RUN OR DIE

It’s the morning of the race–the clock reads 5:05 am, and I’m instantly on edge from waking up five minutes too late. It was five minutes from my morning routine that I had just lost–I was planning on utilizing every minute that morning, so a bit flustered but truly with no room to fuss any further, I continued on. In all honesty, I don’t think it was me waking up five minutes late that did it, but more so the fact that I woke up that day. It all felt like a dream. God. Today was the day, and it was finally hitting me. My nerves were everywhere, and completely against me. 

“You should've done that shakeout run yesterday, Ian.”

“Why weren’t you in bed earlier, Ian?”

“What the hell are you thinking doing a marathon, Ian?”

“Did you really have to eat all that Chuck E Cheese pizza last night?”

“You’re a fool….”

              “You’re a fool…”

                           “You’re a complete fool…”

                                                  "and your breath stinks."

From the outside, however, I somehow managed to stay composed, carrying a presentable smile across my face when pulling up to my friend’s house that morning. But believe me, my thoughts were everywhere but in this moment. This was it. This was the day I had worked so hard towards. This was the day that I dedicated 4 months training for. It's right here, like right here, right in front of my face, ready to slap me awake from this hell of a dream. It was now feeling so real. This was happening, and I had no choice but to take everything I’ve learned and trained for, and get this shit done. My God, what did I get myself into?

The gathering at my friend’s place that morning was actually rather refreshing, and essentially what I needed to calm these chaotic nerves. It was the four of us doing this race: my two roommates, Emilio & Michael, and our good friend, Morgan. It was the first time us runners were geared up and in the same room together, and that in itself brought comfort to us all I can tell, that here we were all about to embark on this journey–that we were ultimately in this together. We had Morgan’s dad in the room with us too. Let me tell you, this guy is in his 60s, and is still a complete powerhouse: he’s completed a handful of ironmans, triathlons, and marathons, with no sign of slowing down. He’s the guy you want in the room with you on race day. He knows how it feels, and he knew exactly how I was feeling beyond my fake little smile. This guy made the idea of the race seem much more achievable–just pace yourself, prioritize your hydration and fueling, listen to your body–and that was such a relieving feeling. 

We pack in Morgan’s boyfriend’s Jeep like sardines (I’m pocketed in the trunk), and head off to the starting line. The clock reads shy of 6:20 am–t-minus 40 minutes until it's time. The nerves kick in again, and so does some backseat nausea–lovely.

The sun begins to rise, illuminating all the runners pulling up to the starting point, and that was such a highlighting moment–the true beauty and life to the scene. I look around and can tell that I am not the only one completely nervous. But again, as I look around it’s quite obvious those that have done this before–seeing those runners was my reassurance: “they’ve done this shit and are here doing it again, so why should I feel like I cannot”. Us four proceed to the starting line.

“Let’s all have a moment of prayer, if you guys don't mind.” 

Morgan leads a prayer, as we all circle, hands interlocked. 

“...amen. We’re all getting through that finish line. Let’s do what we signed up to do! Let’s get it done!”

The clock reads minutes to 7:00 am. 

“Runners! Please proceed to the starting point. The race will begin in the next few minutes.”

It was in those moments, crowded with the hundreds of runners who were also about to embark on the same journey, that I stood completely with myself, nerves so alive, repeating my inner dialogues, repeating my game plan, everything that I have learned– “I’ve trained for this shit. This is just another run. I got this with ease. Fuel at 45, and every 45 after. Supplement electrolytes. Drink plenty of water. Pace myself, pace myself! 

….God, what the hell am I thinking?” 

“And…..go!!”

I blink back into reality. 

The runners engage into their paces, and proceed forward. This is it.

I wish my team all the luck, as we share one final smile of reassurance. I give them all one final knuckle touch, then proceed forth with the flow that feels right. Check my watch, and I’m clocking in at an 8:23 pace– “Perfect, Ian. Keep this going.” I look back to see the other three fading into their own pace. Couldn’t help but feel so proud of us all in those moments. 

The first 10 miles felt amazing. The race was alive; the runners were all so alive–focused, eager, determined, and so present. I couldn’t help but feel the momentum projecting me further. I did find myself struggling a bit, however, to keep a consistent pace. Again, with the momentum of the race and the runners all around, I found myself naturally speeding up, slowing down, speeding up, to slow down again–sticking to the flow that I trained for was, I feel, was the first hiccup I encountered as I continued. However, 13 strong miles later, and halfway there! As I proceeded I hit what became another hiccup thrown into my flow: the need to refuel. I feel that, from prior runs and training, when I am so in the run itself, I tend to disregard the thought, let alone the need to replenish and refuel. However, I knew my body needed it to keep going, thus a continuous battle and struggle as I began my second half of the race. From the get go, my fueling pattern was structured, consistent, and I was on it: I had my Gu at the 45 minute mark, supplemented with some water, and every 45 minutes there after. I added in a needed electrolyte pill as needed as well. But it was just the constant thought of needing to keep to that regime that got me a bit caught up with the thought, adding a layer of stress that I was truly not trying to cater to. Especially when I still had 13 more miles to go! Then came a dramatic turning point that I was just not ready for: the 16 mile point. 

