My eye lids blinked open to a pair of gray and yellow Brooks Adrenaline 13's. I was on a gurney in the middle of a small intersection being helped to sit forward as my body expelled a few ounces of what little fluid remained in my stomach. Despite the medic’s best efforts, I had a hard time comprehending what was happening. My left shin felt like a truck ran over it, my legs were the color of asphalt and I had a bag of fluid being pumped in to my arm. I was moved to an ambulance, I laid there staring at the ceiling I wondered how the "Hell did I get here"?
The night before, Brian, Deidre, Kent and I found convenient parking in Philly which made for a short walk to the expo. I equate the excitement of getting your race bib and shirt to Freshman year orientation, walking around finding out where everything is, trying to imagine what the next day holds. The excitement that a $30 shirt gives to runners is deranged. We pay upwards of $170 to enter a race like this and punish ourselves for months for a medal and a shirt that we can attain as easily as a WaWa cup of coffee. My three friends and I put a cap on a week of carefully planned meals and gallons of water drank and an exclamation point on the morning's itinerary.
All went as planned: breakfast, commute, parking, security and start line. We were ready, this was my third marathon in 13 months and I was as prepared and in better shape than I had ever been before. I set a difficult but reasonable goal of 3 hours and 59 minutes that throughout training seemed attainable. I was armed with experience garnered from the previous 26.2s and a race belt filled with appropriate supplies. I wasn't going to feel the bottom of my stomach on mile 16 like I usually did and I had a pain relieving rub to combat any pain in my left calf.
As we passed the start line the theme music from Rocky blared loudly and the sound waves seemed to bounce off of every historic bell and building in downtown Philadelphia. The adrenaline coursed through my veins and chills went down my back, it was as though Ben Franklin himself was the Maestro leading “Gonna Fly Now”. All the hard work done, this was the fun part!
The first six miles were a breeze, I enjoyed the playlist, recording videos and taking pics of Brian and the surrounding chaos while breathing easy and stepping lightly. No problems through ten or even at the halfway point. Mile 15 is when the first signs of distress started to appear which is not unusual in any of my long distance runs. It's important to note that I hydrate more during the race than I do during training. I attended to my calves, drank a good portion of water and was instructed by Brian to go on ahead. I followed his instruction. At this point, I was running a faster pace than I had run in training or in any of the other marathons. I was happy with how things were playing out.
Mile 17: Dark Clouds
As I replay the fight in my head, I realize with a clear mind that I was ignoring signs. For me and most, powering through pain or soreness or exhaustion is difficult. You have to stay rational enough to decipher when your body is reaching a limit or if your mind is screaming "stop, sit down, why are you doing this"? My body was telling me that I was reaching a limit and I failed to decipher the message.
Mile 20: The Wall, Misapplied Pride
I remember now, (I couldn't that night) staggering after hitting the final turn, mile 20, only 54ish more minutes. Adrenaline kicking in, this is what I trained for, (these last six miles). I remember now, (I couldn't the next morning) thinking "George you need to walk for a few minutes, compose yourself, drink some water, 359 is not what is important, JUST FINISH"! I hypnotized myself into believing that attaining this training mantra was what mattered, and ignored my safety. I remember now, (I couldn't the next day) making a decision based on false pride. Instead of coming out of my gait and walking, I planted my forefoot in the asphalt and headed toward the cheers. I ignored this last WARNING!
I don't remember, I've tried and I can't remember anything else. He has played a big role in everything, the marathons aren't different. In the first he comforted my wounded calf to aid in me limping across the line. After calling the angel that was in Ashleigh’s belly to be by his side this March, he dispatched an army of his to make sure I retained my wits so that I could cross the finish line on my second marathon in April.
He did for me what I was unable to for myself on the third. Like a Father sometimes has to sit his out of control teenager down to tell him he's heading off course, GOD told me, "son, have a seat, you're not on course".
I'm not typing and thinking about a lost opportunity to achieve 359. I learned more running 20 or so and collapsing than if I had I somehow managed to cross the line at 26.2 and incurred damag kidneys and on the verge of a heart attack. I'm typing through glazed eyes, THANKFUL that he threw the towel in for me.
I remember now, and I hope I never forget, the sirens roaring, and the horn beeping deep, I laid in that ambulance, saying the Lord's Prayer, thanking him: for protecting my heart from my misdiagnosis of countless signs that are obvious now, but weren't then, for making sure that it wasn't more serious than it could have been for my sake and my family, for my wife and my son.
Thank You for my Medal Brian. Way to Finish!
My experiences are new to me; the lessons learned are probably not new to you. Most of the time, I'm just working out what the Silver and Black lining is.
