There are three blisters on my feet. Two of them are on my left foot...one each side of my heel. The other is on the right foot...on the inside of my heel. They hurt unlike any blisters I have ever had. In fact, I still haven't drained all of the fluid out of them. Every time I drain them, another layer appears. I guess blisters that are formed over 13.1 miles take a while to drain...a while to heal.
The last time I blogged, I was for sure yesterday would be my demise. I was pretty sure there was no way I could move in a forward motion with my feet for 13.1 miles. I mean...13.1 miles is a really , REALLY long way. An almost unthinkable distance to cover by any other means but a vehicle.
Yesterday, when I crossed the finish line, after 3 hours, 36 minutes and 41 seconds of running, walking, pushing forward, I did die a certain death. A death of the thoughts of all the things I couldn't do, of all the things I wasn't capable of doing. As I crossed the line, those voices of doubt in my head closed their proverbial mouths. When I saw the finish line, after 13 miles of hills and pavement and mid-70 degree sun beating down on me, with my legs throbbing, my feet screaming for relief, I found the strength within myself to run, with every last bit of energy I had, across the electronic marker that would tell some computer that I had arrived. The marker that would tell the computer that out of 12,000 runners who started, I would be one of the 9,397 people who endured to cross the finish line.
When I crossed the line, I burst into tears. The medics ran over to me asking me if I was okay, if I needed help. I looked them in the eyes and told them I needed no medical help, rather my tears were those of joy, of disbelief, of pure pain for which they had no cure. I couldn't even feel my feet from the pounding they had taken on the concrete. I walked, no, hobbled over to a man who placed a finisher's medal around my neck, gave me a hug and told me congratulations for completing the 2009 Derby Mini-Marathon. I believe that moment will be the closest feeling I will ever have to getting an Olympic Medal. It is my cherished possession, the proof that will last long beyond my blisters that I FINISHED 13.1 miles on my own, and on my own two feet.
I cringe to admit this to my readers, but for the last mile, I was stuck on the Miley Cyrus song "The Climb." (I thank two unnamed friends for accompanying me to a place where I could learn this song.) However, there were parts that were screaming to me, almost loud enough to scream over the pain screaming from my body.
"There's a voice inside my head saying, you'll never reach it." Pretty much. After mile 8, I had no idea if I could make it. I wasn't sure my legs would cooperate. I am not sure I had the mental strength to make them walk another step, nonetheless 5 more miles.
"These are the moments that I'm gonna remember most." Ah, I liked this line. As we made our lap inside Churchill Downs, the wind was blowing at my back...urging me on a little further. The sun was shining, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the Twin Spires towered down in an amazingly beautiful way. There were people all along the way, they were clapping for friends, family, anyone who was running. Their cheers, oranges, Vaseline, and water were enough to keep me going, to keep me from quitting...
"Ain't about how fast I get there, ain't about what's waiting on the other side, it's the climb." This one was debatable to me. It definitely wasn't about how long it took me to finish, rather about finishing. And it wasn't until I crossed that finish line that I realized, besides the medal, there was nothing amazing and significant waiting for me there. Rather, the significant part of the day had happened. On every last inch of that road that stretched from Iroquois Park to Downtown Louisville. In that day, in that moment, my will power had been enough to push my body past the point of exhaustion, past the pain in every part of my body, and had carried me to finish something I never even dreamed of doing.
Today, my body is sore...but it is a good sore. It's a little uncomfortable...it's a little irritating, but it is a reminder of what, just yesterday, I was able to accomplish. I want to wear my medal around everywhere I go...but I have hung it on the refrigerator for now. Next to all the bib numbers from all the races I have completed this year. The bright yellow one marked "14121C" is the most important of all. It marks not only an accomplishment, but a journey of 12,000 runners of which only 9397 finished. A journey in which I could have quit because it was the hardest thing I have ever done. A journey which left me with 3 blisters. Three visible reminders of the day that was, after all, not my demise, but rather, a new beginning. After all, as I was reminded by a sign at the beginning of Mile 13, Philippians 4:13 - I can do everything through Him who gives me strength."
At mile 10, there was a woman in front of me. Her shirt kept me occupied for about 3 minutes. It said "I run because...I love not just the finish line, but the trip along the way. It makes me feel free. I've got energy to burn. It's my anti-depressant. Walking takes to long and I have things I need to get done. My personal best is just that: mine. It's a good kind of sore. It makes the pavement feel needed. There are a lot worse addictions out there. There is no better way to explore a city or enjoy the spring flowers or fall leaves. There is no drug like adrenaline. I'll never know how far I can go unless I try. The pavement doesn't complain when you pound it. It takes all I've got but gives back more. Others can't. I can."
aformerblonde.
