On Saturday, October 9th, the eve of the marathon, I took one very last jog. The purpose was to loosen up my muscles and get my blood flowing just a little bit before the big race. I knew I wouldn’t break a sweat; it was only a 2-mile run, a slow run, but still, it was an important run. Why was it important? Because it was the last run of my training. It was number 150 out of 150 jogs. It was mile 471-473 out of the 473 miles of training runs. (Ok, so I skipped a few). But more important than the significance of it being the last run before the marathon, it was a mile where I was able to ask myself, “So what?”
So. So what happened? What did I just spend the last six months of my life dedicated to? How was it? How did I do? And was it worth it? What was I trying to do, and what happened as a result of this incessant running?
Answer: I came back to life.
I didn’t start running to lose weight, or to win a race, or to impress anyone. I started running because I was dead: I was afraid of feeling anything, afraid of moving or being seen. I was depressed, scared of getting hurt again—by the world, and by my self. I didn’t trust my body—it deceived me when I got pregnant (while on birth control pills); it deceived me when the baby died before it could be born. My mind was angry at the world for being sympathetic. And my mind was angry at my body for . . . I don’t know what for. For failing me? For deceiving me? For doing its own thing? I don't know. But I realize I was not living my best life—I was barely living, and the only, only, only solution I could think of was to just put one f-ing foot in front of the other and take it from there. So that’s what I did. And 473 miles later, when Andrew asked me how I felt about having to run a marathon when I woke up in the morning, I realized that I was awake, and was alive again, and I was happy and grateful and was kicking fucking ass.
So we got to the point of being able to run a marathon. But it’s not like it was easy, or ever got easy. Running—the cramps and side stitches and desire to procrastinate and put it off for another day—never gets easier. Sure, you get used to 3 miles, or 6 or 16, but it’s always tough. In fact, I just read an article in the NY Times about athletes. It basically said that mental tenacity — and the ability to manage and even thrive on and push through pain — is a key segregator between the mortals and immortals in running. You have to be motivated, and to find this motivation, you must resist the feeling that you are too tired and have to slow down. Instead, you have to concentrate on increasing the intensity of your effort. Nike really, really did hit the nail on the head when they instructed us to Just Do It.
Andrew asked me what my thoughts were on the six months of training. “What would you do differently? How do you think you did?” I know I could’ve done better. Sure, I can run 26 miles now. But I could have ran them faster. Or trained harder: felt the burn more, skipped less runs, pushed myself to a new limit. I KNOW I could have because there were many times when I felt a cramp and slowed down, or even walked. I took the liberty of taking many drink breaks at nearly every drinking fountain in Prospect Park during long runs. I skipped runs when there was a tiny drizzle coming from the sky. I shuffled my priorities, convinced myself I might be getting a cold and needed to stay in. I could’ve done better.
And I will. Oprah said, “running is the greatest metaphor for life, because you get out of it what you put into it.” I could've trained better, I can always do better, be a better athlete, etc. but that wasn't the point. The point was to beat depression, not win a marathon. There were countless nights where I'd cry in bed and ask my husband, “when will I start to feel better? When will I start to feel better?” And thank the Lord, that time has come. I. Feel. Better. I feel better.
The night before the marathon, we slept at my aunt Mary’s home in Forest Park, Illinois. We ate a huge vegetarian feast of spinach pie, bean salad (my mom forgot we’d be running the next morning), bread, squash soup, hummus, greens and fruits and more beans. Everyone was giddy.
Sabina, Mary, Mom and Andy made signs. Then, we went to an expo at a convention center where we picked up our race packets, and where I got really excited.
Everything was MARATHON. Everyone was PUMPED. And of course, I am easily excited by free samples, free power gels and cold compresses and nutrition bars. Dad and I stopped to watch a video from last year’s race, and of course, we cried. Then we picked up 2 free posters. We saw Dean Karnazes posing for photos. He ran 50 marathons in 50 states in 50 days. Dad said that when a man gets to be that strong, he stops getting his periods. I took a picture with a giant shoe instead.
