The Finisher
by Christine O'Donnell
āRunners, the shuttle leaves in five minutes!ā Coach Carolyn yells as she bangs on the door. There is a commotion in the hallway, a flurry of feet and a low buzz of excited chatter. Crawling out of bed, I stumble to the window, opening the curtains to see a thick band of fog. I can still make out the parking lot below, the shuttleās blinking lights cutting the mist. Grumbling, I throw on my running clothes and sneakers and stomp out. Exiting the hotel, I pause to read the banner theyāve hung: āGood luck running the 2000 Dublin Marathon!ā
Good luck, indeed.
I fall into the shuttle as they close the door behind me. The ride to the starting line is cold and thankfully quiet -- my head is throbbing from jetlag and Guinness. A runner leans toward me and says, āHere, let me fix your bib.ā I have safety pinned my race number on sideways and she patiently rearranges my outward appearance.
Itās not as if someone forced me to do this. Iām the only one to blame for my hunger, hangover, and complete lack of preparedness. So, what am I doing here? Well, after I said no to my boyfriendās proposal and moved out, after my father died of a heart attack slash esophageal cancer, but before I blackmailed my boss, I signed up to run a marathon. In Ireland.
Mile 1
Back when I was five months pregnant, I moved into my boyfriend Richardās apartment in the Mission district of San Francisco. After a six-year off and on relationship, it seemed like the right thing to do. His roommate and oldest friend ā letās call him Homeboy ā accused me of getting knocked up to put an end to Richardās budding career as a DJ (heād played one party) and often ignored me completely. Once Richard purchased the apartment building using his brutal frugality, Homeboy agreed to move to the downstairs unit, giving us more space.
The neighborhood was caught in the rapid gentrification of the dot-boom era, and we had to call the cops regularly to address fights in the alley, usually over drug exchanges gone wrong. It wasnāt an ideal scenario to raise a baby, but I was afraid that if I moved back to New Hampshire, Iād never return. Shortly after our son Jackson was born, I realized that despite my love for Richard and the wild obligation of parenting, I could not stay. We kept at it for almost a year before I moved to a nearby neighborhood. The day I was leaving, my sister Jeanne left a message on our machine, āDad had a heart attack. Heās dead. Come home.ā
Mile 2
Iām standing in my best friendās driveway, waiting for her to drive us to my fatherās wake. It feels strange that only two days ago, I was packing up to leave my sonās father, and now Iām back where I grew up, saying goodbye to my own.
āWhat do you want to listen to?ā Sheelu asks. āThe Smiths,ā I say.
āAppropriate.ā As Morriseyās pouty vocals fill the car, Sheelu speeds down Route 3 as we have countless times on our way to Boston. We traverse these roads so often they are etched in our veins, and at first, we donāt hear the siren. When we realize itās for us, we turn down the music, quickly buckle our seatbelts and pull over. Rolling down the window, Sheelu smiles and says, āGood evening officer. How are you?ā She can disarm people with her sweetness, even if it is sometimes feigned. āYou were going 78 and the speed limit is 55.ā He is not one of our local Nashua police but a state trooper, and he is not falling for her charm. So, I tap into my dormant theatre training and muster up a sob. Leaning over, I choke out, āItās my fault, officer. Weāre late for my dadās wake andā¦ I didnāt get to say goodbye!ā He lets us off with a warning.
My dad Buddy was 68 when he died of a heart attack. He survived esophageal cancer; however, the decades of smoking and steady alcohol had given him COPD, Type II diabetes and arteriosclerosis. His own father died in a gutter of sclerosis of the liver also at 68. This Irish grandfather met and married my Irish grandmother Catherine, then after two kids and six years of his abuse, she divorced him in 1940. Years later they re-married, had another child, then she left him again. (Sometimes we choose the suffering most familiar.)
