a race—cloudy and cool. I saw my parents at mile 3 and after a quick high-five and posing for a picture for mom, was on my way.
I didn’t see them again until mile 10, where I was feeling better than ever. But then, something terrible happened.
The sun came out.
I guess I shouldn’t blame it all on the sun, but it is an easier scapegoat than admitting I hadn’t trained enough, so let’s just stick with that. I slowed down my pace significantly and in the rays of the hot summer sun, began to second guess why I ever decided to run this race in the first place.
I cursed my shoes, my sports bra, my SI joint and what seemed like millions of 65-year-olds who kept passing me.
I was done.
But just when I thought I was completely drained, I had an epiphany. Sure, it was probably just the heat, but it sure seemed like one. It was do or die—give in, or have the mental toughness to push forward and finish in a time I knew I was capable of.
Well obviously I picked the latter. Did you really think I would quit?!
I thought of my family and the miles they had all traveled to see me run this race. I thought of my 3-year-old nephew who in one of my trainings saw me walking and quickly informed that I was “supposed to be running”. But most of all, I thought my dad yelling over and over again, as he always does when I see him on the race course, “You’re good enough! You’re good enough! You’re good enough!”
And then, I ran. I ran as fast as I could. I didn’t stop. I didn’t think. I just ran.
I know I crossed the finish line, but to be honest, I have no recollection of actually doing it. Peeling off the course to recover, my hands hit my knees and I swung my head towards the ground.
Shortly after, I was greeted by a race volunteer. Feeling a little out of it, I asked her to escort me to a grassy spot a few yards away under the shade of a tree to recover. The next thing I knew, I was in a wheel chair.
(Photo from 'J.E.S.' via Flickr)
Borderline delirious, I gave it my best shot to stand up and prove I could walk. No such luck. I covered my race number and prayed to God that my parents or worse, the race photographer, weren’t watching this all go down.
I was wheeled into the medical tent where I was surrounded by more IV fluids, bananas and Powerade than I had ever seen in the same room. Finally, I stopped fighting it and embraced the air conditioned tent and bed-side service.
I figured that if my family would have witnessed this disaster, my mother would have already forced her way into the medical tent by now. Thankfully, I was right.
After proving I could walk in a straight line and drinking two giant bottles of water and three bananas, I was allowed to exit.
It was hard to leave though. Sure, the AC was nice a plus, but the hardest part was leaving all the other injured runners behind. There were runners who had all kinds of injuries—some big, some small, but each and every one of them had sucked it up and battled through for who knows how long. I overheard a lady say she felt a tendon in her knee snap at mile 6. But she, along with everyone else, had finished.
I left that tent feeling like a real runner. That is until I remembered what landed me in the medical tent in the first place and my zero recollection of what I’m sure was a dramatic finish.
I gathered what was left of my pride and headed to the family reunion area to meet up with my family—and with the exception of my brother, didn’t mention the incident to anyone.
A few days later I received an email notifying me that there were pictures available online from the race. I clicked to view them, and found close to 10 pictures of me high-fiving everyone from Donald Duck and Pluto to Mickey and Minnie Mouse upon crossing the finish line—something I have absolutely zero memory of.
Thanks for the memories, Walt!
