I ran my first marathon on October 19, 2008. The 50th Annual Atlantic City Marathon was a small event with just 250 runners. It was perfect for my entrance into the experience of marathon running.
The course was my home turf. I spent the summer and early fall of 2008 completing my long runs up and down the Atlantic City Boardwalk, with the ocean as a constant companion. Other “companions” included the bleary eyed gamblers leaving the dark hole of the casino floor for a quick smoke in the early morning hours, a group of older gentlemen who met in front of the Ocean Club in the morning for coffee and cigars (I loved them and worried about them if they didn’t show up one day), people sleeping on boardwalk benches who made my heart hurt especially as the weather grew colder, tourists pointing, waving and taking pictures in front of the various “landmarks” of the AC coastline.
And then there were my running companions, the people I would see day in, day out running up and down the boards.
The really fast guy left his sports drink and other items sitting on a bench along the Ventnor section of the boardwalk. He would sometimes be joined by other really fast guys. As I watched him run, I would try to mimic his form and cadence–well, for a little while at least. His boardwalk training, like mine, led to the AC Marathon in October 2008. I’ve seen him at other local races as well, like the St. Patty’s Day run on the boardwalk.
The really fast woman ran elegantly, and had the perfect body of a runner. Sometimes, she would run with a man. I found her inspirational–especially when the man would try to keep up. Without her elegant form, it seemed like a lot of work for him.
The boxer would run while alternately throwing left and right jabs and hooks. Despite the heat of the summer, he would run in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, which would be soaked through. Running in a sports bra and shorts myself and feeling the burn of the early morning sun, I could only imagine what type of inner strength he summoned to deal with the heat. As we crossed paths, I would think of staying mentally tough.
The track team would run in two or three cliques. The coach would ride between the groups, on his cruiser, providing encouragement, advice, and water bottles. They reminded me of my high school days, when I rowed crew and shared workouts, burnouts, and celebrations with a team.
And, there were plenty of tourist runners, who I would see one week, but not the next. I hope they enjoyed the boardwalk run as much as I did each week.
I enjoy being around the positive energy of individuals pushing their bodies beyond limits — and then pushing some more beyond those limits. I enjoy the commaraderie, as you look in the eyes of another runner. You smile at each other, maybe send a wave, and share a moment. After months of inspiration with these other runners, it was time to toe the line at my first marathon.
I didn’t sleep much at all the night before–I was much too excited and nervous for that! I choked down a banana and a half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I wasn’t hungry, but I knew I needed to eat. And, this was the food I had practiced with. Unfortunately, I didn’t account for the nerves, and didn’t realize how hard it would be to eat!
We arrived at the race start, Convention Hall. We picked up our packets the day before, but we still needed to wait in line to pick up our timing chips. After what seemed like hours (but was only about a half an hour), it was time to begin. My husband and I had a race plan. We would run the first 10 miles at a conservative pace – 9 minutes per mile. While we had trained a bit faster, our longest runs had been only 20 miles. So, we wanted to make sure we had enough left for the final 6.2 miles.
The first 10 miles went exactly as planned – a little less than 90 minutes brought us to the 10 mile marker. Right on pace. Our plan at that point was to let our feet take us where they wanted to go naturally – and from mile 10 until about mile 22, I felt like I was flying. It was absolutely beautiful.
At mile 22, the wind began blowing directly in our face, and the magnitude of the endeavor started to take its toll. But, we trudged on. For two miles, I pushed the limits of my brain’s resistance. My body was doing fine (as I realize in hindsight), but my brain really, really, REALLY wanted my legs to stop. At mile 24, my brain finally gave in and let my body go. I was back to flying for the final 2.2 miles. I smiled as I realized I was definitely going to make it – just as I had visualized on my training runs.
My husband and I ran the 26.2 miles together, holding hands as we crossed the finish line after starting the marathon 3 hours and 53 minutes earlier.
As I crossed the finish line, I met some friends and family, who asked the inevitable question, “Well, how was it?” To which I promptly replied with no hesitation (and without really thinking), “Awesome. I can’t wait to do it again.” My husband rolled his eyes and said, “She’s crazy.” My hips hurt, my quads were sore, my feet had blisters, but my spirit had never felt better. I had never felt so alive. Crazy to be, to feel alive.