Let me just put something on record: I had almost pulled the plug on the marathon about a month out from race day. I decided upon the risk and went into race day with a pretty tender runner’s knee. I had always known to keep an eye on my knees, as they, in the more recent years, just haven’t been as strong as they used to be. But what the hell–what better logic to pick up the sport of running, right? It was a month before my marathon, and as some might recall from my prior writing, RUNNER’S HIGH, I had completed my first 5k race at an exceptional time. However, although a very rewarding achievement, it did come with a rather negative outcome: a pretty severe runner’s knee. The injury to my knee had put me out of training for about two weeks to recover. Yet, because I can be a bit of a stubborn punk and feeling extremely guilty missing so much training with only a couple weeks out to the marathon, I kept training, regardless of the injured knee. Although I knew it could be detrimental to the race, a 22 mile long run happened, just a little over a week to the race! I was so dedicated to this at that point, and wouldn't even sacrifice a bad knee stopping me from showing up to that starting line. Most were telling me to stop: “It wouldn’t be the end if you need to pull out”. But giving up just wasn’t an option at this point. I learned to muse the noise, and power through, somehow. Something beyond me kept me going, and I will be forever grateful. 

Now mile 16– I had begun feeling the tenderness of my knee onset around mile 13, but I was able to redirect my mental focus, for the most part, from the pain back to the run for a few miles more. At this point the sun was fully out. Mind that the weather was forecasted at a high 80s, and full sunshine baby! Yeah, sounds like a perfect day along the coast for a run, but man, when there is minimal shade on the course and you're running in direct sunlight with still a bit over 10 more miles to go, the run goes from quite enjoyable to a full-blown mental game quickly. The discomfort of the heat began eating at me, and with the knee pain accompanied with the increased need to fuel to compensate for the increase in sweat, as well as this now-beginning-to-be-too-heavy side pack holding my water bottle and phone, I was completely falling apart and back in my head–all focus on the actual run itself was slipping my grips. The run began to feel sloppy, off, inconsistent. Then, in a blink of an eye and with one wrong step taken, my left thigh cramps and sharp piercing needling pain shoots through immediately (a pain I have never felt before). Enough to force a stop in my step. One more step forward, then the same exact needling pain shoots right from my thigh to my left knee, practically catapulting me forward, and in seconds, my whole left leg, completely numb. I am completely immobile. Like a car with a flat, I had to pull over to assess the situation before even trying to continue forth. 

From deep within comes out a defeated “Dammit!”. 4 miles away from the next turning point, I can only imagine the word tickling  the ears of the attendees at that point.

This was it. I was pissed. Feeling completely overthrown. 10 more miles to go, and there’s no way that this is how it was about to be, that I might just have to call an end to it here. And even if that was the decision to be made, like how was I to go about it? I am so far out from the turning point and to the closest parametic 4 miles away (I could’ve always called for one, but in those moments my thoughts just weren’t thinking too logically). It was my mind against my body at this point, and it was beginning to feel like a losing fight. 

I shake the nerves, and recall the 22 mile long run I had done a week prior– “Ian listen, I’ve been in this state before. This is no different. Be with this, and listen to yourself”. During that 22 mile run, I had truly challenged myself: I had hit countless walls with my knee, and had conditioned myself mentally to potentially expect it. Yet every time I did, I allowed myself to step away from the run, stretch, reassess, and proceed at what felt best. If the pain persisted, repeat, and keep going. The trick was to allow the feeling of physical defeat, and allow vulnerability into the space, as much as I might’ve wanted to continue the distance in the moment, to allow myself to be with it, to feel it, and to listen to what needs to be done to keep going–this was the the dance between the physical and mental. However, to remind myself that the option of giving up wasn’t an option was key, and this became a primal thought as I relived the feelings of fighting through the pain before. Along the sideline, I limped back onto that course, and proceeded forth slowly with all I had within me, so eager. The need to defeat my forecasted pace was trivial at this point, and I just wanted to finish this race. An excruciating 4 miles back to the turning point, scorching sun on my back, increasing temperatures, I managed to keep a smile as I limped-jogged past all those in company for the runners. I see my family cheering their full hearts out, so proud, so supportive, and I feel tears hit my eyes behind my running glasses. I run to my mom on the sideline, with some panic, yet with whatever smile I could still manage. I didn’t want her knowing the state I was in. “Take my bag from me, please. It’s slowing me down. Last lap! This is happening!” It’s funny to me: there is something truly special about a mother, and their inherent ability to sense when their children are in pain. No smile could mask the truth from her. She knew what I was feeling, but left me with the comforting reassurance I needed. “Keep going, son. You have this”. It was the love behind those words and her smile that brought me to complete tears as I proceeded into the last 8 miles. Mother’s, too, carry such a beautiful ability to bring the needed comfort to their children when needed the most. 

