Done, and done.

"We are different, in essence, from other men. If you want to win something, run 100 meters. If you want to experience something, run a marathon."

-Emil Zatopek

(Note: I know, I know. This post is practically a novel. You may sigh and roll your eyes, and I do not blame you. But this is my journal, and I wrote it for me, and my future prosperity.)

I did it. I ran a marathon. I ran 26.2 miles. I ran 13.1 more miles than I ever thought I could, or wanted to run. I ran for 4 hours and 26 minutes and 5 seconds. I ran in the southern Utah rain, and through a head-on wind. I ran on a knee which has required the anterior cruciate ligament to be surgically corrected, twice. I ran with my mother, two weeks before her 50th birthday. I ran, and I conquered ME.


One and a half years ago, I completed the Great Potato Idaho half marathon in May of 2007. After which, I felt somewhat accomplished, but felt such pain experienced during the 13.1 mile race did not outweigh the outcome. I questioned my reasons for engaging in such a competition. I very openly verbalized my severe lack in desire to ever run a full marathon.


Come May of 2008, one year later, I was presented with an opportunity through my work in Salt Lake City (Rocky Mountain Associated Physicians) to run the St. George marathon. To my own surprise, it did not take much convincing to get me to sign my name on the dotted line as a participant. I called my mother up as I was shopping in Albertson's on Foothill Drive in Salt Lake for a birthday card for my grandmother. At the end of our 5 minute chat, she, too, was persuaded (with a little more effort), to conquer a continuous 26.2 mile race.


And so the training began. It started with 7 or 8 mile runs up 2100 East, past the University of Utah football stadium, at 8:00pm to avoid the summer heat. Then it became 13 miles, running by the Hogle Zoo, down Sunnyside Ave, and through Sugarhouse park. Soon 13 miles dropped the latter '3' and added a 7 instead. At that point, my 17 mile never-ending journey lead me to believe running into the teens just was NOT fun. And perhaps this marathon would be my first, and my last.


I came home to Boise for my last school semester, and was able to complete the last couple of longer Saturday runs with my mother. And soon the race was upon us. People would frequently ask, "So, are you ready?" and my response would always be, "I don't think I will ever be ready, but I'm going to run anyway." And I did. I ran. Far.


Saturday morning, 4:15am, I awoke to my cell phone alarm after a short night's rest (though it was on THE comfiest double bed in the world, at Lizzy Henderson's home). Dressed in all black, including my hat and minus my shoes, my mother and I rode the 30 minute bus trip to the starting line. Our actions at the time seemed rather illogical... Who rides a school bus up a canyon, jam packed with strangers, to then.. run back down... for fun? Too late at that point to think TOO hard on the matter.


And the rain began to fall; which meant 6,000+ runners were all competing to get the 3,000 available trash bags to use as makeshift rain coats. My mother suddenly darted away, toward something or someone I could not see, and just as quickly as she disappeared, she returned with two black plastic bags in hand. What a woman. We settled around the first fire pit, being the rendezvous point for RMAP runners, but with a pre-sunrise nighttime sky and everyone hiding beneath trash bags, none could be found. Sitting on the ground, legs tucked inside my garbage bag, an array of bare legs standing above me was all I could see. Muscular ones, skinny ones, less-'firm' ones, which only went to show that 'marathoners' come in all shapes and sizes. I soon did a double take on a very fine looking pair of presumably male legs. I thought to myself, "now there's a runner," and I slowly worked my way up to the face to find that a Y-chromosome visage perfectly matched his lower half. I fully admit, I was staring. And while staring, I gathered that his mile time would probably blow mine out of the water; he was so out of my league.

After an hour of too much thinking time, the race was ten minutes from commencement. We assembled into one large line, falling into the 04:30:00 running time slot. We stripped ourselves of our plastic body umbrellas, and were off. At first, everyone was so close together- one false move, and either you or the runner to your left/right/back/front could take a spill. Naturally, as time passed, the crowds dispersed and focus could then be reverted back to keeping pace. With my iPod shuffle music playing quietly through my headphones, I enjoyed running in the dark, chatting with my mother, and savouring the general marathon splendor.


Come first aid station at mile 3, the crowd markedly condenses, paper Gatorade cups are squished and scattered all over the road, long lines are building behind port-a-potties, and gracious volunteers (SUCH an act of service, wow!) are hurriedly bent down applying IcyHot to many parts of runner's lower extremities. It was chaos.


First bathroom break for my mother and I didn't come until mile 13 (world-record for us, I am sure). At that point, the clock read 2 hours and ten minutes. I turned to my mother and said, "Well, people are finishing now," followed by the rolling of our eyes and small chuckles. Continuing on, the splendor ensued: massive wedgies of runners in front of us, good-looking muscular legs to watch and entertain my wandering mind, and runners stepping off to the side of the road to relieve themselves (usually males due to the unfair easy access). To my very welcomed surprise, I looked to my left and saw Mr. Hotshot Legs who's-mile-time-could-blow-mine-out-of-the-water from the pre-race fire pit. You mean, my new boyfriend runs the same pace as me?! I nudged my mom and nodded toward the guy, and his fellow (and also attractive, but not quite as 'leggy') running partner. We both smiled. And I stared.

It wasn't until mile 18 when the urge to "go" was too much to bear that I, too, stepped off into the sage brush, and whipped down my black stretch capris. Just my luck, a rebellious runner decided to bypass the busy street road and opted for the side path... which just so happened to stretch right behind me, and my full moon. Whoever you are, hope you enjoyed the view!


Soon the marathon took on a whole new meaning. I have heard that at and after mile 20, the body does and experiences strange things, but I never really knew what that meant. At this point, my hips were aching, my quads were on fire, my left foot burned, my knee was screaming, I was rain-soaked from head to toe and... I had 6 miles still to go. I found myself fighting back the tears- where were these coming from?! Why all this emotion?! I knew I couldn't quit, I wouldn't. And really, the thought never crossed my mind. Being an athlete since I can remember, I have always been taught to never say die. But I certainly began to so intently WISH and HOPE the end would come quickly.


This would be the most painful six miles of my life. I had to overcome my inner devil, defeat the defeated mentality, and conquer the conquered. I never understood until this moment that running a marathon is just as much physical as it is mental. The will to DO, the drive to survive, and to push your body to limits never experienced was incredible. My body doesn't want this. It is at its limit, or so it is telling my mind. But marathoners are capable of then retorting and telling the body, NO, it's not OVER. I guess I attained the status of a 'marathoner' for one golden hour, as I willed my body to continue. As the bewildering tears welled, my breathing quickened and became more shallow, making running even more difficult. I had to gain composure. Thinking in the moment, versus the seemingly never-ending finish, was the only way to combat the emotions. Or just looking ahead thirty feet and catching a glimpse of Mr. Legs.


Three miles later, mile 23, Bette from RMAP and my family came into view giving me a SO needed extra boost. Their familiar faces, warm smiles, and excitement carried me through. The fam started to run with us on the sidewalk, cheering as they carried their umbrellas and stomped in the puddles. I needed them there so badly as my fan base, more than I thought I would. Mile 25- I look to my left and I see another recognizable face dressed in jeans and a yellow t-shirt. Nick Rasmussen! So random, but so fun! He, too, looked surprised to see me and his final cheers lifted my spirits as I turned one of the final corners to the end. The self-pity wallowing which had occurred only an hour before, soon turned to a second wind. I wanted to start sprinting. As if my mother could read my mind, or detect my suddenly lighter footsteps, she said, "Meredith, don't take off. I need you." And so I stayed. Of course, I would stay. We trained together, we already endured 25 marathon miles together, we had to finish together.

As the red and white ballooned finish line came into view, I picked up my pace, hoping my mother would follow suit. Soon my baby sister hopped onto the running course. Her energy was not only contagious, but offered some comical relief as her baggy orange sweatshirt hung from her skinny body, and her soaking wet blue jeans shimmied their way down her bottom. "Come on, mom! You can do this!" We all were pushing her and cheering her to finish strong, as we always do, no matter how long of a run we have had that day. AND Mr. Legs happened to be right ahead of us! I yelled over my right shoulder, "Mom, we can't let my boyfriend beat us!" But that didn't seem to do the trick, for her, at least.

As the cheers rose from the large crowd gathered near the end, we pushed, and we battled, and we 'sprinted' through that line. We were done! We finished! It was ALL over! VICTORY! The tears from six miles prior finally saw the light of day, and my mother and I embraced in a wet, strong hug. My mother was first to be awarded the very cool southern Utah orange rock medal, and was hugged by the deliverer. After a moment of awkward silence, I said, "Can I have my medal?" And the woman said, "Did you run?" I lifted up my long-sleeve shirt (which was to be discarded when I warmed up mid-race, but never happened) and I enthusiastically retorted, "Yes ma'am!" We then bypassed the offers for ice cream sandwiches and popsicles, and opted for buttered Great Harvest bread, while celebrating with family and friends. And then there he was- Mr. Legs crossed my path one last time. Almost instinctively, I walked right up to him, put my hand on his arm and said, "I just have to tell you that it was such a pleasure running behind you. Really, a great view." He laughed, and we congratulated one another on a race well run. Turns out my older brother knows him, as he attends BYU! (Hope he has facebook....)

My legs no longer functioned, my knee was stuck in a straight deadlock, and my body core immediately dropped sending my teeth into a wild chatter. My father wrapped his jacket around my weary, frozen body and we made the very slow trek to the car, all the while laughing, smiling and proudly displaying my medal. A nice warm meal and a soak in the jacuzzi was just what the doctor ordered....

(Pictures and the WONDERFUL RMAP dinner post marathon run-down to follow.)

"The body does not want you to do this. As you run, it tells you to stop but the mind must be strong. You always go too far for your body. You must handle the pain with strategy...It is not age; it is not diet. It is the will to succeed."

- Jacqueline Gareau, 1980 Boston Marathon champ