The vehicle lurched ahead in the vast emptiness. Like the unknown of the race ahead, the world outside was still shrouded in mystery. In the blackness around us, I knew there was great beauty. And likewise, even though I felt fine at the time, I knew there would be pain.
* * *
The bus stopped. It was in the middle of a long line of buses that stretched as far as I could see in both directions in the dim light. I hopped out and joined the endless herd of runners that slowly wove between the buses, towards the front of the parade of vehicles. I finally reached the starting area, where the air was filled with a nervous energy that is there for any race. And the feeling is only amplified for marathons. But I was ready.
The Napa Valley Marathon would be my second race of the 26.2 mile variety. My first was the Air Force Marathon, where I flew, fought, and won. I didn't actually win, but I did finish feeling relatively well and with a time under my goal of 4 hours - by a mere 14 seconds. This time I was shooting for under 3:40. I knew 19+ minutes off of my first time would be a challenge, but I was confident that I could do it. I paced around the starting area, trying to keep warm and trying not to think about goal times and the one million things that could go wrong during the race.
That was when the sun peered over the mountains and seeped into the valley. It illuminated the majestic landscape and for the first time I saw the beauty that would surround me for the journey ahead.
Vineyards stretched in all directions. Mountains sat around us on all sides. Gnarled trees sprung up here and there. Palm trees dotted the hillsides and fields. It was like nothing I had ever seen. I let the world around me distract me from the worries within, and for a while it worked. A race coordinator on a megaphone did his part to try to keep us relaxed us well, cracking jokes in between instructions. At about 6:45, fifteen minutes before race start, he said "On your mark, get set, go!" And we responded to his false start with chuckles and knowing smiles. And before long we were lining up for the real start. And in what seemed like no time at all, the National Anthem was sung and we were about to start the countdown.
This is it, I thought. Time to do this.
10... 9... 8... 7...
No turning back.
6... 5... 4...
Here we go.
3... 2... 1... BANG!
The first couple of miles were easy, like in any race, and I felt good. The adrenaline from the start made going out too fast a serious danger. In a shorter race, like a 5K, you can use that adrenaline to your advantage. In a marathon it can be your undoing. I started fast but I kept it under control and got into a comfortable rhythm before too long.
The scenery in the early parts of the race wasn't quite what I expected. Large portions of this part of the course were wooded. But once in a while the trees would open up on one side and reveal gorgeous views of the valley. Vineyards were everywhere and the mountains created an unreal backdrop. The occasional palm tree could be found jutting up from between the rows of grapevines. It was truly breath-taking.
At the first water-stop, about 2 miles in, a volunteer shouted to us: "24 miles to go!" I smiled and replied, "Oh, is that all?" and several other runners around me laughed nervously. It was the only way to respond to the knowledge that we still had that much further to go. Just 24 miles. Only 126,720 feet. A mere 1.5 million inches. All we could is laugh.
My knee started to bother me sooner than I hoped. It wasn't bad - just a light twinge that worsened on downhills. I relished the uphills in those first five or six miles (the irony of that would not be lost on me 15 miles later). Though my knee didn't hurt too much early on, I knew how quickly a small annoyance could turn into agonizing pain. My fear was that the pain would slowly worsen over the length of the race, until I could no longer go on. I pushed the thought to the back of my mind and kept running.
Gradually, the trees thinned out and the hills lessened, as the course continued down the center of the valley. Mountains stood on both sides, with grapevines and mustard plants filling all the spaces in-between. I entered the middle miles of the race - where the scenery started to become a blur and the miles ran together. Any pain or discomfort was still minor, and so I emptied my mind and just ran. And ran. And ran.
I picked up the pace a little for mile 14, but it didn't last. For miles 15 and 16 I still felt OK, but it was getting harder. My feet hurt. My legs were getting heavier. It was also getting hotter and there had been no escape from the sun since around mile 6. I was taking water at every aid station but my own supply of Nuun (an electrolyte drink) was starting to run low. I tried to stretch it out the best I could, but I grew more and more thirsty as the sun beat down and the miles wore on.
That's when I saw the cow - up on a hillside not far from the road. Green with pink polka-dots. Or was it pink with green polka-dots? I did a double-take, but my eyes had not deceived me. I smiled for the first time in several miles and ran on.
I passed a sign that listed multiple towns with mileage and arrows pointing cars in the right direction for each.
Straight ahead: Napa - 10 miles (The race finished in the town of Napa)
To the right: Yountville - 2 miles
I asked the few runners around me if anyone wanted to go to Yountville instead of Napa and was met with silence. I ran on. And on. And on.
The Napa Valley Marathon would be my second race of the 26.2 mile variety. My first was the Air Force Marathon, where I flew, fought, and won. I didn't actually win, but I did finish feeling relatively well and with a time under my goal of 4 hours - by a mere 14 seconds. This time I was shooting for under 3:40. I knew 19+ minutes off of my first time would be a challenge, but I was confident that I could do it. I paced around the starting area, trying to keep warm and trying not to think about goal times and the one million things that could go wrong during the race.
