It was race day, and the first time Steve O’Neill had ever run a half-marathon. Here’s how he felt when he crossed that finish line.
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Errrr Errrr Errrr Errrr…
I jolted awake with an immediate rush of adrenaline that reached the far most extremities of my body. I was moving, but I didn’t exactly know where.
My eyes were essentially useless in the dark of the morning as I blindly swung my arms across the top of my nightstand in search of the culprit that brought my very sound and peaceful sleep to an abrupt halt.
I successfully knocked the device off the nightstand and I heard a nice thud as it smacked against the hardwood floor. After mashing as many buttons as my fingers could find, I thought the problem was solved. But the sound didn’t subside; there was another noise maker across the room.
I set the alarms on both my phone and iPod at full volume, and then placed them in different locations across the room. This way I would be forced to get up out of bed to turn off that loud, obnoxious Alarm ringtone that sounds like there’s a nuclear meltdown occurring in the next room.
I finally reached my iPod and turned off that horrific sound that was pulsating through my cranium.
It was too early for this shit; the screen read 4:46 AM.
As much as I hate waking up this way, I was taking all of the necessary precautions. I didn’t want to suffer the same fate as Jean-Paul from Seinfeld (why separate knob, why separate knob?!). This was a big day for me.
It was race day.
But not just any race day. It was my longest race to date — 13.1 miles. The distance isn’t impressive when compared to the accomplishments of the ultra-runners I follow and read about, but that doesn’t matter. To me, on this day, 13.1 miles was my ultra-marathon. It was a new frontier that I never thought I would even attempt, and now here I was a couple of hours away from hearing the starting gun.
The anticipation had been mounting for the last week. I signed up for the Sand Creek Half Marathon months ago, but due to injuries (damn you plantar fasciitis), I was debating whether or not to run at all.
In the 6 months prior to the race, the longest run I had been on was 4 miles. That’s right, 4 miles — just under 1/3 of what I was about to run. This isn’t usually how I train for a race, but as I said, I was coming off of an injury and I didn’t want to push myself too hard. I needed to make a decision, do I run or do I rest?
Then something happened 7 days before the race.
I had an itch.
I was talking with my good friend, Kim, about whether or not I should take a chance and just go for it.
“Steve, I know you, and whether you’re ready for the race or not I won’t be surprised when you tell me how you did on Sunday.”
She was right. I’ve done way more stupid things than this. Plus, this was a challenge that I felt I just couldn’t pass up. I mean, what did I really have to lose?
That’s when rationality and logic began creeping into my thoughts.
What if I injure myself even more?
What if I pass out on the course from overexertion?
What if I didn’t finish?
The thought of not crossing the finish line scared the shit out of me. What would everyone think? All of my friends and family would find out sooner or later that I had failed.
But something was stirring within. Something that didn’t abide by the rules set forth by logic and reasoning.
Desire.
I had to test myself. I had to take that risk. I had to at least try.
So, a week before I was scheduled to run 69,168 feet in a row, I made a commitment.
I was going to run. I was going to finish; even if that meant dragging my dilapidated body across the finish line.
It was time to shine.
After the ringing in my head from multiple alarms had subsided, I gathered myself, rolled out of bed, and made my way to the kitchen for my usual prerace meal: peanut butter, honey, and cinnamon on wheat bread with a chia seed concoction to wash it down.
Now it was 5:54 AM. Only one hour and six minutes separated me from my very first half marathon.
I warmed up with a little dancing — one of the best ways to get the blood flowing — then headed to the course in my car.
Once I arrived, I continued to warm up with a light jog and a few running drills to loosen up the major muscles groups I’d be using.
As each minute ticked off the clock, I became more excited and more nervous; trying to focus on the excitement. The plan was simply to finish. Start off slow, run my style, and not worry about the other competitors.
I wasn’t racing against them, I was racing against myself.
Bang!
The sound of the starting gun fired and my adventure was underway.
I kept repeating my objectives over and over in my head:
Start slow.
Stay loose & have fun.
Run your race.
Breath.
Finish.
Each time my foot hit the pavement I was one step closer to my goal.