We all went to bed that night early and excited. Dad and I laid out our clothes, and I went to the bathroom about 4 times, hoping I could clear everything out. . . here’s the thing: my number one worry, or concern, wasn’t winning the race, or even finishing. I was really preoccupied with the scenario of whether or not I would have to go #2 during the race. Or if I might have to go #2 but wasn’t sure if it was my intestines digesting or butterflies, or a cramp from running, or from being hungry. Or gas. What if I thought it was gas, but really turned out to be something else, like the REAL DEAL?? And if that became the case, what would I do? Would I run with an extra pair of shorts? Should I have Andrew or my mom carry an extra pair, and IF I were to soil myself, would I have to run with poopy pants until I got to the mile where they’d be waiting for me with my shorts? Or if I felt gassy, would I hold it until I was close to the mile where clean shorts would be available? Or go to a port-a-potty? But what if there were many false alarms—how would this affect my timing? And what about Dad? Was this fair to him? He just wants to run. Ugghh. It was quite a hypothetical dilemma. So I tried to cleanse myself as much as possible before the race, and when the day came, all went well. Basically, the morning of the race, my butt said to me, "Mira. Don't worry. I got this. I got this one, it's under control. We're shutting off all systems, no one will be working until after the marathon. You do your thing and don't worry about me [your butt]. You just run." And that's what happened. No tummy cramps, no nothing. I just ran.
But back to the night before. The night before, I was surprised I could sleep. No nightmares of oversleeping, or running the race naked, or getting lost on the way, or soiling myself. When the morning came, the alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. and I shot up out of bed, and hummed the tune to “Eye of the Tiger” for Andrew, who was already awake in bed. Dad was up, the house was stirring, and at 5:45 a.m., we walked to the train that would take us to the city to join the rest of the 40,000 runners.
It's incredible to think about how so many people were voluntarily doing something so challenging, and so GOOD for themselves. And most people were running to raise money for a charity. More importantly, everyone had such a deeply personal reason for running. As we arrived at the marathon starting corral, this sentiment moved me profoundly--the thought that we’d all be feeling pain together soon. And we wanted to, because we wanted to be better people after crossing the finish line.
45 minutes before the race, Dad and I got in a port-o-john line, one last time, then smooshed our way into the starting coral. We chose to run with the 4:30 (10 minute mile) group. We stood there. We waited. We heard the star-spangled banner. We waited and waited. The wheelchair group took off. The elites took off. We waited, our line shifting and buzzing. Then, the shuffling feet started moving faster, so we started moving, faster and faster and suddenly, we saw the Start Line. Dad looked at me, we high-fived, and off we went.
In the beginning, it was really hard not to run fast. It was so exciting, and you couldn’t help but feel just a little competitive. But thanks to Andrew, with his consistent coaching and mantras, I remembered that a steady pace wins the race. And I had to keep reminding my dad to slow down. He was so happy. Dad smiled for the first 10 miles, and the 16.2 that followed, even. He never seemed to tire. He fed of the crowd’s energy. He was SO enthusiastic and optimistic and fun.
At first, though, I had to keep reminding him to be careful not to elbow me in the boob, which he kept doing, accidentally. He swings his arms a lot when he runs. I'm not sure if I eventually just went numb, or if he was more cautious, but I don’t recall any elbowing past mile 10.
Sabina, Andrew, and my mom stationed themselves at a few spots along the course. I saw my love Andrew at mile 8ish (?), then again at 12, along with Sabina and my mom, who was wearing a lavender jumpsuit. (We called it the Elvis jumpsuit.)
They were easy to spot: my mom’s super-Polish jumpsuit, my sister’s huge smile and loud cheers, their tall yellow signs, Andrew’s bright red shirt. Having people there is almost better than water. You’re tired, but you’re running towards them—you’re running for them, and they’re waiting for you, to hug you and nourish you. They pulled us towards mile 12, and after that, we could look forward to seeing them at mile 22.