My dad, though, did everything in his power to be what his own father was not. Perhaps he couldnāt escape his genetics, but he was otherwise joyful. He laughed and sang and danced and told jokes. While he never made it to Ireland, he loved to mimic his Irish relativeās brogue singing āOh Danny Boyā or āMolly Malone.ā
Mile 3
After I return from my fatherās funeral, I move to the Bernal Heights neighborhood and stay for six months before Richard asks me to move into the apartment below him. Though we arenāt married, me being the mother of his child lets him boot Homeboy by doing an āowner move-in evictionā, allowing him to raise the rent to market value. (Fun fact: In 1999, more tenants in San Francisco were evicted by owner move-in than any other time in history.) Richard is convincing, and I donāt trust my instincts yet, so I agree. Since I am āill-prepared for the futureā and āneed to start acting like a grown upā, I cave and move in. When he speaks to me with that authority, I am both aroused and deflated.
Mile 4
So, Jackson and I go from sharing a room and having four housemates in Bernal, to sharing a room and having two housemates in the Mission. āItās much better for Jackson,ā Richard says. This is where I learn that better is a relative term. Legally, I need to live here two years before he can put the apartment back on the market. I suck at managing money, and I do get a break on rent, but my new landlord charges more interest than the bank when I inevitably and shamefully bounce a check.
Mile 5
āI miss you,ā Richard whispers into my ear at a dinner party Iām hosting. His breath is thick with wine and his pheromones unmistakable. He slips his hand down my back and into the waist of my jeans, fingers resting at the tip of my sacrum. Jackson is asleep in the bedroom, the guests are mingling, and it feels good, this connection. Richard saw me bringing in a case of beer earlier and asked if we were having a party, so I invited him because I miss him too.
Living right below him grows more confusing, though. Especially when I hear him arrive home at 2:00 a.m. with other women. As the months pass, I begin to lose weight. I sit on the back porch smoking cigarettes and hear Richard milling about upstairs where I dreamed of our family, where my water broke, where I heard that my dad had died, where I felt suffocated and misunderstood and unloved. All that just a staircase away.
Mile 6
So, I decide to run a marathon.
I start a job as an admin at a venture capital company, and my new colleagues take me out for lunch on my first day. Weāre at a restaurant on the ground floor of our office building and someone orders two pitchers of margaritas. āAre you sure we should be drinking so close to the office?ā I feel prudish but donāt want to be exposed as a lush. āPlease. Everyone drinks here, especially at lunch,ā says a woman with long curly black ringlets resting on her shoulders. āIām Robyn, with a y.ā I smile and say, āOk, Iām Christine, with a Ch.ā Robyn laughs, raises her glass and says, āTo the newbie!ā And for a moment, I feel special.
As our second pitcher is delivered, a strapping man with wavy brown hair strides across the atrium. Heās accompanied by other men talking to him, or at him, but they are so short in comparison, like heās a ship and they are mere rowboats, trying to board. Robyn sees me admiring him and says, āThatās the big boss. Heās a Managing Partner, heās Australian, and yes, he is fine.ā
We take a beat to watch him then Robyn says, āI know you just started but I want to recruit you to our running group before Jordan tries to get you to play ultimate frisbee.ā I donāt know what ultimate frisbee is, and Iām not a runner, much less a joiner. āWeāre raising money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society by doing an endurance race through Team in Training. They do all the admin, give you a training scheduleā¦ even for beginners!ā
Though my fatherās cancer was esophageal, a win for any cancer is a still a win. All I have to do is raise a bunch of money for charity. How hard can it be? Iām petrified about the training, though. I fear dying-by-participation. My lifelong anxiety and OCD cause me to fixate on worst-case-scenarios, yet I continue to put myself in these situations. (They call it āexposure therapyā now; I was ahead of my time.) But I am in dire need of something to distract me from missing my son when he is at his dadās and missing my own dead dad, so I say, āWhy not?ā
Mile 7
I wake to my alarm, groggy from day drinking. When I get to the office, I see an email from Robyn about Team in Training. After reviewing the upcoming race options, I pick the marathon farthest away, in Dublin, Ireland. My dadās family came over during the potato famine, and it will make me feel closer to him. Plus, Iāve never flown outside of America.
