Yesterday, Mark and I completed the longest training distance yet: 10 miles.
I was dreading it a bit, the whole week prior. I was convinced I would throw up or cry or something equally as embarrassing (I didn't throw up...but there were tears).
We decided to do this one with the team as it was a long one; our good friends who live in the Kansas City area let us stay overnight at their house so we'd be closer and they'd be able to watch Rowan. They have a little girl her same age, so we thought that would be a good deal both ways. We failed to take into account the inability of a five-year-old to easily acclimate to new surroundings. While she wanted to sleep in her friend's room, Rowan was not used to the quiet darkness her friend slept best in (she's always slept with music and a nightlight of stars).
About 12:30am, we woke up to her tragic tears and brought her into the guest room to sleep between us -- and as anyone with a child will tell you, that was not a restful sleep. Mark and I rose at 6am, neither having slept more than 3 hours, tops. But, we were committed, so after reassuring Rowan, crossing our fingers, and muttering a few prayers that she stayed in her room and quiet until our hosts got up, we left for the training site.
It was
cold, ya'll. Kansas is notoriously windy and at 7am it's still dark. Dark, 43 degrees, and windy...I was ready to get going just to warm up. My left knee and right hip had vehemently protested movement after our 6 mile session, so I was a bit worried. I stretched...but clearly not enough. The route was throughout areas of downtown Kansas City that I'd never seen in the daylight, let alone at 7am.
It took us 1.5 miles one direction and back, then 2 miles another direction and back, then the original 1.5 miles and back, totaling 10. It was fairly flat, though each section had us going under overpasses, littered with broken bottles, trash, and shopping carts, and prompting images of every
Criminal Minds and
CSI I've ever seen. Being a fan of
Supernatural didn't help matters much, either. I just stayed close to Mark and every time we were passed by one of our teammates, I made sure they were at least in pairs -- or close to another group of pairs.
Not sure what I would have done were they alone, but it made me feel better to check.
As we finished the first 3 miles, it had gotten light enough that my eyes were playing tricks on me -- the time of day when fire hydrants looked like small kids, and a ball of blowing trash looks like a sprinting cat. Me = vivid imagination. I wasn't tired, though. It has started to amaze me how easily I'm now able to walk 3 miles. My shin muscles sang a bit with the exertion, but they weren't acutely painful as they'd been in the past.
At the first checkpoint, Mark and I tried the gel packs provided, intended to refuel the runner (I have no idea if they made a difference, to be honest -- and they're definitely an acquired taste), and it was clear we were the caboose in this train. There are others who have said they're going to be walking, but the rest of the team who showed up to the training session were all runners.
Let them run. Run, team, run. Mark's Crohn's couldn't take more than the brisk walk we were managing and my body would have rebelled long ago. I know when people think 'marathon' they think 'ran a' but we will be walking. Proudly. It's not about
when we finish, it's simply about finishing.
The second leg was tougher because Koach Karl decided to throw a hill into a mostly flat course. And by
'hill' I mean
'90 degree angle that had been miraculously paved.' We were trekking up an isosceles triangle, I kid you not. I couldn't make it to the top. My body was shaking from the inside out. Mark kept going and I just watched him, feeling ashamed that my healthy body couldn't do what his diseased one could.
Then he stopped. He turned around and I saw his face was splotchy and he was shaking his head. I felt a surge of selfish relief: he hadn't been able to crest it either. The seton had been rubbing a bit even before we got to the hill and when he got back to me he said it hurt too bad. That's when the tears came. Relief, worry, weariness, who knows. I wasn't sobbing. It was just brief
omgIcan'tbelievewe'redoingthis tears that I banished quickly, but he noticed.
As we made our way back down the hill, he said I needed to not psyche myself out so much. I need to tell myself that I
could do this -- because I
was doing this. I didn't answer, knowing that I'd already told myself,
'If I can do 10 miles, then I can do 12. If I can do 12, then 13.1 will be nothing.' I had to finish this walk to find the light inside me to meet this promise we'd made to ourselves and to so many other people.
By the time we began the 3rd leg, it was daylight, and I was dragging. I'd already played through story scenarios, written prologues and various scenes in my head, and thought through Rowan's Christmas list. I was reaching the edge of this push and I could feel it. When he called back to me -- he was about two lengths ahead that last leg -- that we had hit 8 miles I couldn't decide if I wanted to laugh or cry. I did neither, just pushed on.
I sit in wonder of those who do this all the time. Those who
run 10 miles before many of us get up in the morning. Those whose bodies feel
good when they finish. I am
not one of those people. Maybe I would be if I kept this up, but I'm not now. I know there are those who can and do push themselves well beyond this effort, but this was hard for me.
It was hard and I was doing it. I used that as my fuel to the end.
We finished in 2 hours and 53 minutes. Not cresting that hill meant we actually finished 9.90 miles (according to his runtracker app on his phone), but I'm counting it.
When we finished, I hurt.
Everything hurt. From the joints in my toes to my lower back, but especially my left knee and right hip. My hands were swollen (not sure why, but they swell up on walks longer than 3 miles), my neck ached. Only my eyelashes were spared. We kept the rest of the day as normal as possible -- taking Rowan to lunch for being such a good girl, doing a little window shopping -- but when we got home I felt like I'd been hit by a truck.
Mark kept saying he was sore when I asked, but he acted normal. I suppose he's had to deal with so many varying levels of pain this was just a shuffle into the mix. Ulceritive Colitis wrapped intense pain around his torso. Surgery left him without pain meds for 12 hours. Crohn's cramping is visibly painful, and with the abscesses and seton..., being sore after a 10 mile walk was just something he dealt with. And he did so with grace, as he does everything else.
I am both humbled by and built up by him, every day.
We all slept better last night. I think we learned our lesson: what we saved in driving distance was negated by lack of sleep. I think for the 12 mile training we'll stick close to home and enlist Grandma's help with Rowan. Then maybe bring the munchkin with us on the last training before the marathon.
It's getting closer. And somehow, I'm still here. I can't
not be. There are currently 21 names on the list I'm carrying with me through the marathon. 21 people who suffer from this disease and can't do what we're doing. 21 people who need the treatments and cure this money can bring. 21 people...plus Mark.
*stretches sore knee*
-- Amanda
