This year the process of managing the JFK details became a swirl of chatter in my head as I struggled to maintain my own motivation for the event. I had been battling a neuroma pain since February, and was frustrated by my own inability to train comfortably for the event. I was relegated to running no more than twice a week, with top mileage of 25 miles one week in September. In October, 2 days before the Baltimore Marathon, I twisted my ankle on my morning run. I ran a painful Baltimore through neuroma and ankle pain, and seriously questioned the wisdom of running the JFK.
Wisdom aside, I really had no choice but to run it, and finish it. Runners have an interesting logic, one rarely understood by family or coworkers.
I slept well the night before, having worked through most of my JFK anxieties in the ‘90s. Race day I felt strong, healthy and experienced. Usually I like to include words like “prepared” and “fit” to that race-day list.
I began the day in my usual conservative manner- walking up slight inclines and jogging down little hills. I noticed there were only a handful of runners behind me- a surprising discovery since I’m usually running somewhere in the middle of the pack. KC Guevara and I decided it was because all the back-of-the-packers had started at 5am. Yeah, that was it.
Approaching the Appalachian trail, I knew I could make up some time. Rocks, roots and leaves were my forté, and “Passing on your left!” was my calling card. I pranced on to the AT- but two steps later found myself hopping on one foot. I’d done it again. I tried to walk, but the ankle talked back, “You fool!” I resorted to my impatient walk. After 4-5 miles I discovered I could jog if the trail was rock-free and not tilted down hill. KC stuck with me, claiming it was “a good pace for her” (they always say that before they leave you) and her company was wonderful. By the time we reached Cramptons Gap at mile 9 our crew was visibly worried. My 15 year old son Stephen, and KC’s fiancé Jason cheered loudly, clearly relieved to see us.
“What happened? We thought maybe we’d missed you!” were their words of comfort. They fed us and filled our water bottles. I asked if anyone had an ankle brace and my dear friend Harry replied, “What color?” Delighted, I said, “Any color!” and he said- Oh, no, sorry. Don’t have one.
We continued down the road, re-hydrated and well-fed with potatoes and oranges. Only 7 more miles, I told myself. And then I’d be off that mountain. For the first time in my JFK history, I wondered if I would have trouble making the time cut-off.
By the time we made it to Weaverton, mile 16, I was the happiest I’d been all day. I was OFF that awful mountain, and jogged on the flat road section to the crew stop. At Weaverton I took at cup of soup from Ellen, sat on a chair, and had Karen tape a budding blister on my foot. Stephen fed me clementines and potatoes. A few hugs from cheering crew, a kiss from my Stephen, and KC and I were on our way.
I felt ready to face the 26 miles ahead. KC and I began visiting more. I learned of her life plans and life questions. We commiserated about husbands (fiancé’s count) and encouraged each other when we felt tired. Stephen and Jason managed to find every possible access to the trail, and met us every 2-3 miles. They hauled our bags to the trail, peeled our clementines, salted our potatoes and refilled our water bottles. “Mom, you’re going to need to pick up the pace a little. Think catching people.” The only people I was catching at that point were the kids walking backward on the trail with their cub scout troops.
After a while, when we were obviously going too slow, Stephen would run backward on the trail to find us, and run back to the aid station with me. His story was always the same, “Al is only 15 minutes ahead of you. You can catch him if you pick up the pace a little.” By about mile 27, KC began to pull ahead of me and I began to shuffle even slower.
By mile 38, I was toast. Runners were passing me by the droves, and Stephen was running more and more with me. I no longer stopped at the aid stations- Stephen jogged alongside me with food and drink, feeding and watering me as we traveled along. “Mom, I don’t think you’re drinking enough. Don’t you want a little more? How about some soup?” I didn’t feel much like a mom at that point, and I most certainly did not feel like a runner.
I finally made it off the Canal and on to the last 8 miles of road. The only runners I saw were those passing me at a walk as I shuffled stiff-legged down the street.
Squinting in the dusk, I saw two familiar figures running toward me- it was Stephen and my older son, Jesse! Things started looking up. I was only a mere 7 miles from the finish and had my own body guards flanking me, keeping me entertained and encouraged. I knew it would be 2 hours before I reached the finish, but I also knew I would do it.
And those boys dragged me in. They hopped and cheered at the mile markers. They ran backwards and tried to get me to catch them (not a chance) and they jogged holding my hands trying to get me to speed up (no chance). They told endless stories about their day, and about the other runners they saw. They beamed when they spoke of having breakfast with the other crew at the church or when they described sneaking into the secret aid stations. Stephen was excited that he’d run over 15 miles that day- a full 12 miles longer than he’d ever run before. They were like Labrador puppies: an unending source of youthful energy and entertainment.
Crossing the finish line in between my two boys was an indescribable joy. It was the hardest JFK I’d endured, and the sweetest 7 miles of pain I’d ever known. By the time I finished in 11 hours and 45 minutes, most of the Reston Runners had gone home, but I couldn’t have been prouder of my victory, our victory.