This race also has the highest fundraising goal of $6,000. If I donāt raise the money, the unpaid balance will be put on my credit card. I hear Richardās voice in my head: āPeople who have debt have no self-worth.ā While Iām the only member of my family to have a college degree, it took me eight years to graduate while I worked full-time, and I still needed loans. My father was so proud of me that I never told him how much debt Iād accrued. Not so deep inside, the prickling weight of failure builds, but I sign up for the marathon anyway.
Mile 8
I throw a fundraising party where I am flirting with a hot guy who plays drums but, inevitably, The Drummer has a girlfriend. In Paris, though, and his loyalty seems flexible since weāre nearly having sex before he leaves. To be fair, I am desperate for touch. I am also drunk and throwing myself at him. He could decline, of course, but I am saying all the right things: āItās just casual. This is a party, letās have fun!ā He slowly and knowingly walks behind me into the bedroom. Kissing and groping each other, I am tearing off my pants when he says, āI really canāt, but Iām so fond of you.ā And then he leaves.
Do I seek them out - the unavailables?
Mile 9
The following week, during an evening child swap, Richard and I have sex on his kitchen floor. Maybe Iām still feeling rejection from The Drummer (who will later become my sort-of-boyfriend then cheat on me then apologize once he realizes heās a sex and love addict, and Iāll wish I had that kind of excuse.) After weāve caught our breath, he says, āHey, that was really niceā¦ā This acknowledgement, this version of his love, makes me feel safe enough to look into his eyes. As I do, he gets up and with his back to me says, ābut this doesnāt mean weāre back together, ok? That was just casual.ā
Casual. Got it.
Mile 10
Training takes place every weekend, and I miss the first group run because I am recovering from my fundraising party. I miss the second run because I forgot to put it on the calendar. I intend to do the third one then I remember that I have a baby and that is always a good excuse. By the time I participate in my first run, it is a six-miler.
āHello runners! Thanks for showing up on this blustery day. Please find your group and watch the butts in front of you to keep moving forward!ā Coach Carolyn is in her 50ās, short and fiery with a head of untamed graying hair that whips back and forth in the wind. āRemember -- hands move hip to nip!ā I spot Robyn by the fire trail flanked by swaying eucalyptus trees. She waves a sign that reads ā8 Minute Mile,ā and I realize I wonāt be seeing her again. Instead, I stand at the back with the 12 minute-and-over group. Basically, the walkers.
āHi. Are you with us slowpokes?ā Sheās red haired and freckly, with a deeper voice than I expected. āI havenāt seen you before, did you sign up late?ā
āYes. I mean, no, but I am late, for sure.ā
Her name is Angela, sheās also doing the Dublin race, and is recovering from a meniscus tear surgery. Bad timing but she hopes to be jogging next month. As we walk, I wonder what will happen when she learns I am a fraud, that I havenāt run since seventh grade, that I am raising money and doing a marathon as if it could bring back my father or keep my little family together. Angela does most of the talking, though, so I donāt have to be that honest yet.
The following weekend runs are far too long. 12 or 16 miles? Thatās a full day, so I opt out of those. Fundraising isnāt going well, either, so I hold bake sales at my new job where Iām making more money than ever but still not enough to afford a two-bedroom apartment.
Mile 11
Somewhere during the not-training-but-baking-furiously phase, Iām also flirting with my new boss, The Australian. After a āmassive mergerā (and more exciting financial jargon,) heās one of the youngest multi-millionaires ever and the office is very impressed with him but not nearly as impressed as he is with himself.
Anyhow, he is flirty. I am flirty. Iām an assistant to the junior partners, so he is my bosses' boss. āWhat are you working on?ā he asks, towering over my cubicle. āJust reorganizing Colinās calendar so he can join this lunch with Stanā¦ā I check my notes for this guyās last name then we say in unison, āMiranda.ā I smile. He smiles.