That was when the sun peered over the mountains and seeped into the valley. It illuminated the majestic landscape and for the first time I saw the beauty that would surround me for the journey ahead.
Vineyards stretched in all directions. Mountains sat around us on all sides. Gnarled trees sprung up here and there. Palm trees dotted the hillsides and fields. It was like nothing I had ever seen. I let the world around me distract me from the worries within, and for a while it worked. A race coordinator on a megaphone did his part to try to keep us relaxed us well, cracking jokes in between instructions. At about 6:45, fifteen minutes before race start, he said "On your mark, get set, go!" And we responded to his false start with chuckles and knowing smiles. And before long we were lining up for the real start. And in what seemed like no time at all, the National Anthem was sung and we were about to start the countdown.
This is it, I thought. Time to do this.
10... 9... 8... 7...
No turning back.
6... 5... 4...
Here we go.
3... 2... 1... BANG!
* * *
The first couple of miles were easy, like in any race, and I felt good. The adrenaline from the start made going out too fast a serious danger. In a shorter race, like a 5K, you can use that adrenaline to your advantage. In a marathon it can be your undoing. I started fast but I kept it under control and got into a comfortable rhythm before too long.
The scenery in the early parts of the race wasn't quite what I expected. Large portions of this part of the course were wooded. But once in a while the trees would open up on one side and reveal gorgeous views of the valley. Vineyards were everywhere and the mountains created an unreal backdrop. The occasional palm tree could be found jutting up from between the rows of grapevines. It was truly breath-taking.
At the first water-stop, about 2 miles in, a volunteer shouted to us: "24 miles to go!" I smiled and replied, "Oh, is that all?" and several other runners around me laughed nervously. It was the only way to respond to the knowledge that we still had that much further to go. Just 24 miles. Only 126,720 feet. A mere 1.5 million inches. All we could is laugh.
My knee started to bother me sooner than I hoped. It wasn't bad - just a light twinge that worsened on downhills. I relished the uphills in those first five or six miles (the irony of that would not be lost on me 15 miles later). Though my knee didn't hurt too much early on, I knew how quickly a small annoyance could turn into agonizing pain. My fear was that the pain would slowly worsen over the length of the race, until I could no longer go on. I pushed the thought to the back of my mind and kept running.
Gradually, the trees thinned out and the hills lessened, as the course continued down the center of the valley. Mountains stood on both sides, with grapevines and mustard plants filling all the spaces in-between. I entered the middle miles of the race - where the scenery started to become a blur and the miles ran together. Any pain or discomfort was still minor, and so I emptied my mind and just ran. And ran. And ran.
* * *
13.1 miles. Halfway. Near the beginning of the race I overheard some advice a man was giving to his running partner. He said to just think about the marathon as two half-marathons - finish the first 13.1 miles and then you just had a half-marathon to complete. I had done the first half, and still felt pretty good. So, I just had to finish the second one now. No problem, right?I picked up the pace a little for mile 14, but it didn't last. For miles 15 and 16 I still felt OK, but it was getting harder. My feet hurt. My legs were getting heavier. It was also getting hotter and there had been no escape from the sun since around mile 6. I was taking water at every aid station but my own supply of Nuun (an electrolyte drink) was starting to run low. I tried to stretch it out the best I could, but I grew more and more thirsty as the sun beat down and the miles wore on.
That's when I saw the cow - up on a hillside not far from the road. Green with pink polka-dots. Or was it pink with green polka-dots? I did a double-take, but my eyes had not deceived me. I smiled for the first time in several miles and ran on.
I passed a sign that listed multiple towns with mileage and arrows pointing cars in the right direction for each.
Straight ahead: Napa - 10 miles (The race finished in the town of Napa)
To the right: Yountville - 2 miles
I asked the few runners around me if anyone wanted to go to Yountville instead of Napa and was met with silence. I ran on. And on. And on.
* * *
My Nuun was gone. I checked my watch: 6 miles left. Everything hurt. Every step felt like a battle against the overwhelming force of gravity. I pushed on.
I could still make my goal time if I didn't slow down too much. I felt my pace slowing and tried to fight it. But I had too many foes: gravity, my watch, the sun, the miles, the hills, dehydration, exhaustion, pain, myself.
I told myself I could still do it. I could still finish in 3:40. Why did I tell everyone my goal was 3:40? I could still do it. I pushed on. And on. And on.
Mile marker 22. I was starting to lose hope that I could make my goal time. I had slowed down considerably. Each step was harder than the last. I fought every temptation to stop and give up. I would not give up.
23. It was too hard. I did the math in my head and was almost certain I could not make 3:40. But I would not give in. I still told myself I could do it. I pushed on despite being completely exhausted. Every part of me ached. Every time my shoes slapped the pavement I winced in pain as the impact reverberated through my body. Every breath didn't quite seem good enough. Every minute felt like hours. I wanted to be done.
