You’ve been training for months for your first marathon. You’ve put in blood, sweat and tears and the day has finally arrived. You couldn’t believe all the people at the start, and how few empty porta-johns there were. You didn’t have time to pee then, and now at Mile 3 you start to ponder, “Where’s the porta-john?”
You get into a mental zone for the next few miles. You say to yourself over and over, “In my dreams, I am a Kenyan” and imagine yourself running a 2:20 race and crossing the finish line first. Your fantasy quickly ends when you get a sharp stitch in your side.
At Mile 5 you spot an old lady on the sidelines. “Come here, come here!” she motions you. “Sorry, I’ve got to run,” you tell her and keep going, shocked she expected you to stop your race to chat.
At Mile 8 you realize you are 2 minutes ahead of your planned pace. “Find your happy pace,” you dutifully remind yourself. Suddenly someone watching the race screams out “Kick Assphalt!!!” paying homage to your OMM shirt, giving you a nice mental boost.
Now at Mile 12 you are cruising along, feeling great. “Running is my happy hour!” you gleefully think. You can feel someone very close behind you. Suddenly the person darts out of the way to pass you and snarls “Run your race pace.”
“This IS my race pace!” you exclaim.
You encounter another rude person a few hundred yards ahead. “Hurry it up!” the person growls as they pass on your left. “Hey, I’m running my mass off!” you yell, not believing all the mean people in this race. Your luck changes when you exchange flirtatious glances with a cute runner on your left. Finally the runner works up the courage to ask you “Your pace or mine?” before coyly grinning and running ahead. This gives you a second wind and you pick up the pace a bit.
The next few miles are smooth, then at 16 you start to get a sharp cramp up your right leg. “Geeeeez,” you miserably think. “This seemed like a good idea three months ago.” You slow down a little and the cramp starts to subside.
At Mile 24 you stop for water and continue on your way. “You’re almost there! You’re almost there!” the crowd chants as you go by. It’s said so much you grumble to yourself, “I know, I know – I’m almost there.”
At Mile 25 the shouts change to “One More Mile!” You can’t believe you’ve made it this far and get one last big endorphin rush.
At Mile 26 your legs start to give out. “Dammit, who moved the finish line?” you scream out inside. Eventually you cross it and collapse in a heap on the ground. Finally, you have accomplished this great feat that you have trained so hard for, and you can actually truthfully say, “26.2 Miles – Been there, Run that.” As the reality of what you’ve just done sinks in, you darkly think to yourself, “the things I do for a t-shirt.”
As you and your family are walking to the parking lot, excitedly talking about your big feat, someone passes you and calls out, “Hey, 26.2 miles and still smiling! That’s great.” You nod and internally agree. The smile gets bigger. In the car you take off your shoe to inspect your blackened toenail earned from your months of training. “Oh well,” you think. “Toenails are for sissies.”
Later at home you and your family are discussing the fact that you actually completed a marathon. They are so proud of you. Suddenly your sister looks at you with surprise and says “you're a marathon ho.”