āWhy donāt you come over tonight? I got a pizza stone shipped in from Italy and want to break it in.ā He winks. While I know heās a player ā you can tell by his swagger and the way he stares too long ā he is also crazy manly hot, if youāre into that kind of thing, which I am. His head is so big, literally and metaphorically, but it is also full of gleaming white teeth and sparkling blue eyes and I think he could swallow me whole. Broad chested, good lips, strong hands... my body insists I say yes.
He has a proper home in Pacific Heights, not like my apartment where I share a makeshift attic with Jackson. Ringing the bell, I wonder if my small box of Seeās chocolates is an appropriate gift, but heās thrilled. āI love Seeās! We canāt get them in Australia.ā
And then there is drinking of wine, snacking on chocolates and taralli cookies while he pretends to make pizza, dusting my nose with flour then kissing me. I am enveloped by him. When he releases me, I notice some high-fashion and home decor magazines on the counter. He notices me noticing and says, āYeah, my wife and I were thinking of redecorating.ā
Mile 12
Wife. Heās not wearing a ring, though, which isnāt allowed, right? He sees the apprehension on my face and sits next to me. āWeāre separated, heading for a divorce. I swear.ā Still. Wife-ish. My stomach tightens. Is that my morality? Then he picks me up in his arms, effortlessly, like heās slipped on a jacket. Smiling at his confidence, I let him carry me to his bed where he lays me down gently, says āIāll get our drinksā and leaves the room. I have approximately seven seconds to decide if Iāll make a respectable, grown-up decision (Should I leave? Will this make work uncomfortable? Did I put on deodorant? Should I undo my bra?) and then he is back and weāre naked and itās too late for me to do the right thing.
(Fun fact: the Australian later went on to create a reality TV show with his next beauty-contest-winning wife about having an open marriage. On renovating his luxury villa in Bali, he stated in a Wall Street Journal interview, āWe brew our own kombucha, and make our own yoghurt and bread. Itās nice to get back to basics.ā #relatable)
Mile 13
Back at work, we continue to flirt, but I sense him pulling away. āWant to meet up for lunch today?ā I ask. āSorry, canāt.ā Not curt, still smiling, but too brief for someone who had my fingers in his mouth two days earlier. One day, Iām called into the office of the HR director who sits with the firmās CFO, and she asks directly if Iām in a relationship with The Australian. The CFO adds, āYouāre not in any trouble, if thatās what youāre worried about.ā
āWhy should I be worried?ā I ask. And then I laugh ā a loud, jolting cackle.
āItās a tenuous situation,ā he says, grasping the back of his neck. It turns out the soon-to-be-ex-wife is also an ex-employee and was his subordinate, like me. She isnāt happy about the divorce and could use this against him. āOf course, we donāt want you to feel taken advantage of,ā says the HR director but the CFO chimes back in, āYou need to understand how bad it would be if this got out. We canāt afford a public scandal, so can we trust that this conversation stays within these walls?ā I nod and walk away unsettled.
The next day, I see The Australian outside getting lunch and corner him to relay my awkward conversation with the CFO. āHe basically asked me to keep my mouth shut about us,ā I say, appalled. He chuckles dismissively and says, āI donāt see the problem. There isnāt an us.ā
Of course there isnāt.
Caught off guard, I donāt know what to say but, in my naivetĆ©, I think I can say anything. āWell. Iād be more likely to be discreet if I wasnāt still short $4,200 in my marathon fundraising efforts.ā He is quiet then, cocks his head with his mouth still half open from laughing, and walks away. It isnāt until Iām back at my desk that I realize I have perhaps, accidentally even, attempted to blackmail my boss-slash-lover.
The next morning, there is a company check on my desk for $4,200 made out to the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and I am free to fly to Ireland for a race I am unprepared to run.
