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Mr. Big Shot
At the start of my first marathon, I felt like a cocky racehorse.
Quitting smoking prompted me to take up jogging, which led to
a 26.2-mile test of fitness.
The fresh October morning in Chicago’s loop was sunny and wonderful.
Excitement, throngs of people, and my adrenaline made it seem
like I was watching a movie of myself in fast motion.
Starting in the midst of 9,000 runners, I shuffled carefully for
10 minutes just to reach the starting line. By the second mile,
the field spread so I could establish my pace. I passed many people
easily, amazed at how effortlessly I was striding and covering
miles. At mile marker 13, I congratulated myself.
By mile 16, however, my head ached and breathing was labored.
I hit the proverbial wall after 19 miles. Instead of swiping a
cup or two at the water station and gulping them on the run, I
permitted myself to drink while walking.
But I couldn’t resume running. Ahead, a woman sprayed runners.
In slow motion now, I made my way under her hose and mumbled deepest
gratitude. Before I could do anything about it, I lost control
and wet my pants. My saving grace was that her water hid the mishap.
Though it was cold and surprisingly uncomfortable, I lingered
as long as I could to wash away all evidence.
I spent the next five miles alternately stumbling and trying to
jog. When I walked too long, my legs cramped. If I jogged too
far, my legs cramped. Runners I had passed miles ago sailed past
me. But I kept moving forward, embarrassed, berating myself --
completing the course by running the entire 26 miles had been
my goal.
The last two miles were run on a bike trail. Spectators found
its narrowness and nearness to the end ideal for encouraging loved
ones. Not even a cramped, pathetic participant who had soiled
himself could walk through such a gauntlet.
I willed myself to shuffle-jog. In the crowd’s kindness, I found
a second wind. By the time the course widened to an avenue for
the last few hundred yards, my chest was thrust with pride. Bands
played, and the atmosphere was carnival-like.
Just as I glimpsed the finish-line banner, the crowd started to
murmur. Ahead, on my left and right, people cheered. I was running
alone -- no one was near me. These magnificent fans recognized
the pain that I, a small out-of-towner, endured to get here!
A grin took over my face. As I waved back in appreciation, the
public address system announced, “Here comes the first blind finisher!”
The crowd exploded. Out of the corner of my eye, I helplessly
saw a man, tethered behind a guiding runner, pass me.
For a moment, I tried to race him. I’d like to claim that I came
to my senses. But, in truth, I had nothing left.
The blind man finished ahead of me. He was the center of a well-deserved
celebration that permitted me to melt away and be found by Mary
who kneaded the knots from my legs as I moaned. |