I didn’t start feeling “unpleasant” until mile 22. But what was worse than feeling tired, or sore, or spent, was the anticipation of it. See, pain doesn’t hurt. What is pain? Aside from breaking a leg, or having a limb torn off, or child labor, I guess, the pain of running isn’t really pain. At times, it’s the opposite of a pleasant feeling, but it’s not really pain. You wait for the feeling, which is the exhausting part. And when it comes, the best thing to do is just either explore, or FEEL it, and realize that it isn’t so bad. And then, you just keep running.
The thing that did suck was that the temperature in Chicago got up to about 85 degrees. We’d been chilling in 60/65 degree weather before then. When you’re at mile 22, and you’re tired, and grouchy (me, not Dad), and thirsty and your feet have blisters and you know you’re still four point two miles from being done, hot weather is no joke. Although, Dad’s tactic for the hot weather, aside from constant refueling of Gatorade and water, was to make a joke out of it. “I love this sun! I love the heat! I’m so happy to be getting my vitamin D fix!” In fact, he never complained once.
Around mile 20, I had asked him how his knee was doing (it was a problem knee). He smiled and dodged the question. After the race was over, he limped and said it had been hurting him since around mile 5, but he just let it be. How does one be so positive? Running this race, running a marathon, doing anything that is hard and painful and not easy really strips a person down to their bare essential being. I know I get grouchy and still find reasons to avoid pain, or things that are difficult, or MIGHT be difficult, to put it more accurately. But my dad is so pure, and has a disciplined drive to be good. And he is good. He loves people, he wants the best for people, and that seems to be what fuels him. Not his own problems, his dilapidated knee, his pains or sorrows or reasons to quit or complain. He just loves. And he just keeps going.
Dad practically cheered for the crowd, who, at times, was flaccidly clapping along the sidelines, and at times, some were smoking. I will say that Boy’s Town was my favorite place to run through. Those guys went all out: a stage with go-go dancers singing to “It’s Raining Men” and other disco hits. The course was great: flat, clean, at times dull, but more often than dull, FUN. There was an Elvis impersonator, a Chinese gong/percussion band, a high school marching band, cheerleaders in uniform, dogs, elderly people, street bums, Salsa music . . . then, we get to mile 22, where low-and-behold, we see the best sight for sore eyes (and feet): Mom, Sabina, Andrew, my aunts and uncles and cousins, all red-faced (it was hot out. And they were excited), teary-eyed, giant smiles, laughs . . . everyone had a moment where their hearts were just plain happy to see one another, and there was a reason for the gathering . . . but I’m not sure what it was underneath the reason of it being a race. They came to watch the race, to cheer us on, but it was for something more than that. Love? Family? Support? I think it’s love. Which is complex and cannot really be explained.
Andrew ran with us from mile 22 – 25. He was in jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and a backpack. He ran to support us, and of course, I was grouchy. Can I get you water? NO. A banana? NO. Gatorade? NO. NO. NO. I just need to focus on running. I was bitchy, and luckily, he was used to it. He knew I was tired. Thought it was funny. As did my dad, who was still chipper.
But it was so freaking hot out. And we were running in the direction of the sun. And were in a desolate area on the route, where no one was cheering, and the buildings were ugly. Then, we turned a corner, and things picked up. I grabbed a cup of Gatorade, and a volunteer cheered, “only 2 more miles guys!”. TWO MORE MILES! We had accomplished 24. All we had to do was get to 25 and it’d be a breeze. We hit the “dig deep zone”, a spot that the marathon organizers set up with loud music, cheerleaders, banners, excitement, etc. etc. The fact that it was called the Dig Deep Zone actually inspired me to dig deep. See, during the run, you pull out these mantras that you’ve picked up along the way. My favorites: Make every step count. YOU ARE HERE NOW. (Be present). Trust your training. But Dig Deep really did it for me. It’s all I could do: focus on each step, yes, but I was numb. So all I could do was dig deep.
