More than a race

 As the day of the big race draws closer, I am overcome with emotion. Upon looking at the picture above (thanks Deb), I realized the Marine Corps Marathon has become more than a race to me. It is not about the race, it is about the transformation into the woman I am becoming. It is about believing in the woman I am. It is about me.

When I signed up for the race back in March, I was mired in loneliness and the desperation of wanting companionship. In the three months before the training began, I bought Layla (my motorcycle), moved into my own place, and spent a lot of time alone – the way I have done the majority of my training. In the past, when training for a longer race, I frequently ran my long runs with running partners. This time, it was all me with the exception of one long run. (That was the 14 mile run I pulled my hamstring. I was so thankful to have Rebecca with me to give guidance on what to do so I could continue the run.) My runs were done without music. While running, I learned to be one with me. To stop my mind and to be at peace in the moment.

My first half-marathon I ran with a support group. We had “Team Victor” tee-shirts. We rode up together. We stayed together. We ran together. In other races, I have always had either family or a close friend with me. This time, my support group on site looks very different. One of the members of my Rolling Thunder family will be providing my ride up. (Thank you, Adam.) A new friend from out-of-state, a former Marine, will be staying with me for the weekend. The friend I met on the plane on my way to get my hug from Sean is talking about flying up to see me at the finish line. A parent of a former student running the race as well will be giving me a ride home. My circle of friends continues to grow, both in and out of the running arena.

Anyone who knows me from back in the day, remembers me as a well-endowed girl – far from an athlete. Oh, I played a year of sports in high school. I warmed the bench well. I was a cheerleader before cheerleading was considered a sport. To me, a runner is an athlete. One of the toughest things for me to acknowledge and accept is the fact that I, the bookworm, is an athlete. A marathon runner. Today, I could deny it no more.

My afternoon classes asked about the race today. It began when a student asked when it was. In a matter of seconds, a buzz filled the room. Their energy was unexpected and contagious. They asked about my bib number. They showed interest in tracking my progress. They are in awe that I will spend somewhere on either side of five hours running. During a group activity, a student drew a picture of me crossing the finish line on the board. At carpool, I caught a flash of hot pink out of the corner of my eye. A parent was putting up a sign for all to see. I am not sure where the tears came from, but it took me a few minutes to regain my composure after seeing it. Was it just last year I was concerned about losing my job because of getting a divorce and riding a motorcycle?

On Sunday, I will be running 26.2 miles with a great group of people – my children, my family, my students both past and present, parents of the students, the members of Rolling Thunder, my colleagues, Facebook friends both near and far, military men and woman past and present, and anybody else who has crossed my path and encouraged me in some way. I have no doubt that somewhere during those 26.2 miles, the spirit of your influence will be running beside me.