On Sunday May 3, 2009 I lined up on Pacific Boulevard with my best pal Mike. The sun was rising. It was a chilly 10 degrees. We held hands, smiled nervously, and staved off our collective "nervous pee". When the gun went off, we smiled, high-fived, and said: "See you at the finish line." and lost ourselves in the rhythm of our own strides and in the energy of the nearly 13,000 runners around us.
Here is how the dream unfolded:
The Day Before
On Saturday, the day before the race, I woke up feeling ill.
"Nerves," I thought as I carried on with my day: purchasing fuel/gel shots for my fuel belt, stocking up on gatorade, etc.
By midday, I still hadn't been able to stomach a morsel of food. But I knew I had too. Being properly nourished before a marathon or any endurance event is one of the sport's most well-known pieces of advice.
Mike and I had planned a pre-race carbohydrate-filled meal of penne and veggies and sauce that night.
I called him midday: "I'm not feeling well, Mike. I think it's nerves."
He gave me a few pep talks. Told me I could do it. And told me the importance of eating a big meal.
"You're going to be drained if you have no calories, Kimmers, You've got to eat."
I trudged over to his place. My stomach growled. My intestines howled.
The pasta smelled delicious.
But, one look at the giant mound of carbs with thick tomato sauce and juicy veggies, and I was instantly ill.
"I'm gonna be sick!" I said as I bee-lined it for the bathroom and stayed there for a good hour while Mike kindly listened to the Canucks game at an unusually high volume.
As the night progressed, my symptoms grew worse. Vomitting. Diarrhea. Fever.
I started to cry.
All I could think about was how much I wanted to do this marathon. How many people were expecting me to do this marathon. And how utterly awful I felt at that very moment.
I was defeated.
"I'm like Lieutenant Dan in Forrest Gump," I said to Mike as he tried to force feed me some gatorade just for the calories. "When he's on the Shrimp Boat and the hurricane comes in. And he says to God: "It's you and me now. Come and get me."
Ultimately, Lieutenant Dan and the Shrimp Boat survive the storm, but not without a fight.
"I've got to fight this." I said.
"see how you feel in the morning," said Mike.
The morning
I felt like crap in the morning.
My fever had broke, but my stomach was a mess.
I ate a bagel.
I threw up the bagel.
I cooked an egg.
I put the egg in the garbage.
I made a fruit smoothie.
I stared at the smoothie then poured it down the sink.
My mind was a melting pot of negativity.
"How am I going to run today?"
"I am so hungry."
"There is no way you can do this."
But I had to. I needed to. It was a challenge of the greatest kind. Tack on the upset stomach and it was even more challenging.
Add to that that my longest training run had been 27k (15k short of a marathon), and the challenge-o-meter rose even still.
I knew the race was going to be difficult.
I knew I would struggle.
But somehow, I knew I needed to prove to myself that I could overcome these challenges, and cross that finish line.
I showed up at Mike's house at quarter to 7.
"How are you feeling?" He asked, as he whirled around his apartment like Tornado Mike trying to prepare for the race himself.
"I am so unprepared."
Me, too, I thought.
Me, too.
The start line
Though rain had been forecasted all week for Marathon Sunday, the weatherman was blissfully wrong and the sun rose big and boisterous in the east as we made our way to the start line on Pacific Boulevard.
We had nervous pee.
I had shivers.
I felt ill ... both from being ill and from the enormity of the task ahead of me while feeling ill.
They played the anthem while we waited in line for a last chance at the Port-a-Pottys.
Then, before we knew it, we were in the line up. Standing amongst our peers. Among runners who would beat us. And runners whom we would pass.
The gun went off.
I stopped breathing.
And then we started to run.
The run
It was, by all accounts, a glorious day for a marathon. Not too hot. Just brisk enough to sweat comfortably.
The streets were lined with fans.
And since everyone's race bib had their name on it, strangers cheered loudly for just about everyone.
"You can do it, Kim!"
"Good effort, Kim!"
"Keep it up, Kim!"
I wonder if these people know just really how helpful their spirit is.
Especially when, as the runner, your energy is drained, your spirit is draining, and your mind is telling you to quit.
It's these cheers that helped me get through it as much as my own resolve. It was the supprot of anonymous fans who made me feel strong and confident all the way to the finish.
Although my stomach was nauseatingly upset for the entire portion of the race and I was terribly hungry having gone 36 hours without food, I actually felt somewhat strong.
I eased into a comfortable pace that I felt I could maintain for a long distance.
I passed a few people.
A few people passed me.
I was on par, I felt, to run a sub-5hour marathon and considering how I felt, I would be ecstatic with that.
Starving and starting to feel drained and hungry and in need of a boost, I grabbed a Power Gel at one of the water stations around 15 k. I pounded it down. And kept on running. 5 minutes later, that Power Gel came right back up and I threw up roadside.
This is where I started talking to myself ("you've got to be kidding me!") and I would continue this battle with my brain for the remaining 28k.
Two gels and one throw-up later, I had made it through Stanley Park and was on my way toward the last leg of the race.