Mile 14
Two days before my flight, during lunch with colleagues, someone tells a funny joke. I throw my head back laughing and, coming down, my open-mouthed smile crashes into the glass bottle Iām holding. I lose a perfect square out of my left front tooth. Looking around in the sparkling water, I see it slowly floating to the bottom. I quickly head to my dentist, bottle in hand, thinking heāll reattach it like a severed limb, but he fills it instead and wishes me luck at the race.
The next day at work, as I sit down at my desk, my forearm scrapes the corner of the computer monitor. By the time I get home, I have a raging fever. I look at my injury which has turned deep red and purple and has streaks moving away from it, heading up my arm, so I go to the ER. They give me shots of antibiotics and tetanus and tell me Iāve missed a lymphatic infection by a few hours. Back home, I wonder if I have a death wish or Iām just clumsy. The antibiotics will wreak havoc on my stomach, but the next day, I get on the plane to Dublin.
Mile 15
Itās my first time crossing the Atlantic, and itās incredible. There are amenities in economy: socks and an eye mask! We are fed salty food, but I donāt care because it is free. I watch the movie Jesusā Son, based on the novel about addicts and lost souls, and it cements my belief that being vulnerable will save me in the end. And then, somewhere over the ocean the little boy sitting behind me, whoās been playing video games for hours, cries, āI feel something strange!ā and promptly passes out. His parents are yelling āLieb, Lieb! Wake up, Lieb!ā and the flight attendants rush down the aisle. He eventually comes to, and they bring him up upstairs (there are two levels on this plane!) Iām nauseous from wondering what happens if a boy dies behind you mid-flight.
Later, I think about how he recognized the feeling and cried out. Adults donāt do that. We try to be brave and keep quiet. We doubt our instincts, but a child is free to be afraid of what he doesnāt know. I wish I was more like Lieb.
Mile 16
Upon arrival in Dublin, the group is ushered to a mediocre chain hotel on the outskirts of town. We pair up with running buddies for roommates and I pick Angela since sheās the only person Iāve met. Sheās recovered and running a ten-minute mile now, so I fib and tell her, āMe, too, Iāve just been training on my own.ā
We eat dinner in the hotelās pub. The options are limited ā something with cabbage and potatoes, and tuna salad sandwiches. I choose the tuna but upon my first bite, I realize that it has corn inside. Corn. Adding culture shock to my litany of issues, I ask aloud, āWhat is wrong with these people?ā and head back to my room. This is, I hope, the last time I openly share my American ignorance while traveling abroad but I canāt be sure that other mistakes werenāt made.
Mile 17
While crossing the hotel lobby, I overhear some local athletes (ok, guys with Irish accents) talking about going to a pub down the road. I say hello and wait for them to ask me to join. And because I am cute and American, they do.
The pub is only two blocks away, but the brutal wind and rain makes the walk interminable. āHow much further?ā I ask one of the guys, but my voice is swallowed up in the air and their conversation. I knew Ireland would be grey and damp ā San Francisco isnāt much different at times ā but this Dublin suburb doesnāt look anything like the pamphlets they hand out at the airport information desk. When we arrive at the pub, I swallow a pint of dense mead to warm my insides, then another to numb myself.
Mile 18
And then it is morning, I roll out of bed and into the shuttle and arrive at the starting line to hear the announcer read the weather report, āThe U.K. is experiencing the wettest autumn in 200 years with extreme flooding. The race will be cold, and frankly horrible for the duration.ā
The race begins and Angela and I seem to be making good time, though I have no idea. I mean, Iām running! As itās my first ever endurance event, I donāt know what to expect. For instance, I donāt know that at most races, they have highly marketed rest stations offering an array of goodies like Gatorade or Power Bars, as well as the obvious water. No, Dublin does things differently and water stops are infrequent. Is this an Irish thing, suck it up and move forward despite discomfort? If it is, I am nailing it.