The last time I blogged, I was for sure yesterday would be my demise. I was pretty sure there was no way I could move in a forward motion with my feet for 13.1 miles. I mean...13.1 miles is a really , REALLY long way. An almost unthinkable distance to cover by any other means but a vehicle.
Yesterday, when I crossed the finish line, after 3 hours, 36 minutes and 41 seconds of running, walking, pushing forward, I did die a certain death. A death of the thoughts of all the things I couldn't do, of all the things I wasn't capable of doing. As I crossed the line, those voices of doubt in my head closed their proverbial mouths. When I saw the finish line, after 13 miles of hills and pavement and mid-70 degree sun beating down on me, with my legs throbbing, my feet screaming for relief, I found the strength within myself to run, with every last bit of energy I had, across the electronic marker that would tell some computer that I had arrived. The marker that would tell the computer that out of 12,000 runners who started, I would be one of the 9,397 people who endured to cross the finish line.
When I crossed the line, I burst into tears. The medics ran over to me asking me if I was okay, if I needed help. I looked them in the eyes and told them I needed no medical help, rather my tears were those of joy, of disbelief, of pure pain for which they had no cure. I couldn't even feel my feet from the pounding they had taken on the concrete. I walked, no, hobbled over to a man who placed a finisher's medal around my neck, gave me a hug and told me congratulations for completing the 2009 Derby Mini-Marathon. I believe that moment will be the closest feeling I will ever have to getting an Olympic Medal. It is my cherished possession, the proof that will last long beyond my blisters that I FINISHED 13.1 miles on my own, and on my own two feet.
I cringe to admit this to my readers, but for the last mile, I was stuck on the Miley Cyrus song "The Climb." (I thank two unnamed friends for accompanying me to a place where I could learn this song.) However, there were parts that were screaming to me, almost loud enough to scream over the pain screaming from my body.
"There's a voice inside my head saying, you'll never reach it." Pretty much. After mile 8, I had no idea if I could make it. I wasn't sure my legs would cooperate. I am not sure I had the mental strength to make them walk another step, nonetheless 5 more miles.
"These are the moments that I'm gonna remember most." Ah, I liked this line. As we made our lap inside Churchill Downs, the wind was blowing at my back...urging me on a little further. The sun was shining, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the Twin Spires towered down in an amazingly beautiful way. There were people all along the way, they were clapping for friends, family, anyone who was running. Their cheers, oranges, Vaseline, and water were enough to keep me going, to keep me from quitting...
"Ain't about how fast I get there, ain't about what's waiting on the other side, it's the climb." This one was debatable to me. It definitely wasn't about how long it took me to finish, rather about finishing. And it wasn't until I crossed that finish line that I realized, besides the medal, there was nothing amazing and significant waiting for me there. Rather, the significant part of the day had happened. On every last inch of that road that stretched from Iroquois Park to Downtown Louisville. In that day, in that moment, my will power had been enough to push my body past the point of exhaustion, past the pain in every part of my body, and had carried me to finish something I never even dreamed of doing.
Today, my body is sore...but it is a good sore. It's a little uncomfortable...it's a little irritating, but it is a reminder of what, just yesterday, I was able to accomplish. I want to wear my medal around everywhere I go...but I have hung it on the refrigerator for now. Next to all the bib numbers from all the races I have completed this year. The bright yellow one marked "14121C" is the most important of all. It marks not only an accomplishment, but a journey of 12,000 runners of which only 9397 finished. A journey in which I could have quit because it was the hardest thing I have ever done. A journey which left me with 3 blisters. Three visible reminders of the day that was, after all, not my demise, but rather, a new beginning. After all, as I was reminded by a sign at the beginning of Mile 13, Philippians 4:13 - I can do everything through Him who gives me strength."
At mile 10, there was a woman in front of me. Her shirt kept me occupied for about 3 minutes. It said "I run because...I love not just the finish line, but the trip along the way. It makes me feel free. I've got energy to burn. It's my anti-depressant. Walking takes to long and I have things I need to get done. My personal best is just that: mine. It's a good kind of sore. It makes the pavement feel needed. There are a lot worse addictions out there. There is no better way to explore a city or enjoy the spring flowers or fall leaves. There is no drug like adrenaline. I'll never know how far I can go unless I try. The pavement doesn't complain when you pound it. It takes all I've got but gives back more. Others can't. I can."
aformerblonde.
I am so super pumped for you! I was i was there to see you cross that finish line. It only shows you that if you set your mind to something and want it bad enough while believing in yourself you can accomplish all! Im proud of you love !
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