"Once I get to Burrard bridge, it's only 12 more k" i said to myself. I was nearing the homestretch.
Then, just as I eclipsed the bridge and veered on to Cornwall Street in the heart of my own neighboourhood, my foot became earth-shatteringly painful. Perhaps a stretched Plantar Fascitis. Maybe even torn. I wasn't sure as I have never had foot pain before. Not even a twinge. and this was like running on a knife.
I cried. I stopped to stretch it out on the sidelines. Put it was permanently writhing.
"there's only 12 more k to go," I thought to myself. "I've come this far."
I figured the cramp/injury would work itself out over the next 12 k, so started to run with a noticeable limp, putting on the pressure on my left quad so that my right foot could heal.
It didn't heal.
For 12 long kilometers, I hobbled, I winced, i cried.
Rounding the last turnaround point at the peak of 4th Ave, I was fortunate enough to seek water from an older gentlemen on the sidelines. He took one look at me hobbling, put his arm around me, and said:
"Honey. I know you are hurting. But you are a warrior. And I want you to tell yourself that you are good and your are strong 200 times until you reach that finish line. "
My lip quivered.
My eyes teared.
I was in so much pain.
I was so tired.
I wanted to quit and he knew it.
"It doesn't matter what the time on the clock says, honey," he continued "You are going to cross that finish line. I know you can do it. I'll see you there."
And so I vowed to carry forth.
It was the longest 10 kilometers of my life. Not only had my pain slowed my pace to a crawl, but my mind was running rampid. It was like in cartoon,s with a devil telling me "you can't do it" on one shoulder and an angel on the other cheering "Yes! You! Can!".
When the first "walker" passed me, a sign that my pace had truly slowed and that my goal was slipping out of reach, I said to myself "What's the point?". then side 2 of my self responded: "The point is that you've always wanted to run a marathon, and just because you're hurt and tired and in pain, does not mean you can't achieve this goal."
I hobbled on.
"Do you need medical attention, ma'am?" asked a first aid worker at one of the stations I passed.
"No." I said matter of factly.
"You seem injured," she persisted.
"I just want to make it to the finish," I said, pleading with my eyes as I hobbled.
"Ok, ma'am. but if you need to stop, there is another station 3 kilometers ahead."
I smiled. Nodded.
And carried on.
The piercing pain in my right foot had not dulled overtime as I had hoped. In fact, because of my awkward new stride and my left side compensating for my right, my left calf seized. It cramped severely around kilometer 34 and would stay that way all the way to the finish (and for two days after, for that matter).
My stride because more strained.
More runners passed me.
More walkers passed me.
I looked down and soldiered on.
I really wanted to quit.
"Just quit," said the devil on my shoulder. "You tried your best. You're hurt. you're sick. Just quit."
It sounded like good advice.
But then I thought of all the people who were rooting for me. Mike was already at the finish waiting to cheer me on as I came in. My dad and mom would inevitably call first thing after the race. My friends were eager to hear how I'd done.
And there was no way I was going to tell anyone "I quit".
And so I battled through.
As I came up onto the Burrard bridge for the last 2 kilometer stretch home, a woman on a bicycle said "You're amazing! Keep going! Almost there.". A man in a purple wig said "You are going to do it!!" Another man held a sign: OWN THE BRIDGE.
I smiled and picked up the pace.
The last kilometer was horrific.
I was pushing myself hard (though my hunched-over, constricted and hobbling stride wouldn't show it.)
The pain in my foot and leg were the worst I've ever felt.
My body was taxed.
My mind was tired of fighting.
I was half-crying, half-laughing.
And then, like a beacon, there it was. The finish line.
A big blue BMO banner: FINISH LINE.
I smiled and pushed forth.
As I came down the shoot, I saw Mike and some other friends. THey smiled. Cheered loudly, And ran gate-side to bring me in!
I hobbled forth.
The race announcer said "Here comes Kim McMullen ladies and gentlemen, and look how much pain she's in. Imagine how much that hurts folks."
And suddenly, the entire finish line crowd was cheering for me (or so it seemed).
"Way to battle through," said a main in a shirt that said "Coach."
I heard my name a million times over.
I heard cheers!
I heard respect.
And then, I did it, an hour and half past my goal: I crossed the finish line.
I actually ran 42,2 kilometers.
It was not easy.
(in fact, it was never easy.)
It was not as I had planned.
(It was no where close to what I had planned)
and yet, when I crossed that finish line and hobbled into the arms of the first aid workers, first, then my friends second, I felt alive and proud. And I cried like a baby.
It was the hardest thing I have ever done in my entire life.
It was the most excruciatingly difficult challenge to overcome.
I thought 100 times through out those 5 hours and 50 minutes that I could not do it.
And then I challenged myself 100 times to push through and do it any way.
So I didn't run it fast.
So I missed my goal.
So I was beat by walkers.
In the end, I struggled through 42.2 kilometers of pain, nausea, and self-doubt and I still crossed that finish line.
And, I have to say, it made me feel alive.
I can't wait for the next one.
