No Failing, No Whining

From the beginning, my 2017 Marine Corps Marathon (MCM) weekend got off to a sketchy start. At the Expo on Saturday morning, I had just picked up my bib, program, patch and safety pins when I approached the table where they were handing out this year’s bright, salmon-colored shirts.

“Are you sure you want a medium?” the young Marine behind the table questioned.

Did he really ask me that?!  There’s nothing like a casual slight from a cute guy with a buzz cut to make a 56-year old woman feel like a neurotic teenager again. Does he think I’m fat?! But instead of collapsing into a froth of silent, adolescent hysteria, I tapped into my middle-aged sassiness.

Listen, Marine Private on Shirt Duty, I know I’m old enough to be your mother, but let me tell you something .This is my 20^th marathon, so don’t let my salt and pepper hair and hefty mom hips fool you, because I have enough of these shirts stacked up in my closet TO KNOW THAT I WEAR A MEDIUM.

That’s what I wanted to say. Instead I smiled, said “yes,” took the pinkish shirt out of his hand and walked away.

***

Twenty marathons. As a runner, I’m not fast or gifted, just stubborn. In fact, I’ve been bragging about that for years.

“I don’t run fast, I run far, and I’m too stubborn not to finish.”

I’ve run marathons with blisters, bloody feet, nausea, diarrhea, and ill-timed lady problems. I’ve always finished. No matter how rotten I felt, or how much it hurt, I’ve never doubted that I would finish a marathon.

Until this year.

I knew it was going to be a warm day because on the day before the race, I received this text AND voicemail warning from the MCM organizers:

“Temperatures are expected to climb above 70 degrees at Marine Corps Marathon. Participants keep hydrated; slow your pace; wear sunscreen; dress for warm temperatures.”

Yeah, whatever. I’ve been training all summer. Seventy-six degrees is no big deal, I thought.

I don’t know what the heck happened.

I felt great at mile 7 when I saw my speedier husband and stepdaughter booking it on their way back from the Rock Creek turnaround point. I was delighted that they were only a mile ahead of me.  At every water station, I made sure I drank and ate a Stinger gel to keep hydrated and energized. I felt relaxed. Through miles 8, 9, 10, my only irritation was that my face was so slick with sweat, my sunglasses kept slipping off my nose.

“I wish I brought my Chums,” I thought, regretting that I failed to pack those foam “retainers” that would have kept my sunglasses in place.

Somewhere near mile 11, I came to another water station and snatched a cup of water from a helpful Marine. The second I drank it I felt like I had just slurped down a Dixie cup full of poison. I immediately felt like I was going to throw up.  I didn’t panic, though. I had experienced nausea while running before, so I opted to slow down and take it easy.

“This will pass,” I thought. No big deal.

I trudged through several more miles, but I gave up trying to eat or drink at the water stations because I still felt too nauseous. I started carrying a cup of water with me, hoping to sip it as I ran, but I couldn’t even do that. With every passing mile, I was feeling worse, not better. As the course wound its way past the US Capitol, I knew I was in trouble. I hadn’t been able to drink for almost 8 miles and now, in addition to the nausea, I felt dizzy and lightheaded. I bumped into a runner beside me because I couldn’t run in a straight line anymore. The most worrying sign was that when I started carrying a cup of water in my hand, I put my sunglasses back on, but they weren’t budging. I wasn’t sweating.

Just past mile 19, I saw a medical tent and I knew I needed help. As I approached, a medic asked me if I was okay.

“I feel dizzy and nauseous,” I said right before I started to faint. Several medics caught me and propped me up until someone could get a wheelchair for me. I couldn’t immediately sit down, though, because my left calf started to cramp. I howled in agony. I don’t care if passing runners wondered if I was a drama queen. It hurt.

The time I spent in the medical tent is a bit of a blur. I know they laid me on a stretcher and packed me in ice. Someone gave me a cup with salt and told me to put some on my tongue. I couldn’t do it, and I still couldn’t drink. A doctor said I probably needed an IV, but they didn’t have the equipment at this tent. He asked me if I wanted to go to the emergency room.

“No,” I said. “I just need to drink.”

He offered an anti-nausea pill, which he told me to put under my tongue. After a few minutes, the nausea subsided and I was able to sip water and eat a few pretzels. It felt like a small miracle. A female medic asked me a few questions and instructed me sign a paper on her clipboard. I honestly don’t know what I signed, but I do remember that when she asked me how old I was, she rolled her eyes when I said “56.”

“I hate running,” she said, as if I should have known better than attempt something a 20-something, skinny girl in fatigues and boots wouldn’t try.

“This is my 20^th marathon,” I pleaded, sounding defensive.

I don’t think she believed me, and I was too wiped out to argue.

They put me on the Straggler Bus, which was full of disappointed runners. A few seemed out of shape and unprepared for the strenuous exertion required to run a marathon. Most were either injured or had an unlucky day, like me. When one guy complained that he felt like a failure, a young woman, who was hobbling on a bum leg, shut him up.

“Well, I’m not a failure,” she retorted. “I did the best I could.”

I’m glad she said something. I wasn’t in the mood to listen to him whine.

For the last year, my email signature has included a line that says I am a “runner who is <this> close to 20 marathons.”

I’ve run 19.725 marathons, so I’ll leave my signature the way it is. And although I didn’t finish the race, I’m not going to apologize for wearing my 2017 size medium, salmon-colored marathon shirt anyway.

But I have a message for a certain Marine Corps Private, who was assigned to shirt duty at Packet Pick up:

IT FITS FINE.

***