THE RUN FOR CHRISTINE
04:55:04 for $4287 on 03.14.04
How do you like your pain?
There's the pain of being in a car wreck. You don't ask for it. It’s a
harsh pain.
There's the pain of having a spinal tap. You don't want it but if you
need it, you get it. Call it bitter pain.
And there's the pain of punishing your body for 26.2 miles. It’s the
cumulative pain of finishing the run not only for yourself but for someone
you care deeply about, and when you collapse into someone's arms at the
finish line – well yeah, it's pain, but it's euphoric, and you don't seem
to mind a bit. In fact, you may want some more.
That’s the pain I chose four months ago.
I signed up to run the Valley of the Sun marathon in honor of my friend
Christine, who has been a big part of my life for over sixteen years.
Her bravery in the face of leukemia during her bone marrow transplant
and the horrors that come with it would move any spineless and creaky kneed
writer to run 26.2 miles for her. She has been my first, second, third
and fourth wind.
Whenever I wanted to sleep in and forget about my morning miles, I thought
about every trip she had to make to the Emergency Room. When I wanted
to pull up lame because of an achy knee or ankle, I thought about the
physical trauma she went through after her bone marrow transplant. When
I thought that 26.2 sounded maybe a little too ambitious, I remembered
how Chris would have to measure her blood counts daily.
26.2? That’s nothing.
But nothing’s now here. It's go time, and I'm in Phoenix.
It is the morning of the race, and I am at mile zero.
I boarded the bus at the Mesa Sheridan hotel at 4:15 A.M. with the rest
of my Team-in-Training mates. The sky was dark. The landscape barren.
The coyotes sleeping. My teammates ready but barely awakened.
The school bus tumbled towards the starting line through the desert landscape,
but if I were looking out the window of a house we passed by, I would think
we were being lead to our execution.
But they wouldn’t know the half of it. We’re on our way to salvation.
I remember it being a little chilly before the rise of the sun in Phoenix.
And I remember seeing Orion in the sky, the same Orion I see in San Francisco,
the same Orion that my friends see back in New York. And then I remember
suddenly being a little warmer.
I promised myself before the race that I would take it easy, just concentrate
on finishing, take one step at a time, slow down if my knees begin to
howl, visualize the finish line. But there I stood, twenty minutes before
the starting gun, and I'm now back in high school moments before we play
St. Peter's, getting angry, hating my opponent, clenching my jaw, tightening
my fists, embracing the urge to do more and go further.
But I remembered my plan. And I swore to keep to it, each step micromanaged.
I began by running with my friend Michelle for the first mile, taking
it slow, keeping in mind how my coach in college would tell us to run
our first mile faster, so when you slow down, you'll still keep a good
pace. Well, I surmised at 6 AM, if I run slower, I'll fall back to an
even slower pace. We ran together. I kept my discipline. I was a snail
in runner’s clothing.
Soon the sun rose and the cactus flared and the clouds that were never
there disappeared and the people cheered. The runners passed and were
passed. Cadets handed out water. With each mile I conquered, I drew strength
from everyone, these perfect strangers who woke up early on their Sunday
mornings to perfectly cheer on another perfect stranger punishing himself.
Indeed, perfect strangers they perfectly were.
I’m fast forwarding ten miles. My left foot, which mysteriously began
to hurt last Tuesday for no reason other than it could, began to feel
as if someone were screwing a Phillips Head right into my ankle. And with
each step, it egged on for more. I began reasoning with it. Bribing it.
But never relenting to it. I didn't fly to Phoenix to walk, so I bit
my lip and moved my ass and my foot begrudgingly followed. Soon, my right
knee began to hurt, but in tandem, they both played off each other well.
They were fighting for my attention, but I was ignoring them. And when
you ignore something, it goes away.
Well, in theory. Not in practice.
As my mileage rose, so did the temperature. As my steps slowed, so did
my will power. But then I would see an honoree on the sidelines, cheering
me on, and I would think of my honoree, Christine, and now she’s just
given me my seventh wind. And ninth.
At mile thirteen, I knew water breaks would be a mile apart. And with
the 85 degree heat without a breeze crucifying me, I turned this into
thirteen one-mile races, with each water break a finish line complete
with water for my thirst, my head, my neck and my body. And then, I would
begin anew.
Surprisingly, I didn't feel the shock of pain that you supposedly feel
around mile 22. Maybe it's psychosomatic; maybe because mile 22 was just
another one-miler in my head. Maybe it's because all the pain accumulated
and my adrenaline drowned it out. Maybe it’s because the realization
of running on a bum knee and foot for 16 miles of agony didn’t occur to
me until I started typing this.
I do know now that my times were way slower for the final six miles.
I didn't feel that was so, but clocks don't lie. Then again, most clocks
do melt in the heat, and so did I. I forgot to bring my watch, and nobody
had an official time, so I didn't know how long or how slow I was going,
but that was probably for the better.
Christine and my fifteenth wind and I’m almost there.
Mile 26, the final one, was a trial of each step screaming, "Where the
hell is the finish line?" I spent all my excess energy speeding up, gambling
that I'd just get there a little bit quicker.
The last quarter mile was paraded on a high school track. My friend Leslie
ran with me when she saw me enter. Thank you, Leslie. And then I saw Christine's
aunt Leona on the sidelines, urging me forward, just 30 more yards. Thank
you, Leona.
As I crossed the finish line, with my neon yellow numbers above me,
validating me, I remembered the one last thing I needed to do.
Fast forward twenty-seven painful steps ahead and there I was, collapsing
into Aunt Leona’s arms, crying my heart out, sobbing, summoning any last
reserve of water to leave through my eyes.
>Crying over the relief and the euphoria of doing this for Christine.
For someone who deserves all the little angels with their little miracles.
For all my friends and family who have braved past struggles during the
past two years that were infinitely much harsher than what I just went
though.
And for all the leukemia battlers on the sidelines, defeating the heat
and their treatments to urge this perfect stranger on. For my teammates
with their personal motivations and honorees. For myself, after two knee
reconstructions and a lifetime of nagging hurts.
But none of these hurts were nagging. Pain had nothing to do with it.
It's two days later, and my left foot is getting its revenge. My right
hamstring is as tight as a pipeline. My shoulderblades hurt, and they
didn't do any of the running.
But they remind me of everything, the best and worst 4:55:04 of my life.
For everyone who supported me - monetarily, emotionally, physically or
by just being there - thank you. I owe you everything.
on the way to the race with Leslie
me early on, before the pain
Mesa, Arizona
I think this is me after the big hill on mile 19
The 2004 Valley of the Sun marathon finishers
me singing "Friends in Low Places" at the Victory Party