Mile #1 was is the books and everything was still intact and feeling good. The first water station was just ahead, but there was no need for it yet.
Mile #3 snuck up on me as I looked down at my watch; just over 21 minutes. I didn’t have any specific pace in mind, but I wanted to keep an eye on my time anyway.
Mile #4 indicated that I had just tied my distance record for the last 6 months. It was a scary yet exhilarating thought as my body still felt strong.
Mile #6 meant I was just under halfway to the finish line. I started to feel the pounding of the pavement a little more as each step propelled me forward. I still felt strong and my time wasn’t too shabby at right around 45 minutes.
Mile #8 was filled with undulating hills, up and down, up and down, that started to wear on my quads and calves. Now I was eagerly searching for the next water station. From here on out I would use them as motivation to continue marching forward. I would swallow as much as I could between breaths, but mostly I enjoyed the adrenaline boost as I doused my head with the cool water and felt it rush down the back of my neck and over my face.
Mile #11 signaled the farthest I had ever run continuously. I was now entering uncharted territory and had no idea what to expect from my body. At this point my legs were pumping battery acid. One of the biggest reasons I had even kept my rather quick, yet unexpected pace was due to a fellow runner I had chosen to pace myself with.
As I trailed just behind her, I managed to blurt out a verbal pact:
“Whether you want to or not, we’re finishing this race together…”
“Good, because having you on my heels is the only thing that’s keeping me moving forward right now,” she uttered back.
We were in the same boat, as if an invisible tether had bound us together. She was relying on me, and me on her.
Finally, another water station crept into sight and my outstretched arm reached for that small paper cup that contained my version of Popeye’s spinach. At this point I couldn’t get a drop down my throat due to the heavily labored breathing. I ended up choking on it then dumping the rest on my head.
Mile #13 was simultaneously the most invigorating and agonizing milestone of the race. I turned the final corner to see the finish line just ahead, yet so far away. It was like running toward a dessert oasis, hoping and praying that it wasn’t a mirage.
It was the most grueling 528 feet I have ever run.
I was running on fumes at this point but I knew I had to finish strong. I broke the invisible tether between my new runner partner and myself to increase my pace. I was moving as fast as I could, which probably wasn’t very quick given that it felt like I was wearing cement boots.
But my legs kept churning; pumping like the pistons of engine, one step at a time.
Then I stopped.
I had crossed the finish line.
I made it.
My watch read 8:40 AM.
I was now standing 13.1 miles from where I started. My legs were burning and began to shake uncontrollably as I stopped to let a volunteer clip off the timing chip from my shoelaces.
“Holy shit,” I stammered while gasping for air.
It was finally over; my journey had ended.
I finished in 1:40:46. I placed 24th overall out of 314 participants with a pace of 7:43/mile for 13.1 miles.
Not once did I think I was going to finish under 2 hours, let alone at 1 hour and 40 minutes. In all honesty, I was ecstatic I even finished without stopping.
I didn’t know what I was capable of, only that I had to try; I had to push my limits.
Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.
- T.S. Eliot
I’m sharing this story as proof; evidence that despite all of those things in this world that scare the shit out of us, there is a way to conquer them.
This isn’t something I read in a book or heard from a friend, it’s something I’veexperienced firsthand. The racing heart beat, the overworked lungs, the sweat saturated with salt beading down my face and burning my eyes, and the pounding of my feet against the pavement as my muscles fatigued and started to ache worse than ever before.
I felt each and every step of those 13.1 miles.
In spite of all the pain, dizziness, and temporary suffering, there was an overwhelming sense of elation. An indescribable joy that I had accomplished something I had never done before. More so, it gave me confidence. It strengthened my faith that I could take on bigger challenges and do even more than what I originally believed was possible.
I almost passed up this race because I was scared; worried what would happen if I didn’t finish.
But only one question dominates my thoughts now:
What else is possible?
Enjoy The Journey
*What challenges have you faced in which you had to push your limits? Don’t be shy, share them in the comments below…
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This article originally appeared on Hobodrifter.
Photo credit: twiga269 ॐ FreeTIBET/flickr
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