the race

It wasn't the perfect race, and yet it was.

I thought I'd feel great until Mile 22 -- that all of my training would make the marathon seem almost effortless and I'd glide across the finish line, a trail of negative splits blazing behind me. Instead, my hips and quads started hurting at Mile 10, something that never happened in any of my training runs, and a big red flag I've learned to associate with oncoming cramps. I knew if I was going to qualify, I couldn't cramp up -- there wasn't time to stop and stretch, to deal with spasms or walk it off. I had to find a way to keep my legs moving for 16.2 more miles.

So instead of the race plan Andy and I had discussed -- going out slow, then making my way down to 7:45s and really throwing down the last few miles, maybe even coming in under 3:35 -- I knew I had to run as slowly as I could knowing I could still qualify. I needed to save my legs, keep steady and try to relax. I settled into an 8:20 pace and fed my legs positive thoughts -- I imagined my mother and grandmothers and great-grandmothers running behind me, pushing energy my way and giving my legs strength; I pictured Andy's hands on my hips, loosening the muscles and giving them warmth; I consciously sent my energy to the tightest places, imagined my legs strong and graceful. I refused to visualize anything but crossing the finish line in less than 3 hours, 40 minutes and 59 seconds.

I also popped some Advil, then a little more, and then a little more. I kept hydrated, kept loose, kept moving. And I had the best cheering squad in the world.

My parents drove more than five hours to watch the marathon. To wish me luck; to wake up early, groggy-eyed, to kiss me and tell me they were proud of me; to be there to scream and cheer and send me strength.

And Andy's family was there too -- both sets of his parents, his sister and brother-in-law and their two kids. They cooked us delicious, nutritious, pre-marathon meals; they bought us post-marathon recovery foods (and treats); they drove us to the start of the race; they took pictures and pumped their fists in the air and gave us love.

They were all waiting for me at Mile 12, then again at Mile 22 when I needed them the most, then at the finish line, front and center. And Andy, my coach and so much more, after running his own (very fast) marathon, walked back to Mile 25 to bring me on home, to shout "dynamite!" at me and lie about how good I was looking.

And I did it. With one minute and 25 seconds to spare. It didn't feel good, and yet it felt incredible. I ran for hours with aching legs, was determined as I've ever been, channeled all of my training runs into one big race, met my goal. I started crying with about 100 meters left. Big, gasping sobs without any tears. The relief, the exhaustion, the pride, the pure joy and exhilaration of crossing the finish line knowing I'd done what I'd set out to do oh so many miles ago.

And there were my parents, waiting with cameras and open arms. They hugged me and smiled through their tears with me and shared in my joy. My mom claims it was one of the best moments of her life. It was for me too.

And now I have the Boston Marathon to train for. Through the dark, cold, tundra that is a Minnesota winter. But I'm ready and excited, still coasting on a running high (even though I've only run four times since the marathon). I'm resting up, recovering, preparing to wake up in the blackness of a February morning, put on my thick tights and running mask and throw down a 2-2-1-2-2 before work.

Running rocks face.