I was on mile 23 and convinced I was going to die a slow, painful, highly embarrassing death in the middle of the Windy City. The crowds were cheering "go, random runner go." The loudspeakers were saying, "you are going to finish the Chicago Marathon." And all that circled in my head was "shut up – get me off this course - NOW!"
But somewhere in between the guy being carted off on a stretcher next to me and the chubby girl who I couldn’t believe was possibly passing me bounding by me, I saw Peter. And my parents. And a glimmer of hope. There they were - cheering me on as I slowly, pathetically started to fade into loserdom.
Peter saw my pain and with it my ensuing failure. And he decided to push me. Boat shoes and all he jogged about two miles by my side reinforcing that I was almost there and that it was going to be okay. I responded more times than once, "This was the stupidest choice I ever made - I am never doing this again - This is awful, just awful! I HATE the Marathon!"
And here I am this morning hydrating, eating a smorgasbord of Power-products and gearing up to do it all over again this year. Ask me why? I can't quite tell you. Somehow, somewhere in between the time that I crossed the finish line, angry at the world for 26.2 miles of hurt, and the time that I was sipping champagne and biting into the best brat ever, I forgot about the misery.
What is it about our minds - what we remember, what we forget. My bad memories get lost a lot - they are easily forgotten. While the sweet ones seem to last forever or just leave me speechless. What I remember about the Marathon is the good stuff.
That first bridge where I saw Peter and my parents waving – so proud of their girl who was running among the masses.
All the queens of Boystown turning 6 to 8 into the best early morning disco party ever.
That guy that started laughing at me at 17 when I let out a long exasperated, man-when-is-this-going-to-be-over sigh.
Grandma Shirley snapping photos - so excited to be part of my little cheering section.
Peggy and Jan welcoming me and my family into their house after the race.
My Mom and I laughing at all the people in the hotel walking around with their medals proudly hanging around their necks like they were the only ones that had finished.
And feelings of pride that just can't be put to words.
Tomorrow I'm running the Pittsburgh Half Marathon with my sister, brother-in-law and cousins. And together, we're doing it for a woman who I know doesn't forget - her memories are just so great, that's she's speechless sometimes. We're running for the special moments, hearty laughs, crazy Barryisms, and amazing recipes that I know our Grandma still has at the tip top of her mind. All those things that when I sit close to her, and tell her stories, she remembers, but just can't quite verbalize.
Tomorrow Team Olga will be running through the streets of Pittsburgh - the city that my grandma has called home for her entire life - thinking about her and remembering all the fun we have had together. Yes, we're all going to be in a little bit of pain come 12 and 13, but I know that all we're going to remember when we've each crossed the finish line is we did this as family - the way that Grandma Barry always wanted us to do things. And we'll all have some good laughs afterward.
Lo.
love it. Zivjeli!
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