Not me. I was not the girl to go the distance. At least, not physically.
Sure. It sparked my interest once upon a time. Before I entered ninth grade, I thought I might join the cross country team, and when I went to their first practice and accidentally ran six miles with varsity, I never went back. I decided to stay at a comfortable one or two miles. After all, as a goalkeeper in soccer, I needed quickness and a different type of endurance. I didn’t need to run miles on miles.
Some people (okay, the really athletic people) my age talked about running a marathon one day. Others thought it’d be cool. Psh! Not me. Maybe I’d get older and run a half-marathon one day—maybe. But a full one? It wasn’t even close to a consideration.
As I continued to spend time playing soccer, this idea prevailed. When I left my gloves and shinguards behind for a long-term mission trip, I thought I would return to them. Well, I did, but my relationship with those items had changed. A few decisions led me away from playing soccer competitively, and this left a spot open in my life.
Once I moved to Utah, I started hiking more. Going to the gym more. Running more. A friend of mine became my first running buddy, and she inspired me to go longer distances. Four miles entered my running log. And then it entered it again. And again.
This wasn’t my norm, but it wasn’t out of my range anymore either. When I transferred and attended university in-person again, I felt like I had less time for fitness and my miles went down. However, I knew I wanted to go back to a time like that again.
When the last semester of my bachelor’s degree came around, I was bouncing on my toes, ready to get back to it. Forget waiting until the end of the semester. I had waited long enough. It was time to return to the fitness part of my lifestyle.
I decided I would finally do that half-marathon, and I would do everything I could to get as fit as possible by summer—while staying safe and healthy. This meant more time at the gym, taking another ballet class, and . . . going all the way.
All the way.
A physical phenomenon occurred. A lift in spirit. A shift in mind.
When it came to me, I decided it could go no other way. I would run a half-marathon, yes. But would my training stop there? No. I would go all the way. I would run a marathon.
I knew the perfect one. It had interrupted my mornings for a couple of years: the Utah Valley Marathon. The course goes through the mountain roads, comes out of the canyon, and travels down a main street until it reaches downtown. The police pause cars as runners pass by.
Instead of being stuck at a stoplight, I wanted the cars stopped for me.
A few days after I made this decision, a friend texted me. She wanted to run a half-marathon. Would you train with me, she asked. YES! I said. She sent me her training plan, and I thought I had it easy. I would train to run the half-marathon with her, and then I would double my miles by repeating her training on my own. Thus, I would train for my marathon while helping my friend train for a half-marathon.
Well. Perfect plans do not exist.
When my long runs reached ten miles, I noticed a large energy zap. I slugged around campus and tripped around in my ballet class. Going to the gym, to ballet, and to intramural soccer was already a lot. Add in long distance runs? The fatigue hit me hard.
It became clear that I couldn’t keep increasing my mileage without an increase of negative results in other areas of my life, especially in university. If I continued that way, ballet class would surely suffer but so would all my other classes. I couldn’t think clearly or have the energy to do homework if I pushed myself too far physically.
With teeth clenched, I stepped away from my original plan. Instead, I would dedicate myself to training for the half-marathon, and after classes ended, I would squeeze in as much training as I could for my full marathon.
I never took a proper look at a calendar. If I had, I would have noticed that by the time classes ended, I would be tapering for my half-marathon, and by the time I ran my half-marathon, I would be recovering and then tapering for the full marathon.
When my half-marathon race came around, I ran the 13.1 miles, pushing myself through the desert hills of Moab. It was my first time running that length of distance. It would be the longest distance I would run before my marathon.
A part of me tried to reason that I would be okay. Most of my half-marathon was uphill. Most of my marathon was downhill. I could run downhill. I knew the technique to minimize the strain that it puts on the body. Even though it’s supposed to be harder on your muscles, I felt confident it would be more of an asset to me.
Race day came.
I woke up at two in the morning to catch the first of two busing-time options available. I didn’t want to risk missing the last one and getting left behind. We left just after three in the morning. During the hour ride to the middle of who-knows-where, I closed my eyes and did my best to sleep.
Our bus arrived at a farm. We had two hours until the 6 AM starting time. In the gated area were porta potties, fire pits, and a few snacks. I’m a big fan of snacks, but I had already packed my own, so I nestled next to a flame with three people around it. As we talked, more people joined us, and by the end, we knew enough to know this:
One of us had ran and qualified for the Boston Marathon already.
Two of us had ran the Utah Valley marathon before, but they ran it slowly.
Two of us were newbies. (If you can’t tell by this point, I was in this grouping.)
This mixture of people helped to ease my nerves. Did a lot of the people around me look more fit and prepared? Yes. But now I could see that I wasn’t surrounded by 100% elite athletes. And the lady who ran the Boston Marathon? She said she wouldn’t do it again (too long of a day). That helped the dreamer in me find comfort. If I didn’t pull off a miracle and qualify, I could wait a year, or two, or ten.
When the clock struck 5:20 AM, I pulled out my sunscreen. As I applied it, a booming voice sounded. Time to collect bags. The bus will leave with the bags at 5:40. With all I still had left to do, the time whizzed by. I rubbed in the sunscreen as quickly as I could. I removed all the important contents of my bag: my granola bar, my hydrating pre-workout, my running shoes, my safety pins, and my race number.
Inside the duffel bag, I stuffed my sweatpants, hoodie, regular shoes, and now empty blender bottle. I thought the bag might burst open. Why hadn’t I worn my running shoes like everyone else? I could do nothing but regret and hope my contents didn’t flow out on their journey to the finish line.
I said goodbye to my new friends, used the porta potty, and jogged over to the starting line. Well, in reality, I stood a yard or so away from it. I decided to begin the race with the pacer for the 4 hour time. (A pacer is a person who guarantees they will finish the race at a certain time. They hold up a neon-colored sign for you to identify and follow them.)
