The start of tapering was downhill spiral into madness, self-doubt, and nerves. If you have never trained for anything, it’s difficult to understand. You’d think that tapering, which involves plummeting mileage and decreasing workout intensity would be a happy time. Less running equals less pain, less sweat, less exertion, and more time spend doing things than running. However, after days, weeks, and months of building, peaking 2-3 weeks away from race day brings fear, anxiety, and widespread panic of the body. You want to celebrate because you’ve accomplished the hardest part of marathon training, but you can’t because you haven’t run the race yet. Some people refer to the race itself as the “victory lap”. I called it a “little bit of a run” because in reality the marathon is just 5% of the cumulative mileage run prior to that day. Race day lingers in the distance like an expected baby; ready or not, there is nothing more you can do to make it things happen. You’ve prepared for the arrival for so long, and you’re sick of waiting, and even though you want the day to come, you’re excited and scared at the same time.
There were many powerful quotes sent to me over Facebook, email, and other forms from friends. Over the last few weeks, I would read them and contemplate what they meant to me. I read each of them before bed and for the final time on my phone on the drive to Lincoln. I needed those words throughout the race like I needed oxygen, water, and sports gels. They meant everything to me and I repeated many of them in my head, possibly out loud as I ran my race. Who knows? Maybe I helped a few people along the way.
Denny and Lil kept Taia overnight, so on Sunday at 4am when my alarm went off; my focus was on me (for once). I drink my coffee, force down a bagel with PB, pump, shower, throw on the clothes I prepped and laid out the night previous. I kiss Rodney goodbye and he opens his eyes for a brief moment to see what I’m wearing so he can find me later. My ride arrives at 5:15 and we drive 45 min to Lincoln. I stuff energy gels in my pockets, check the bag, run to the restroom (a few times with less than stellar results), choke down a Cliff Shot gel which makes me want to gag, and line up in the 9min/mile corral with the 4h Pace Group. My goal is to finish no longer than 3:59:59.
The race starts at 7am and for the first 6 miles I’m with Matt and Julie, conserving energy and enjoying the day. There could not be a more perfect race day – sunny, calm and temperatures from 45-65F. I took water at every station along the way, took a Clif Shot Gel every hour, and kept a check on my Garmin to make sure I was on pace. I wanted to run a smart race because I knew what was ahead of me…a long way to go.
Quote: “If you feel bad at 10 miles, you’re in trouble. If you feel bad at 20 miles, you’re normal. If you don’t feel bad at 26 miles, you’re abnormal.” – Rob de Castella.
Right before Mile 10, I see Rodney. He’s standing on the street corner with a friend who is also looking for his wife. My heart is on fire as I think about my family and it turns out to be my fastest mile. After a couple more miles, I hear people cheering, saying, “You’re almost done”! I remind myself that I’m running the full. I am not close to being done.
Quote: “Run the first part with your head, the middle part with your personality, and the last part with your heart” - Mike Fanelli.
I’ve been surrounded with runners from the start, and watching the sea of heads bobbing up and down is invigorating. At the end of this mile I anticipate a change. I hear a volunteer shout, “Half Marathoners go right, Marathoners go straight”! I look straight ahead, tunnel vision. I see the road less traveled. There is one runner 75 ft ahead and two runners 50 ft back. I take another gel. The water station is manned by National Guards, and they pump me up to cross that line, the one that leads to insanity. My Garmin clocks my first half at 1h50min.
The second half of the marathon is an out-and-back and I see the leader when I’m in the middle of Mile 16. Man, he’s fast. I wonder what’s on his mind, but I know what’s in his heart. We all have our own reason for running and I am trying to marshal the ferocity of my ambition. I’m trying my best to keep fighting for what I want, for what I’ve trained for over the past 4 months. At Mile 17, I’m questioning my cognitive ability when I see Rodney beside me riding my bike. He says a few encouraging words, takes a picture with his phone, and rides away. I see my friend Steve, whose wife died unexpectedly last Sept while running coming towards me; he’s shooting for 3h marathon and is behind the mark. He moves toward the center of the lane and we high-five as we run past one another. I think about camaraderie and friendship, and again my heart is on fire.
The turn around is in the middle of Mile 19. I am now running with my heart.
Quote: “It does not matter how slowly you go so long as you do not stop” – Confucius.
I make it to Mile 20 and Garmin says 2h50min. I have 69min to finish the last 10K, and I might need every second. My quads are seizing, gluts aching, and sweat is crystallizing and burning my skin and eyes. My arm warmers act as oversized sweatbands. My feet are getting uglier by the second. Physical pain is consuming my mind and I struggle to stay committed and focus on making it over The Wall that stopped me at Mile 22 in Ottawa two years ago. I repeat to myself over and over again, “There is no wall”. I see a sign stuck to a trashcan that reads: “Go Jo-Jo! You’re Smokin Hot!” For about a minute after, I wonder if it was meant for me. Regardless, it makes me chuckle, and I remain in pain management mode. (Come to find out later, Rodney made the sign for me).
At the beginning of Mile 24, I prepare to run the slowest 5K of my life. I see a woman that I met at trail race in April. That was the most challenging, incredibly grueling trail race in Nebraska. We suffered through the last 2 miles together and on one of the treks up a ravine, while hugging trees to stop from falling, she mentioned that she had a long run the next day. So did I. She told me she was running the Lincoln Marathon. So was I… So here we are, together again, 2 miles away from the finish line. She has her music pumping and cannot hear a thing. Being with her now reminds me that I can run a 12K trail race and a 20-miler in a 24h period. She reminds me how tough I really am.
Quote: “Tough times don’t last but tough people do”. - unsure who gets the credit.
In the 26th mile, I force myself to think about Taia because I think it will take me to a happy place, but instead I briefly think about labor and childbirth. I think about the life I helped create and experimentally nurture over the past 9 months, a child I never knew I could love so deeply, a baby that nearly broke me with her reflux, colic, and MSPI. I am exactly where I was a year ago, but in a different form – no longer preggo and in the best shape of my life. I came back with a revamped pain threshold, thicker calluses, a hardened mind, and a melted candy-shelled heart. I came back to complete this course. I am so close.
I run under a structure of some sort that marks the completion of the 26th mile, and make a left into the stadium atop a green Astroturf rug, sort of like the Red Carpet or Yellow Brick Road. It leads me to the most amazing sensory experience after miles and miles of pain. I am in the University of Nebraska’s Memorial Stadium. I see the finish on the 50-yard line; it is exactly how I pictured it. I hear my name and I start to sprint.
Go Jo Jo Go!
I pass everyone before me - the half marathoners on the field, a few marathoners, and Mile-24-Lady. I am so in the zone that I don’t see myself on the Jumbotron, hear my name on the loud speaker, and see my chip time result come up on the scoreboard. Members of my running club embrace me and they are ecstatic that I smashed my goal time. I meet up with Rodney and some other friends. He doesn’t say much, but he’s quietly proud. He shows me a text from Denny, who has already pulled my online stats; my chip time is 3:47:48.
I text out to Denny and Lil: “Give Tay a hug. Mommy is done”! I shed a dozen or so tears, but it just looked like I was wiping sweat, so it was mostly undercover.
Quote: "Things that are hard to bear are sweet to remember" - Seneca
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