Honolulu Marathon – December 10, 2000
I have been running for a long time, but it wasn’t until this past summer that I mustered up the courage to join the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society’s “Team in Training” and commit to raising $4500 –and training for the Honolulu Marathon. I’d tried training for a marathon several times over the past few years, always on my own, and each time I would get hurt. Team in Training, with its coaching and support, would be my best shot at success. Running is close to my heart, but my father even closer. My father has twice survived bouts with a non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and raising money for Team in Training would be a way for me to combine my love of running while honoring my dad’s survival. It was a challenge, for sure—but a challenge I relished at the thought of accomplishing.
I trained well through the summer, delighted as my body grew stronger and leaner than it had been in years. To my amazement, the dollars piled in— I couldn’t believe the generosity of people I barely knew. I had expected the fundraising to be the hard part; I was so prideful of my strong body and my running abilities that I expected the training to be a slam-dunk. Instead, I was dismayed to watch as, despite my best efforts, my body began to fall apart. A severe case of Iliotibial band syndrome left me unable to run for the last seven weeks preceding the marathon. I tried everything—swimming, rest, doctors, massage, stretches, acupuncture, noxious-smelling, roommate-terrorizing Chinese herbs —to no avail. I was crushed. I was so close. I tried to keep up a positive façade, telling everyone who asked that I was fine, and literally began willing myself to heal. But inside I struggled—feeling the doubt that had plagued me for so long return for another round.
I went to Hawaii anyway. I had raised more than enough funds, and wanted to support my teammates (and, let’s be honest, see Hawaii). At the very least, I thought, I would try to walk the entire marathon—the greater goal was about Team in Training and what we represented, and not about myself. I needed to remember that. I arrived in Honolulu with doubt in my head and worry in my heart. What good was raising so much money if I didn’t even get to run? I wanted so much to conquer this; I swore I’d quit running forever, if only I could run this marathon.
A friend on my team was ecstatic over her “cure” the day before we left by a local chiropractor—she was pain-free for the first time in weeks. I’d tried everything—but a chiropractor. It was worth a shot.
I called the only person I knew in Honolulu. He gave me a name. The ultimate trump card, I thought. I’d left the mainland with everyone rooting for me, but no one knowing what would happen, if I’d even get past the starting line. Now perhaps this man would help me out, and I could run this race, healthy and whole. I could imagine the surprise of my friends and family, picking up the phone thousands of miles away to hear me say that I’d actually run the race. I longed for the circumstance to make those calls! My friend and I boarded a bus, and began our scenic, expectant ride through the island of Oahu.
As promised, the bus driver shouted out our stop (“Girls! Here’s the Toys R Us!” I cringed at the thought of seeming tourist) and we walked down the hill towards the doctor’s office. While we waited, his assistant told us of tales of marathons past—her father had helped start the marathon 28 years before. Each year, among the thousands of people who ran the race, was a man who ran wearing wooden Japanese shoes. Incredible, I thought— a man who runs 26.2 miles in wooden shoes? Who does that? Did he come in last every year?
I fidgeted in the office as we talked. The wait seemed interminable—but they were fitting me into the schedule, so I had no reason to complain—I was lucky just to be there. Unbelievably, this office saw many of the elite athletes in Hawaii. A trump card, indeed—we hadn’t just been sent to any chiropractor, but one of the best in the state. Finally, it was my turn. In walked a middle-aged Japanese doctor. Here was my hope. He began a series of tests (all of which I failed) and proclaimed, “You are weak on this whole side!” He twisted me around and cracked my back sharply. I let out a gasp of surprise as I heard my body pop. “You’ll be fine!” He contorted and cracked me another way and I gasped again. As he cracked each toe, he started cracking jokes. For the first time in weeks, I started to relax. He sent me on my way with a pat on the back and reassurance that I would be fine. I would?
No way, I thought, no way. I’d searched high and low for a miracle for almost two months and I now I was supposed to believe that I’d found one with less than 24 hours to go? My mind couldn’t begin to wrap itself around the possibility. Nonetheless, my hands trembled. I left his office with my heart full of cautious hope.
I tossed restlessly all night, eager to get up and go. I rose before any of my three alarms had a chance to ring; the pitch-black of 3 AM was pierced loudly by the cheers of Team in Training groups gathering in the hotel lobby below. My hands still trembled; my teeth chattered despite the heat. I dressed quickly and shoved Fig Newtons into my mouth. I covered myself in talismans: an “Uta” pin attached to my singlet, a list of people to think of and songs to sing tucked in my pocket, a special email taped on the back of my runner’s number. I was ready.
I met my team; we exchanged final hugs and whispers of advice. Slowly, we walked towards the starting line. As we neared, we found ourselves sucked into a sea of people, many of them not speaking English. We were nowhere near the line—the swarm of nearly 30,000 crowded one another further and further back. I was separated from my team members, and found myself alone.