Then. Mile 25. We see Mom and Sabina and the rest of the gang. I see my Aunt Mary with a bouquet of flowers from my agent Cheryl, who is one of the first non-family members who really believes in me, and also, is a marathon runner and animal rescuer. Seeing the flowers and my family and their bewilderment that we actually were alive at mile 25 pushed us forward. We said hi and goodbye (to Andy), and then, it was just us. Just Dad, me, and 1.2 miles. “This is it!” We looked at one another again. We smiled so big, and ran. The crowd wasn’t cheering as much as watching. Watching these people, crazy people, finish the LAST MILE of their journey. Thousands of journeys and reasons and accomplishments were one mile from being finished. It was almost like they were watching people right before they went into heaven.
Ahead of us, a road. At the end of the road, a right turn. Point two miles to go. We hear music, an announcer, cheering, and look up, and see . . . a hill. A hill right before another turn. We run up the hill, and Dad runs past a very obese woman. He shouts, “Wow. Look at this guy,” and while I’m sure Dad was touched and proud of the person, and not making fun, though he didn't realize that it was actually a woman. Luckily, she didn’t hear him. But I’m confused and wondering how she beat us to the last leg of the race. We ran the entire time, ran it in less than 5 hours. She didn’t have a wheelchair, and couldn’t have started with the elite runners. So now, I’m a bit confused as to how she got closer to the finish line so much faster than the rest of the runners. My aunt told me that a lot of people cheat at the marathon—there are corners to cut, and paths to take to get ahead. But what would be the point of that? Isn’t the purpose of finishing, not to finish, but do have endured and embraced the process?
At the top of the hill, we took a left, and we saw it. “FINISH LINE”. Our feet started to move fast, on their own—I didn’t tell mine to pick up the pace. “We did it. We just ran a marathon,” I said and grabbed Dad’s hand. “We’re not there yet!” he said. But then, 20 seconds later, we were. We were done. We finished. It was over. It was over. It was over.
Then, there were the Mylar blankets, the beer, the mass-produced medals, the bagels and bananas and water and pretzels and photographers. And lots of hugging.
It had been awhile since I had felt so connected to my dad. Ever since I grew up, I’d been missing feeling like his kid, a daughter, and him, my dad. I get sick of being a grown-up. But being with him, I felt like I had a leader. A role model. A beacon. A light. And having him be that light guiding me through something so metaphorical: a painful path—filled me with so much joy. I felt so close to my Dad, too. We had endured something so profound and tough, and we felt the same feelings, and confronted them, and got through it. And that feeling of accomplishment and joy lasted for the rest of the weekend, through the many, many meals we ate after the race (all in 24 hours), and into the days that followed. I feel closer to my dad, more of a bond. Like we went deep into a dark place together and came back out, just for the sake of going into a dark place and coming back out. Just for the sake of the journey.
We both lost a child. We couldn't have seen it coming, or planned for it. I never would have wanted to have had it happen—have lost Julian, or lost my own child—but I had no choice. And I didn’t exactly handle it in the best way. I got depressed, angry, I nearly gave up. But it’s past. And I think by choosing to run, it was like a simulation of a painful experience: like an invisible experience, one that I chose to embrace and defeat for the sake of feeling the pain, and conquering it. I feel like I won. I feel like I can accept what happens, and will do better next time something might hurt. I feel like I know how to turn grief into something good. What life delivers to us forms us all, but as surely as random and sometimes tragic events shape our lives, so too does our response to those events. Something happens, something horrible and unfair (whatever that means). So what are we going to do? Give up? Shut down? The question isn’t “will something bad happen to me?” The question is “what will I do with what I’ve been given?”
Dad voluntarily does the dishes when we get home from the marathon . . .