Those last 8 miles were, hands down, the hardest. At this point it was the mental game they will all warn you about. Everything felt as if it was falling apart: my physical, my mental, my shoes, my life. At this point I’m struggling to keep fueled–I forgot to account for the heat, and my body is profusing sweat, drenched, cramping, with minimal fuel left. My knee is in pain and struggling, but keeping with the run, somehow. In those moments, I couldn't help feel just so absolutely proud of this body. It was proceeding and I truly had no idea how. I surrender to it all. I approach the last turning point at the last 4 mile mark, and make my way back to the finish. This was it –this was homestretch. At this point, my pace had gone from a low 8 minutes to a little over 9 minutes. The desire of completing the race at a sub-four, however, was everything to keep my pace as consistent as possible during those final miles, but again, the struggle was so real and so alive and as much as I tried to, there was no denying the state in which I was in. The devil presented on my right side, resurfacing all the contradicting thoughts I had battled with through my training– “You should’ve given up a long time ago”; “You weren't cut out for this.”; “You can’t do this. Who are you fooling?”

“Give up.”

          “Give up.”

                   “Give up.”

                               "Your breath still smells bad."

I’m fighting against myself–vulnerable, discomforted, and humiliated.

Yet, so humbled.

I approach the peak of the last incline of the race, and revealing itself more each proceeding step, there it is–I see the finish line.

There truly are only a handful of times when we feel so alive in a moment–those moments that truly shut down time. Those moments that surface all emotions within you. Those moments that bring out the younger you, and are brought to life with immediate tears, both good and bad. Those moments that remind you of a purpose, a meaning bigger than you. A moment beyond us, yet so for us. 

At that moment, it was me against the world. It was the finish line in hand’s reach. It was the tears running down my cheeks, and the applauding heard in the distance. Yet it was the silence of that moment and the disappearing of the runners around, with the only existence being me and that finish line, and the only noise being my shoes to the pavement, my heart beating faster, my breath sequencing deeper, and the single thought of “My God, I’m about to do this.”

I smile as I pass the photographers parked at the last mile mark. I wipe the tears blurring my sight, and speed faster to the finish–the finish line growing closer, and closer. “Ian! Go! Go!" The noise of the race becomes present again. "You’re almost there!” The faces all around present again. I see my family, and now in company are my brother and his family, and my two amazing friends, Arlene & Kevin. I read “Go bitch!” on the poster my sister’s holding up. I stretch the biggest smile capable, blink my eyes of my remaining tears, and look back to the finish line seconds behind me. Clocking in at 4:06 time–I’ll absolutely happily take it. 

I collapse, to feel the ground underneath my champion feet, and in seconds, all those in company to support me are there lifting me back up. Accomplished, blessed, beyond grateful. 

The only thing that felt right in those moments was 1. A dip in the ocean, and 2. A fat ass burger, fries, and a beer. I was gifted with both, and a sexy little medal as the forever physical reminder of the journey. 

I will never forget the moment I looked back towards the finish line, to see their smiles as big as mine as the other three crossed the line. 

Up on that platform to take our group photo, we share an accomplished moment.

“Guys… we just did this.”

We all had become just that much closer in that moment. 

 *                                           *                                               *

It’s been a little over a month since the marathon, and fair to say, running is still a huge part of me. In fact, it’s easy to say it's a lifestyle I have adapted into my life for the long run (pun intended).  It took me a fair couple of weeks to get back into it post-race, I'll be honest,  but I’m out here running for the love of it again, and that in itself brings me back to why I took on the sport initially–so refreshing. I’m still attending my weekly club runs as much as possible. 6-8 miles have become a happy distance for me, and a pace of about 7:00 has been a refreshing positive, since allowing my knee the needed time to repair.

I’m still in this and so for the sport of running. It has not only brought an extreme wellbeing and appreciation for this beautiful body and mind connection; it has also come with a beautiful community of like-minded runners, doing what we all do best: fighting through the next mile to push on further. Would I do another marathon again? The idea remains shy and deep somewhere, but who am I to deny the undeniable truth: I wouldn’t shoot down the possibility. I do see plenty of races in my future as I did (for the most part) enjoy this one–I can laugh about it now. I also still desire to take running with me globally!

With all said, and a marathon done, this is truly still only the beginning. 

Sincerely, thank you to all that supported me through this journey, and for those that endured this marathon with me. Thank you to those that doubted the possibility, and for being the motivation I needed to prove it possible. No but seriously, thank you to all that decide to wake up every day with a bigger purpose, to those that throw on those running shoes, and run! This sport has taught me so much about myself, and for that reason, I choose to run.

Why do I do this shit? Well it's quite simple: