The Portland Marathon was held October 6.  My race day began at a very early 4:00a after a delayed flight had me arriving home from Las Vegas the night before at 9:30.  I barely had enough time to finish packing for my trip to San Antonio before heading downtown to pick up my race packet.  Thankfully, the weather was perfect - cool and dry, and the rain that had fallen the day before had mostly evaporated, so there were few puddles to navigate. 

 

Gathering with the other racers behind the pace markers at the starting line, I did my best to ignore the messages of self-doubt that were swirling in my brain.  "Are you crazy?  Do you know how long 26 miles is?  You're not ready for this!  Look at those other runners - that's what REAL marathoners look like.  You don't stand chance."  Using a form of standing meditation, I repeated in my mind what had become my mantra over the last few weeks of training:  "I can run a marathon; I can run a marathon." Over and over and over.  At 7:00a the starting gun sounded, and by 7:04:07 my shoes would step over the starting line, activating the timing chip for my first marathon. 

 

Instead of doing a single marathon, I feel like I actually did two half marathons yesterday; the first half was done on complete adrenalin, and I was amazed at how quickly the mile markers went by.  I stuck with my training plan of holding a steady easy pace, and walking for one minute after each mile marker (except for mile 7, where I took a longer break to eat a protein bar).  I hydrated at every opportunity, knowing that I would need every ounce of liquid I could get into my body if I wanted to finish the race.  I crossed the half-marathon marker (13.1 miles) at 2:27:15, for an average 11:13 minute pace.  (What you should know here is that I had never before run, walked, or hiked more than ten miles at any one stretch before.)  I felt fantastic!  I was pumped.

 

Even though my legs were still feeling great, my internal organs were getting extremely rebellious, and somewhere between mile markers 14 and 15 I was forced to walk.  Although I made various attempts at jogging after that point, every attempt was met with severe, nearly debilitating protest from my stomach and intestines, and I ended up walking the second half of the marathon.  Adrenalin gone, and now feeling the aches in my joints (although not really in my muscles), miles 17-21 were fairly grueling.  Blisters had started to form on my feet, and each step was an act of will.  The one highlight of this portion of the race was the incredible view from the St. John's Bridge.  As I made my way across, I was amazed at the beauty of Portland as it stretched out before me.

 

The last 5.2 miles of the marathon were painful, too, but by then the realization had hit me that I would still finish the race within my goal of 6.5 hours.  I had seen other runners wearing the 2001 Portland Marathon Finisher shirts, and nothing was going to stop me from earning my 2002 shirt.  Coming within a half block of the finish line, I dug in and sprinted the rest of the way, feeling a surge of pride as I heard the announcer call my name as I passed underneath the balloon banner that marked the end of the race.  Draped in a space blanket to keep away chills, I nearly cried as the Portland Marathon medal was placed over head.  I had done it!  My final time:  6:18:42, for an average pace of 14:26.

 

Six hours and twenty minutes of constant forward movement gives you a long time to think and reflect.  I think the most important thing I learned from this marathon is that determination and preparation are the keys to success.  In order to achieve, you must first believe.  Then you must make a plan to reach your goal.  Finally, you have to follow your plan, pushing yourself on days when you don't feel like you have the time or energy, always keeping your eye on the prize.  With this formula, anything is possible.