I checked my watch often. I passed mile marker 24. I dragged on. 24.3. And on. 24.7. And on.
I reached mile 25. Finally. I knew then that I couldn't make 3:40. It was impossible. The realization was slow and agonizing, like how the last 5 miles had felt. But I was finally certain that my goal time was out of reach. I didn't care. I just wanted to be done. I wanted to lie down and not move for days. But I kept going. Even though every part of my body and mind told me to stop, screamed at me to end this madness, I continued on. I slowed my pace substantially, and took a couple of minute-long walk breaks (twice my normal duration), but I kept pushing forward.
There were several around me struggling too. I offered some words of encouragement and kept on moving.
For the first time in many miles, I noticed the scenery, because it was changing drastically. I was entering Napa. Trees and houses began popping up closer to the road. The course took several turns as it came into town. I hurt all over but I knew the end was near.
Mile 26. Almost there. Soon I could rest. I just had to keep going a little longer.
I turned a corner and then saw something more beautiful than anything I had seen all day: the finish line. I locked in straight ahead and ran until it was upon me. Another beautiful sight to my right: my wife, cheering me on. I looked at her and tried to smile and then gave one final push to reach the finish.
I crossed the timing mats, stopped my watch, and closed my eyes.
* * *
I felt someone take my hand and lead me slowly forward. My legs wobbled as I walked gingerly ahead.
I opened my eyes. I closed my eyes.
"How are you doing? Let's keep moving," a voice said. Everything felt fuzzy and I had to focus on staying upright.
I opened my eyes. Someone put a medal around my neck. I closed my eyes.
"Smile," someone else said. I opened my eyes and grinned. The camera snapped. I closed my eyes.
"Have some water," said the first voice. I opened my eyes. I took the water. I closed my eyes. I gulped down the whole thing.
We kept walking slowly forward.
"Are you OK?" asked the voice. I nodded, eyes still closed. I was not OK but it was all I could do just to give some kind of answer. My brain was not able to determine that the correct response would have been to shake my head.
I opened my eyes. My wife was there, on the other side of a chain-link fence. She congratulated me and asked if I was alright. I again nodded. I closed my eyes and clung to the fence for support.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"I just need to sit down," I said. And I plopped down on the pavement, still clinging to the fence. Eyes still closed.
I sat there for a while. Not moving, not even opening my eyes. Just focusing all my energy on keeping somewhat upright and conscious.
The woman who had guided me away from the finish line left me with my wife, who was becoming more concerned. I maintained that I was OK.
I tried to stand and walk, still using the fence to balance myself.
I opened my eyes. I closed my eyes.
My wife got another runner's attention, and asked him to get a medic.
I finally conceded that I maybe wasn't OK. The medic asked me what was wrong and I tried to put it into words.
"I feel... dizzy," I said. It wasn't exactly right, but I think he got the picture.
"Does anything hurt?" he asked me. I had just run a marathon. The question seemed absurd.
"My legs?" I answered.
He took me inside the medical tent and I was immediately helped by several nurses and doctors. They brought me to a bed and had me lie down on my back. Two nurses lifted my legs into the air and I felt an explosion of sensation in my upper-body as the blood rushed back into my head. A tingling sensation remained, from my head to my fingertips.
"Did you see that?" asked one of the nurses. "He just went from white to pink."
The medical staff then helped me recover from the severe dehydration I was suffering from, by bringing me Gatorade, soup, bananas, and bread, among other things.
At one point, I noticed a man come in for medical help because of an injury to his lower leg. There was blood running down his calf from a nasty wound. They asked what happened, and he explained that he tripped and sliced his leg open before the race.
"And you still ran the race?" They asked him.
"Yeah."
"The whole thing?"
"Yeah."
They sent him away, telling him that he needed to go to the hospital right away, and would almost certainly need stitches. After he left, the nurses looked at each other in disbelief.
Over time, I started to get the feeling back in my fingers, arms, torso, and head. Eventually, I could walk, with some help. And then, a bit later, on my own. I finally felt well enough to leave their care and thanked them before leaving the tent to find my wife, who was waiting outside anxiously.
As soon as I stepped out of the tent, the sky opened up and poured down endless waves of rain on us. The world had turned raw, exposed, and vulnerable and it seemed to mirror my own feelings at that time.
The marathon had whittled me down to my core. All the layers from the different facets of my life had been ripped away in those 26.2 miles. And what was left was just me. Raw and alive. It didn't matter that I missed my goal time by nearly 4 minutes. I fought against my doubts and finished the race when it seemed impossible, and with what I thought was still a damn good time: 3:43:51 - Sixteen minutes off my first marathon. But in the end, the time didn't matter. I challenged myself and did something real. Instead of experiencing the world through the lens of work and worries and social media and television and so on, I was simply alive in the world. I was more alive than ever. And being out there, with hundreds others, I was a part of something. We conquered the 26.2 miles together and we were alive.
* * *