At last, the fireworks began, bright, loud, explosive fireworks over Honolulu Bay. The fireworks drowned out the gun of the start, but finally the mass started to move. Slowly, forward, we moved. Panic surged in my heart—I wanted to cry from the fear. Was my leg going to hurt? Or had the kind doctor fixed me? I hadn’t been able to run more than 50 paces in seven weeks. Was this race to be over before I even began? What was I going to do if the first step hurt? Stop at the start? I tried desperately to crowd the doubt from my head. As the crowd pressed from behind, I had no choice but to start moving. I took a step. Another. Another. My bouncing steps progressed to a trot and then to a jog as we began to stretch through the streets. I was ok? Was I? There was the question. I was ok! This was impossible—but I was running. With each cautious step of those first miles, I awaited the searing pain I thought would return at any moment. It never came.
By mile 8, I knew I had it. We’d been promised a ‘Marathon Moment’—when we knew that, no matter what, we were going to finish. For some it would come early, for others, the last step before the finish line. Here it was, I thought—here’s my moment! Tears streamed down my face and a smile stretched across my face. It was still pre-dawn, and no one noticed. I had over 18 miles to go—but that didn’t matter. I knew I would finish the whole race, and my body would be more than just upright when I crossed the line.
The sun rose, and as the miles passed, blisters formed, stiffness crept in. I ran by water stops, beer stations, bands, cheering crowds, and elegant homes. I made friends with the runners around me. A man who lived in Hawaii and had lost his wife to leukemia several years before; a man from Kentucky who’d blown out his knee; a charity director who wanted to talk to 500 of ‘his’ runners during the race, we all chatted and ran. Others paced around me silently, but we followed one another off and on throughout the miles.
At long last, up ahead, I spotted one of the coaches. He was waiting at the base of The Hill, the hill at mile 23.5 that I had been dreading for months. But I was surprisingly ecstatic to see it, because it meant that I was almost done. He yelled my name, slapped me a high-five, and hugged me tight, likewise delighted at how far I’d gotten. He started a slow run beside me, wordlessly urging me to match his stride. He chattered away. Without notice, I found myself at the top.
He left me with two miles to go, a strawberry lifesaver, and my own thoughts. I glanced over my shoulder and watched him trot back down the hill to meet the next runner. He’s gone, I thought—he’d never know. My legs begged me to walk. My feet ached; I felt as though there must be toenails floating in the tops of my shoes. I waited for my shoes to turn red and start spurting blood at any minute. My heart battled with my legs. You’ve come so far! OWW! You’ve done the impossible! Please stop! Just go! Shut up!
And suddenly, up ahead, I spotted the man in the wooden shoes. I had initially doubted his existence, thinking his story just another piece of marathon lore. Yet I’d come upon him midway through the race, almost as though he were waiting for me. We had passed each other repeatedly during the last ten miles, never exchanging words. Yet here, now, on the last downhill of this journey, was my chance to pass him. My victory was already secure—I was going to make it to the finish. But how sweet would it be to pass this piece of history as part? Slowly, I plodded along. Surely gravity would help me out. I leaned forward, letting Einstein’s genius take me down the hill. I told the platoon buddies who were running by my side of the story of the man in the shoes. Gradually they, too, found a renewed spring for their step.
We reached the bottom of the hill and I found myself separated from my new friends. My mind was a blur. I scanned the crowd for my teammates, someone, anyone I’d seen before, to share these last yards with. We entered the park and finally, I saw the mile marker for 26. This was within my reach! .2 miles, 385 yards—how far can that be? I’d looked at a photo of the finish line every day for the past four months—and here it was, ahead of me. But why did it keep moving away? .2, .2, I kept saying to myself, that’s nothing. One foot struck the ground, the other followed. Finally I closed my eyes, insanely hoping that running with my eyes shut would get me there more quickly. I had no fear of falling and tripping in those final paces, as I certainly should have. I opened them slowly. The line stood before me, and I took the final stride across.
I beat the man in the wooden shoes, of course; I passed him somewhere on that downhill and I beat him. But I didn’t look back. He could have been two paces behind me, or 200. It didn’t matter. For my years of dreaming about running a marathon, I thought the point was going to be about the run itself, the glory of the finish, the medal, the feeling like champion athlete—and the bragging rights to others. It was a tremendous personal accomplishment, but as I stumbled to the bank of showers to cool off and remove some of the salt, the tears, and (wishful thinking) the pain, I found myself letting go of “me.” It didn’t matter.
My first marathon wasn’t even about the running. I’d gone into the race thinking I was “special” because of what I’d been through just to get to the start. People older, younger, leaner, and squatter than me had passed me by—but I’d also passed all of the same. People dressed as cheerleaders, cows, and brides had passed. And I had passed a samurai in some wooden shoes. But we were all going to the same place. It took time, dedication, and commitment to get through the training, and plenty of hope and will to get through the race. Our motivations, training, injuries, experiences, hopes, and dreams all differed. We’d all conquered something just to get to the start, none of it any more special than the rest—it had been a challenge for everyone. But over the 26.2 miles, through the darkened downtown, the hotel district, the parks and the suburbs, we all had the same goal—just getting to that finish line. And we did.
