You know what else? After you run about 24 of those 26, you are tired. And when I say that, I mean, when I had run about 24 of those 26, I was exhausted.
My legs felt about as solid as a stick of string cheese on the sidewalk in Dallas.
My mouth was full of six cottonballs. Oh wait. Not really. It just felt that way.
My arms could lift a paper clip, maybe, if by some miracle I could get my fingers to close around it.
The sweat overflowing around my hairline, down my back, under my arms, between my legs, in my shoes, and from my tear ducts could have a filled a swimming pool. And i'm not talking about the kiddy inflatable kind in your front yard.
And that was with two miles left.
With one more to go, I called upon every fiber of mental strength still responsive and effective in my little crazy running mind and chanted the line my father taught me, "Anyone can run a mile. Come on, Kris. Anyone can run a mile. Anyone can run a mile."
People don't stop so close to the finish line of a marathon even though every logical and anatomical reasoning points to that end. Legs tired? Give them a rest. Eyes blurred? Let them close. Mind swimming? Pull it to shore. But people don't. I don't. Ever. Especially not when I have such a strong mental capacity to direct my energy--even when it doesn't exist anymore--towards a greater goal.
And so I kept running. Struggling, more like, but movement nonetheless, until I passed the sign with a huge 26 blaring in red letters. .2 to go. There were people, I'm sure, and they had to have faces, I guess, but I registered none of it. I turned a corner on a narrow street and heard a band somewhere close by playing "Build Me Up, Buttercup." Fitting.
There was a fountain. Kids were playing in it. I wanted to be them.
Last curve. I came to the straightaway of the St. George Marathon finish and thought there had never been an arch of balloons that seemed to be so far in another universe than the red and white ones far off in the distance. A greater momentum pushed me forward, that sense of a finish. A strong end to something far greater than just the 26 miles behind me. Me crossing that line would be a triumph of countless Saturday mornings on the trail and hurried speed workouts around the Provo High track.
My legs surged forward as I pushed myself to lengthen my stride with muscles that weren't working anymore. I heard Jamie's voice calling my name and the deep rumble of LaDon's baritone cheer beside hers, but I could not even turn my head to acknowledge them. My blurred eyesight glazed over them from my peripheral then back to the balloons, bobbing in the distance.
I could see the clock. Even with the margin of difference from the time the clock stared when the gun went off and when I actually got to cross the start line earlier that morning, the neon green numbers shouted a joyous refrain to my hazy eyes. The numbers there were less than the 3:40 I needed to qualify. 3:39. Three hours and thirty-nine minutes. I was going to qualify for the Boston Marathon.
With a final spurt, I let my foot land on the blue felt finish line, and the next step past it was into the arms of a man dressed in army camo. I crumbled into his arms, relieving all the muscles in my body from the strain and endurance they had just experienced over the past 4 hours. It was so hot. A boy shoved a finisher's medal around my neck and Camo Prince Charming shuffled my silly putty body over to a cage of PVC pipes shooting mist over a horde of limp bodies like mine, clinging to the pipe to stay up.
It was so hot.
The mist got me so wet. I leaned my forehead against the white surface and looked down at the watch, the real time. 3:34.
I was going to Boston.
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