Mile 19
The miles and hours pass in slow motion. I feel spacey and think I should grab a pretzel from my fanny pack, but Iām distracted by the people staring through the windows of their cottage-style homes. They are nonplussed about us and all the running. Donāt they know the hours weāve spent training, the people with cancer we are running in honor of? More likely they are wondering if our race will cause traffic on their way to work. I ponder these things as distraction from my burgeoning exhaustion and thoughts of my demise that are starting to creep in. Everyone is passing me, and Iāve slowed to a walk-jog. Iām still moving, though, because I am on a high. Even though itās thirty degrees, Iām in my fatherās ancestral lands. This is the country where my great-grandparents lived and worked and dreamed of leaving for a better life. Oh, and now I can see the 19-Mile marker!
And then I feel something odd happening to my legs wherein they have stopped moving. The blood in my body drops full force to my feet which have turned to lead. Looking up, I see Angela ahead of me, turning around just as I fall to the ground. I give in to the slow-motion collapse, and then I am sideways on a curb, wondering what the hell I am doing here. A spectator calls for an ambulance but what arrives is a volunteer with the fire brigade, driving a truck from the early 1900s. It is tiny, with wooden ladders attached to each side but there is a narrow space in the back where Iām taken in by a pimply teenager. He throws a foil blanket around my shivering sweaty body and tells Angela to meet me at the finishersā tent. The volunteer driver stops two more times to pick up other injured or infirmed runners, all of us silent and embarrassed by our (predictable, in my case) circumstances.
When we arrive at the tent, one of the volunteers ā a local nun in a thick black wool dress ā sits me down, hands me a cup of barley tea and says Iāll be ājust grand in no time.ā I look around the tent and see soaking wet runners with streaks of blood and gravel in their knees or elbows. One man has an ice pack addressing a large lump on his forehead. No one seems bothered by the scene, there is no sense of urgency, just cups of tea being refilled. Sitting here, I realize that despite the desire to honor the memory of my father in his homeland, he would think I am an eejit trying to run a marathon without training.
Mile 20
Back at the hotel that night, after skipping out on the finisher festivities, I feel nauseous and have a tightness in my chest. It could be a heart attack. Or gas. Or a panic attack courtesy of my increasing health anxiety. I confide in Angela, and we grab a taxi to the closest ER. Approaching the hospital, a security guard is smoking a cigarette outside. As we enter, he follows behind us. Making his way through the waiting room to the admissions area, lit cigarette still in hand, he asks what the problem is. My guts begin to rumble, and I canāt tell if it is the dayās events, the antibiotics, or the fear that this security guard is also the doctor on duty. I explain my woe, he charges my credit card 50ā¬, then walks back outside.
Shortly after, a young woman calls my name. She wears her lab coat open, proudly displaying her perky cleavage, made all the higher by shiny red six-inch heels. Sporting enormous hair held up by gobs of hairspray and a full face of makeup, she introduces herself in an eastern European accent as the doctor on duty. I am fascinated and nervous, but she makes jokes to put me at ease. āItās not uncommon,ā she says, āfor international students to get training in English-speaking country.ā (Fun fact: From 2000 to 2010, Irelandās dependence on foreign-trained doctors increased by almost 20% because their own medical residents and doctors couldnāt meet the rising demands of the countryās rapid economic growth.) āI fell in love with Ireland and stayed. And no, you are not having a heart attack, but you are extremely dehydrated and will need at least two bags of IV fluids.ā Delirious, I smile at Dr. Olga, close my eyes and sleep.
Mile 21
Angela offers to let me recuperate with her in Wicklow, the countryside an hour south of Dublin. We stay with her friends and their three little boys on a working farm with an artist studio. There are luscious, green rolling hills dotted with cows and sheep, just as I imagined. Weāre in the middle of nowhere, though, which elicits a wave of angst. I sleep with the light on, and instead of feeling relaxed and grateful for my travel luck, I feel like a rotten mother -- leaving my boy to take a self-indulgent trip, especially because I didnāt finish and could have, genuinely, died. My heart is aching, I miss Jackson, and I miss being in a relationship. A good one, but Iām not sure I know what that is yet.
