First (but not so) Big Break
When I first picked up my running shoes four years ago, the thought of crossing the finish line in a marathon never crossed my mind. Heck, maybe I couldn’t even tell the difference between a marathon and a 10k back then. After I ran Bromo Half Marathon in 2014, I made a promise to myself that I should (at least) run the 26.2 once in my lifetime. And so I signed up for Chicago Marathon in 2015. It is one of world major marathons along with Boston, New York, Berlin, London and Tokyo. Being that, the entry uses a ballot system and the registration only required for my name, so I thought ‘well, got nothing to lose if I didn’t get in.’ I did, but chose to defer it until this year.
Fast forward a year later, my training for the debut commenced. I trained with my friend as he began training for another fall race: Berlin. He’s clocked many marathon hours, therefore the idea of training with him seemed fit in my head. Along the way, many of our friends joined us for morning runs regardless of everyone’s personal purposes.
Few days leading up to the big day, a lot of people told me that anything could happen on race day and whatever that is, I should try and have fun. I kept reciting them (among others) in my head to keep my mind occupied from the fact that I was completely underdressed for the cold weather, and most importantly: the wind. Well, in my defense, racing in shorts and tanks was worn and tested.
‘Don’t go out too fast. Don’t go out too fast” was the thing that I kept telling myself upon toeing the starting line. It all went well, took two quick bathroom breaks, until I got past mile 13.1 when both of my feet started to acting up. Slowing down was the only solution that I could think of but the pain crept upon my ankles and to make it worse: I’ve never had that kind of pain before. Thinking that I still had more days to roam in the States and quickly calculating the severeness of the outcome had I forced myself to the finish line, I decided to visit the aid station at Mile 15. After the visit, it was all mental breakdown. The course was relatively quiet (in terms of runners) and there I had it: would I be able to finish this?
I cursed myself on making the decision to stop and losing all those minutes. But then I thought of all those 6AM runs, all the people that supported me, and the fact that it took me 20-hour flight to get there. So my feet began picking up with slower pace but whatever. I still consumed the energy gel according to my calculations but it didn’t work at all. My goal to run under 5:15 just crushed before my eyes so I might as well had some fun for the rest of the race. I had to give it up to the locals who relentlessly cheered on the runners and Chicago’s picturesque scenery in the fall.
Crossing the finish line after consuming the entire marathon course was such an overwhelming experience. When one of the volunteers handed me the medal, pat my shoulder and said “You did great! Congratulations!” I almost lost it. Not to mention the outpouring messages I received and the icing of the cake was when my friends - who had been waiting outside the Grant Park - said that they wanted to run a 26.2 because they just saw me did one. All this time I’ve been doubting and being so hard on myself, and you guys managed to prove that wrong. So if any of you are reading this, I sincerely thank you cause without whom I wouldn’t be smiling with that medal.
PS: This won’t be the last.