It’s 6:30 in the morning Saturday, and I couldn’t be more nervous. I’m pacing up and down a hallway, I’m trying to stop my hands from shaking and I’ve gone to the bathroom at least three times in the last hour.

No, I’m not prepping for an exam. Even worse, I’m trying to mentally prepare for my first marathon, set to begin at 7 a.m. sharp in the parking lot of Holdingford High School.

This pre-race atmosphere had a totally different feel than the half marathon I competed in three weeks earlier. Aside from the obvious difference in distance, it was a much smaller race — about 180 runners compared to more than 1,400 for the half marathon — and, rather than taking place entirely on city streets with loud supporters at every corner, this was to take on country bike path between Holdingford and St. Joseph, where there were probably more squirrels than there were cheering spectators lining the trail.

In an attempt to lighten the mood, I point out to Mike — a friend and fellow first-time marathon runner — that the relative seclusion of the race means it will take longer for the ambulances to arrive once we collapse on the course. Mike is not amused, as we both pace back and forth and question why we decided to do this.

We were both excited about it when we agreed to do it back in January. We both needed something to do with our free time and figured we might as well cross “marathon” off the bucket list while we were still young. But on the day of the race, excitement was replaced with dread.

We may have trained for it physically, but nothing can fully prepare you mentally for a marathon. Neither of us ever got up to 26 miles while training for it; the farthest I ever got was 16. Just thinking about the sheer distance we were about to travel on foot was enough to make my knees feel weak. I made it my goal early on in the training that I wanted to finish the marathon in less than four hours, but as the race approached, I was mostly just hoping I’d be able to finish it standing up.

As we line up at the start, the last thought that goes through my head before the race is how I should’ve picked a more ambitious last meal than a protein bar and a bottle of water.

Once the race starts, I mostly just try to keep my mind off the running by thinking about random topics and listening to my mp3 player. One aspect I learned early in the training is that the worst thing you can think about is the amount of distance you still have left in a marathon. If anything, it’s best to either think about how far you’ve already gone, or think about something other than running altogether.

The miles begin to pile on slowly but surely. Somewhere around Mile 16, I come to the realization that I’m actually going to be able to finish this thing. I may have to stop at every water station and shorten my strides to the length of a toddler’s Wiffleball bat, but I’m going to make it.

Fast-forward to the last mile, where I see the finish line off in the distance, grit my teeth and take off sprinting for it.

My legs might not have agreed with this decision, but I told myself I wanted to finish strongly and seeing the finish line was like seeing an oasis at the end of a long journey through a grueling desert.

As I cross the finish line and realize that I reached my goal (in a faster-than-expected time of 3:38:32), I’m more overcome by disbelief than joy. Did I really just complete a marathon? Did I really just run 26.2 miles?

The answer to both of those questions, of course, is yes. And even now, as I ice my knees five days later and attempt to recover from the race, I can look to my wall and see a marathon participation medal proudly hanging as a reminder of that.

However, as proud as I am of the run, I hope the next item I cross off the bucket list doesn’t involve quite as much running.



Alex Voigt is a Free Press copy editor. E-mail him at avoigt@mankatofreepress.com.