Mile 22
A few days later I leave for London to meet up with an old lover, The Dane. We met five years earlier through a roommate. The Dane stayed in San Francisco for a while before moving back to Denmark, and we hook up whenever weāre both single. We toy with having an actual relationship but like most men I know, he continues to wait for someone better to come along. He is handsome and loads of fun, though, so we arranged this spontaneous trip by email, agreeing to meet up at a bed and breakfast in Hyde Park. The Australian and I clearly parted ways once the check was handed over, so I feel no tangible guilt.
Mile 23
The flight from Dublin to London is death-defying. Turbulence and whipping winds cause the plane and passengers to bounce up and down, swinging from side to side. People scream and pray while flight attendants do their best to calm our ragged nerves. I feel waves of terror then peace, and this duality is more confusing than hearing my father had died when I had just spoken to him the night before. My seatmate and I hold hands as we land, a slow-motion fishtail skid across the runway. When the plane finally comes to a halt, the pilotās relieved voice tells us, āI am just as glad to see Heathrow as you are.ā After I return to a normal breathing pattern, I gather my bags and follow the other survivors off the plane, ready to forget the whole Ireland debacle.
Mile 24
During my blissful weekend in bed with The Dane, I lie about finishing the marathon. We toast to my success, and seeing how easy it was, I decide to keep the lie. I donāt plan on seeing anyone from the group again ā especially Angela since I feel guilty about what a drag I must have been (though, what do I know? I never asked her how she felt, only accepted her kindness.) No one witnessed the demise, no photos as evidence that I did, or did not, cross the finish line. The lie feels gross at first, then gets easier as time goes by. I even embellish my time, why not?
In for a pennyā¦
Mile 25
The following year is a blur. I move out of Richardās building, back to my old living situation in Bernal Heights, only to move out again months later, just days after 9/11. This time, though, I take the lovely young woman housemate with us, and we start over two blocks away. This time is filled with more disappointment because I canāt yet stop making bad relationship decisions (my self-worth is still growing), but also more joy. I go to Paris on my own, I get a new job that brings in benefits and travel, I find housemates who become lifelong friends, and I watch my son growing into an empathetic little toddler.
Mile 26
I decide Iāve kept the finishing-a-marathon secret long enough. Such a small thing, but weighty. What kind of example is that to set for my son? So, I reach out to Coach Carolyn and sign up for another race, this time at home in San Francisco where Nike has partnered with Team in Training/LLS and created a Womenās Marathon. I start (actually) training and, in my third week of enthusiasm, promptly pull my hamstring ā an injury that has plagued me since third-grade soccer. Coach Carolyn instructs me to walk instead and at first, I feel like a loser but tell myself that the goal this time is not only to finish, but to not end up in the hospital.
And so, after a sunny day filled with music and cheering through the hills of the city, I cross the finish line at Ocean Beach. My time is 6:50min, but I did it, and Iām nowhere near dead. My friends have brought Jackson to witness me finishing, and I cry harder than I have since my dad died, but this time with elation and adrenaline and pride because maybe I am not the worst decisions Iāve made. Iām not incapable or deficient. I am not even unlovable (despite currently being in a relationship with someone five years my junior who will eventually get back together with his ex-girlfriend after breaking up with me over the phone a few months later, on Valentineās Day. [Can I pick them, or what?] Doesnāt matter, though. He goes bald in the end, and I win the jackpot with my thick-haired, blue-eyed Sicilian husband.)
p.s. Mile 26.2
(Fun fact: Nike also partnered with Tiffanyās, so each race finisher is greeted by men in tuxedos holding tiny blue ribboned boxes carrying a silver necklace with an oval pendant with ā26.2ā stamped into it. It is my good luck charm now, and it comes with me on every flight Iāve taken since. Each one a successful landing.)
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