I didn’t plan to dedicate myself to following a pacer. Instead, I’d follow my own natural pace and relieve the pressure of having to do anything else but finish the marathon by doubling the longest distance I had ever ran. I figured that was enough to worry about.
Bang.
The race started. I stayed with the 4 hour pacer, but as some of the downhill slopes increased in decline, I pulled ahead. I ran with the 3 hour 50 minute pacer. People surrounded me, running in front, behind, and to the side of me. A couple folks here and there stood outside of their home, cheering us on. Horses watched and ran back and forth within their enclosure. The foals were particularly enthused, seeing us herd of humans.
The longer I ran, the clearer it became that the downhill would not go as steep as I imagined. It would not be the asset I had hoped for. Soon, I dropped back to the four hour pacer. I had started off at a pace too fast. It seemed like I’d never reach that first marker. Where was mile one?
Then, I saw it.
Mile three.
I had forgotten. The first marker didn’t come until mile three.
This shot me full of hope. But . . . I was also full of some other things. By mile five, I used the porta potty and lost the four hour pacer. It was now up to me to decide how to go about the race.
To conserve energy, I eventually decided to start walking at every aid station (which came every other mile marker). I wish I could remember exactly when I chose to do this. It might have been mile nine, or it might have been right after the halfway point.
Either way, around mile sixteen I felt good, but I needed more breaks. I started to take walking breaks at every mile marker. Around mile twenty, I couldn’t make it to the markers nonstop anymore.
Not a single part of my body or mind understood how I could make it through the last six miles. It seemed impossible. However, I knew this was primarily a mental challenge, not a physical one. Even if I didn’t understand how I would do it, I chose to keep going until I had crossed the finish line.
To keep myself moving, I decided to run to the duration of one song, pause my music for a short walk, and play my music when I started to run again.
After a song or two, my left AirPod died. By mile twenty-two, my right AirPod died. I was out of the canyon. I was on the main road, and it stretched so far that I could see the miles to come. The people around me had dwindled until it felt like everyone was gone.
I needed something to keep me going. Without a plan—without a replacement for the music—I knew I wouldn’t run again. My body had no reason to.
I decided to run for three minutes and walk for one. I’d count the minutes in my head and repeat this until I reached a spot about five blocks out from the finish line, and then I would run nonstop to the end.
The counting began. One Mississippi. . . Two Mississippi. . . Thirty Mississippi. . .
Three minutes. Stop. The walk gave me time to breath.
When I had to run again, my feet wouldn’t pick up the pace. My thighs couldn’t carry me onward. Physically, no part of me wanted to run again. But I needed to. The minute had passed, and I knew I wasn’t near injury. I could do it.
I leaned forward and threw myself into a running pace. It felt more dramatic than how it looked—I’m sure.
A few runners appeared every once and a while. Each aid station that offered me a half of a banana and a quarter of an orange, I accepted.
In the last two miles, I watched a woman and guy ahead of me. In the final mile, I watched the distance between me and these people decrease. I passed the woman. My three minutes almost ran up as I hit my nonstop marker. I could bail out and take the minute break, but I had already committed to running at this point. My feet kept moving.
The distance between me and the guy closed. There were people surrounding the finish line—spectators. Only a few cheered. The rest were tired or preoccupied. I can’t blame them. A lot of time had passed, and our hobbling wasn’t the most thrilling to watch. As I entered the gated strip that lead to the finish line, I gave a silent thanks to the people who cheered for us, despite not knowing our names or faces.
Then I sprinted.
I had always finished short runs with a sprint.
I guess my body had become used to it.
Granted, sprinting in this case meant coming close to a normal running pace, but for me, it still counted. I pulled ahead of the guy. Surprised, he gave a fatigued turn of his head to see me. He picked up his pace and pulled ahead.
My husband (at the time) and friend cheered from the side. Go, Mandy!
In the final stretch, I got one more kick and came up by his side. We crossed the finish line together, ending with a high-five. I don’t know his name, but I’m grateful for that guy. He helped me finish, and he was the first I celebrated with.
Fatigued, I was not the amazing athlete that ran over to their family and friends and jumped into their arms. I walked straight to the booths with food. At one booth, I found a chocolate Creamie—the whole reason I ran the race, of course.
The medical tent gave me some hot-cool gel for my aching hips, and I finally left the runners area to greet my dedicated supporters. I walked for a few minutes to help my muscles transition and relieve lactic acid. When I sat down on the grass with my husband, I quickly discovered I couldn’t stand back up. He used all his weight to lift me off the ground, and I eventually made my way to the PR gong, hitting it far too hard and likely rupturing an eardrum or two.
I sat and did a little bit of wobbling the rest of that day. The next day I bought KT tape and used it for the back of my knee, which helped tremendously. After wearing it for a day, I no longer needed the help.
As suggested, I’m taking a 26-day break from running. However, I’m looking forward to getting back out again.
I didn’t pay attention to the time I got when I crossed the finish line. It turns out it didn’t matter. Later, I found out online that I finished the race in 5:10:16. For a girl who had only ran 13.1 miles beforehand, it felt like a good time.
Overall, I’m beyond satisfied with my race. Believe it or not, despite all the problems, I enjoyed it. Training for and running this race has transformed me. I was a girl who only ran one milers. Then I was a girl who couldn’t even imagine going past four miles for fun. Now I’ve run 26 miles, and I want to incorporate long distance runs into my regular fitness schedule.
I plan to run another marathon next year. I’m not sure which one yet, but I know that I am going to train for a much longer time period, and this time, I’m going to train for a certain pace. As an amateur runner, who knows how it will go. But rest assured that whatever happens, I’ll let you know.
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