Leonard Cohen died last week. The moment I heard the news, I
remembered I was running a marathon in a few days. I know you are going to find
this hard to believe, but I had actually forgotten about it. The shock and fog
of the election results made me forget. Why did Leonard Cohen’s death remind
me? For most of my marathon training
years, I’ve had the privilege to train with Jimbo. I’m not going to “out” his
age, but his running ability could put most 20-somethings to shame, and he as a
few decades on them. We’ve spent
countless hours pounding pavement, pondering Presbyterian polity (I was on the
Session when I began this journey), politics, the environment, and Leonard
Cohen on a few occasions. So, I
remembered Jimbo, and I remembered the marathon. And I felt absolute dread. How
could I run this race NOW? It seemed silly, really. But then I remembered the brutal heat of the
summer. I’d survived all of those miles
in that, and I had actually been feeling strong a few days earlier. So, I
convinced myself I’d get up Saturday morning, get in the starting corral and
take it one step at a time.
Saturday, I got up at an hour that really could still be considered
the middle of the night to head downtown. My friends and I sat in a warm hotel lobby
waiting for the sun to come up. The
usual pre-race buzz seemed a little more subdued this year. Or, maybe it was I
who was more subdued. Jimbo and I
chatted about the election and Leonard Cohen.
My teammates and I headed up the hill to the start. By all accounts, it was an absolutely
gorgeous day. A PERFECT day for running
a marathon. We got into the starting corral.
We listened to the national anthem.
The race began, and I managed to forget the week and remembered to put
one foot in front of the other. We passed a sign that said “Love your run, love
your neighbor.” I actually crossed over
from the opposite side of the street to touch the sign and thank the person
holding it. I felt strong and fast.
Somewhere between miles 12 and 13, a tendon at the front of
my ankle started “talking’ to me. It got louder and louder. By the time I
approached the bridge to cross back over the river toward downtown, I’d decided
that this race was going to be my first DNF (Did Not Finish). I was so confident that I was stopping, I’d
composed a witty Facebook status about it in my head. I’d made peace with it. I walked most of that bridge, and I was
looking to the right toward the finish when I reached the end. But, here’s the thing, when I got to the end
of the bridge, I didn’t stop. I saw
John. He was a coach on the first half
marathon training team I’d ever joined.
I never see or talk with John except on marathon day. Every year, without fail, he is standing in
the same spot after the bridge, looking for his friends. He shouted, “Hey, Kimberly!” I laughed, and
said, “John! Our annual meet-up. Great to see you!” Maybe I’ll quit when I get to Main Street.
Right before I turned onto Main Street, I saw Monte, a neighbor
and fellow runner. He was on his bike. I
told him what was going on, and he asked me if I wanted some Tylenol. “Sure, I’ll try it and see what happens.” He pedaled ahead and had it ready to hand to
me by the time I reached him. And then Coach Elliott appeared out of
nowhere. He got me halfway down Main
Street. Maybe I’ll quit at the end of
Main Street. As Elliott left me, Coach Karen
joined me. We joked around a bit, talked about some different goals we each had
for 2017, maybe something different than the marathon. She reminded me that a lot of people had struggled
this week, and it was impacting their race.
I decided, well, if I quit, I won’t get the medal or the fleece
blanket. And I really wanted that fleece
blanket. I told her, “If I run/walk the
rest I can finish, even if it takes me six hours.” She looked at her watch and said there was no
way it was going to take me six hours. Just like that, I’m at mile 17.
Coach Laura saw me just before the Boulevard Bridge (about
mile 19). I told her what was going on,
but I’m finishing, no matter what! Then Elliott reappears. He tells me there is
a headwind and to get behind him—he will take the brunt of it for me. Somehow,
I find myself at mile 20 with my foot and spirits feeling a little better. In
fact, a spectator shouts out my name and says “Hey! We saw you at mile 13. You looked like you were in pain. You look great now!!” I smiled and headed under the Pope Arch.
After the Pope Arch, a surprise. Megan!!!
My forever mile 20 dedication. She was handing out Jell-O shots and
offered me one. “No thanks, but I’ll
take a hug.”
Mile 22, hey, that’s Noell!
“Hey, Noell! “ And only a mile to 23, the best water stop on the course.
Monte reappears on his bike and asks if I need anything. “No, I’m good—feeling better.” My boys hand
me wet washcloths at the water stop and encourage me. Carla gives me a hug. GPPC members cheer (everyone should have
their own personal water stop). I jokingly
ask Eleanor why I continue to do the marathon, and I’m on my way to Lombardy.
Lombardy. Once a runner makes it to Lombardy, she knows, for sure, she will make it to the finish.
The crowds build, all of the coaches reappear.
I ran the rest of the race, and I smiled all the way down the hill to
the finish (there is photo evidence). I
even finished with a time that would have been a dream for me five years ago
when I ran my first marathon.
I burst into tears when I crossed the finish—tears for a
hard fought finish, tears for the week—a broken hallelujah. And guess, what?!? Jimbo qualified for the Boston Marathon. I have a goal now. To keep moving until I can
qualify, as well. That’s the secret to
life right there—just keep moving.
My foot is healing this week. And I’m still disappointed about where we are
as a country. But this marathon taught me something. I’m stronger than I thought I was. Even though I don’t always feel like it, I’ve
got to keep showing up and putting one foot in front of the other. Sometimes I’ll be in the cheering and coaching
section, and sometimes, I’m going to need someone to take the brunt of the
headwind for me so that I can carry on.
I don’t know what the next four years are going to bring,
but I’m determined, more than ever, to continue to seek the light. I’m still
with her, but I’ve always been with Him.
I am not going to change what I have always done: love God, love my
neighbor, seek justice, and be a voice for the marginalized. I’m just going to need to be a little louder,
but it seems like I’m going to have more company along the way. And that’s a good thing. That’s grace. That grace is for you and for
me. Let's get to work.
