I was miserable. I was 23. My husband, John, and I had just moved to Pasadena, California and we didn't know anyone. He was just starting out in his career and was working 15+ hour days; I was working on my master's degree. I spent about four hours each day in the classroom, two hours doing homework, and the other nine watching the TLC channel and feeling awful about myself.
I was a studious, socially-awkward introvert in classrooms filled with outgoing conversationalists, or at least that is how I perceived it. I felt inferior to everyone in almost every way. But I didn't have the energy or money to even try to fit in. I forced myself to get involved in social activities, but they usually made me feel worse, so I often retreated home. I had completely lost sight of my strengths, and could only see my weaknesses and fears. A depression that began in junior high was taking over my life. I despised myself.
Meg was friendly, energetic, and working on her Master of Divinity degree. When I met her at a school function, she said she was going to run the Big Sur Marathon. I told her I wanted to join her. I don't know how those words came out of my mouth. I had never even considered running a marathon. The furthest I had ever run in my life was three miles, and that was on an ambitious, I-feel-fat day. So within seconds, I regretted my words. But I didn't take them back.
We had four months to go from three miles to 26.2. On a tight budget, I bought some cheap running shoes, and set out jogging on the sidewalks near my apartment. I had no idea what I was doing, but I was running! Meg and I decided to complete our short mid-week miles alone, and share our long runs on the weekends.
At first, we met at the Rose Bowl and ran the three mile loop around the stadium. It was a beautiful area, and we were surrounded by tall trees, joggers, people on rollerblades, parents pushing strollers, and speed walkers. But eventually we realized the concrete and asphalt were going to ruin our knees and our long distance plans. So we ventured into the forested and golf course areas nearby.
After a few weeks, I was already starting to feel proud of myself and the miles I was able to complete. I was busy. I had company. I had something to focus on other than my insecurities. My knees were aching, but overall, I was feeling better.
While we jogged, we talked. Meg shared her dating frustrations and mentioned she was going to therapy. At that point in my life, I kept my pain to myself, so I was shocked she wasn't ashamed to admit her problems. I was also relieved to know I wasn't the only one struggling through each day. At first I only listened, but eventually I began to open up, and share bits of my life. We were becoming friends.
Finally the race weekend arrived. The night before the race, John and I climbed into our beat-up Toyota Camry and went for a drive on the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) from Monterey to Carmel. We drove the 26.2 mile course that I would run the next morning. UB40 was in our CD drive, and our windows were open to enjoy the ocean breeze. But the thoughts in my mind were anything but relaxing. This section of the PCH is like a roller-coaster. It winds up and down, down and up, and there are mile-long stretches of up. Doubt started to creep in.
Meg and I had never run more than 20 miles before, but we had verbally committed to running the whole marathon together. Our plan depended on adrenaline and youth, and we hoped they would carry us through the last six miles. As we drove up and down those hills, I began to fear that I would slow her down.
The next morning we were up early eating bananas, slathering Vaseline on our feet, and cutting arm holes in garbage bags -- our makeshift disposable jackets. I was also coating my knees with arthritis medication. Over the last few months, the pain in my knees had steadily increased, and I knew I was about to push them over the edge.
After finding our place in the appropriate corral, we shivered inside our plastic bags waiting for the gun to sound. The first 20 miles were a blur. I couldn't believe how quickly we approached each mile marker. I hummed along to the live classical music playing on one side of the road, and was awed by the beautiful ocean view on the other.
But rumors of the 20-mile wall became a stark reality. Meg and I stopped talking, and retreated into our own worlds. I found a song in my head with a soothing rhythm, and repeated the same few lines to myself, over and over again. By now both of my legs -- from my hips to my toes -- felt like they were on fire. On multiple occasions I considered quitting, but I knew the permanent pain of quitting would be far worse than the temporary pain I was enduring. So I kept forcing one foot in front of the other.
Finally, the finish line was in sight. With one final burst of energy, we ran as fast as we could to the end. We did it! We ran the whole thing.
After feeling inadequate for so long, I suddenly remembered what it felt like to be good at something. I had run a marathon! I had a new friend. I was reacquainted with the idea that I was athletic, talented, and hard-working. I had given myself a gift: I had accomplished something I would forever remember with pride. I had also damaged my knees.
After the race, I made an appointment with Meg's therapist, and spent a few years sorting out my life and working through my crippling depression. I learned some coping skills: running, writing, and prayer continue to help me find joy in difficult times. I still run about 25 miles a week, but now I buy well-fitted shoes!
Running that marathon turned out to be one of the best decisions of my life.