Franklin Roosevelt once said that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself. I don’t know about anybody else, but I have a healthy fear of running thirteen miles with a case of the shits. I’ve been up since three this morning and have twice already ventured to the basement bathroom for sessions of thunder and self-hatred. After a rushed breakfast featuring half a bottle of Pepto and five teaspoons of oatmeal I’m frantically searching around the house for my headphones and music player. I can’t run without music and I’ve made a specific playlist for this race, timed for every portion of it. My anxiety has kicked into overdrive, making my stomach feel that much worse. Damnit!
“Where the hell is that i-pod?” I yell downstairs as I tear the bedroom apart.
“Could’ve sworn you left it in the backseat last night so you wouldn’t forget it today.” My wife responds, triggering me to walk back down to her in the kitchen.
“I did, didn’t I?”
“Yep” she says with a grin. Damnit I know that grin.
“You’ve known the whole time, haven’t you?” I say.
“Sure have.”
“Then why did you wait to tell me?”
She shrugs, “A girl’s got to have her fun.”
“And watching me run around like a jackass is entertaining for you?”
“Very much so. I was even playing the Benny Hill Music when you were upstairs.”
I cover my face with my hands, “Honey I love you, but sometimes you suck.”
“Hey! Only on your birthday. Now come on, we need to get going.”
I pull on my worn brown shoes and walk out through the garage to my car. Sure enough the i-pod and headphones are on the backseat, along with my running shoes and knee braces. If it weren’t for my wife I wouldn’t know my elbow from my asshole… don’t tell her I said that, she’s got enough on me already.
The early morning cloud cover hangs so low over Pearl Street in Essex Junction that the streetlamps seem to form a runway to the heavens. New Slang by The Shins plays as we drive through a soupy river fog towards the high school. Maybe I should be blasting Guns & Roses or something but that’s just not how I’m feeling. My stomach continues to turn over like a washing machine. I turn up the music so my wife doesn’t have to listen to the unpleasant gurgles coming from my direction. The school lot is already filling up so I have to find a spot towards the back. I don’t get out right away, staring at my steering wheel so intently you’d think the dust gathered by the odometer was performing showtunes.
“Everything alright honey?” my wife asks between sips from her second large mug of tea.
After some hesitation I reply “Would you be terribly disappointed if I didn’t run?”
“Hey I’ve got my tea and my work pager is off for the next forty eight hours, I’m peachy-keen. Real question is why don’t you want to run?”
“I didn’t train right, don’t you think? I mean I didn’t hit my target weight, never made it past five miles in one run and never cracked an eight minute mile. It’s not that I don’t want to, I just don’t think I’m ready.” I say as I hoist myself out of the car.
“Honestly honey, I’ll bet you a coke that you took training more seriously than probably a third of the people who are going to run today. ” She says as she comes around the car, “So don’t psych yourself out, and don’t get overwhelmed. Just take it one mile at a time and watch your pace, you’ll do fine.”
“I never got around to a dry run, you don’t think that’s a mistake?”
“No.” she states matter of factly, “thinking you were going to try one just three days before the race, now that would’ve been a mistake. It’s why we came up with an alternative workout for the evening.”
“Yeah we did.” A goofy grin appearing on my face.
She pulls me in for a kiss as we make our way towards the registration area. “You’re going to do great, and once you’ve finished the race and have no strength left you’ll be defenseless, and I intend to take full advantage of you.”
“You are shameless!” I say with a laugh and a flush.
“Damn skippy. Now Amber from down the road is up at the grandstand with her blueberry scones, so why don’t you go get checked in while momma gets her fix.” She gives me a firm pat on the butt and heads off towards the track. She wore the mauve jacket today, God she still takes my breath away. Oh dear, can’t be having thoughts like this, not in these shorts. Let’s see…ice bath, black licorice, naked Terry Bradshaw. Yep that did the trick. My senses returned I head over to the gym entrance to register.
I went up to the table to find this overly cheery, waif like woman. Even pulled in a ponytail her hair looked like something out of a commercial. Her teeth are so white they could blind you on a sunny day. I could go on but I feel like too much of a voyeur already. Still, as I take my bib (#655321) and accoutrement it occurs to me that she never once looked up at me or spoke a word. She just kept chowing down on a bottomless bag of granola while a clique of other impossibly fit people hovered around trying to one up each other with funny running anecdotes. Attached to my bib were four pins with which to puncture the ironic Coors t-shirt I had chosen for the occasion. After almost giving myself an unintentional nipple piercing, the bib was crookedly attached. I went to adjust my knee braces with about 30 other competitors in the lobby. Most of them look like they’re on high school or college cross country teams. At least there’s a couple other older guys rocking the dad bod like me so I don’t feel as out of place… though one of them really needs to invest in longer shorts and looser shirts. I could’ve lived a long and happy life not seeing that. Screw it, I’ll adjust the braces out at the track.
I can feel my blood pressure rising as I walk uphill towards the track and field. To my surprise, the grandstands are filled and there are at least two hundred competitors around the starting line. For some reason I didn’t think there were going to be so many people here. I confess it raises the nerves a bit but, then again, maybe I won’t finish last after all… providing I can make it to the finish line. I walk across the track and find a small patch of grass to stretch on. As I fold my belly in and begin reaching for my toes I can see my wife approaching.
“See you managed to locate Amber then.” I say between grunts
“I don’t know how she does it, these are so moist but not soggy.” She says between contented bites of her scone, “I have to get that recipe out of her sometime.”
“You could always bribe her.”
“No she wouldn’t give it up for something so temporary as money.”
“Well, we could duct tape her to a chair and force her to listen to William Shatner perform Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds on repeat until she gives it up.”
That made her laugh. For me there is no greater pleasure in the world than making my wife laugh… well save one or two. Fortunately I got her before she took a last bite. I’ve already been warned that the next time I make her snort milk out her nose or spit out food in public I sleep on the couch, and I imagine I’ll be rather sore tonight.
“I appreciate the creativity,” She says as she balances the remaining scone on her travel mug and puts it on the ground, “But unless I’m mistaken that’s against the Geneva Convention.”
“What the kidnapping?”
“No the William Shatner, though both I think will be frowned upon. Ok honey, lay flat on your back and lift your right leg.”
I know this will decrease the likelihood that I pull something but I hate this damn hamstring stretch. Still, she’s the former marathon runner so I do as I’m told. After pulling both legs back and nearly making me cry she’s satisfied that I’m good and limber.
“Well first time we tried that I couldn’t even get you to ninety degrees,” she says as she helps me to my feet, “you’re doing much better.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence.” I reply and give my belly a pat, “The training has paid off a bit. Pants aren’t so tight anyways.”
“Aww you always look handsome.” She says as she gives me another peck, “if looser clothes make you happy I’m all for it. But if you start wearing saggy pants we’ve got a problem.”
“What no Vanilla Ice period then?”
My wife raises her eyebrows before saying, “Divorce.”
“Right then, I like wearing belts anyway.” I say as I reach down and begin fastening my bionic man knee braces.
“You’re lucky,” she said, pivoting the conversation, “perfect weather for a race. When I ran my first marathon it was right on the Maine coast, forty degrees and windy as hell.”
“What on earth possessed you to run in those conditions?”
“I’m a Maine girl honey, we’re made of tougher stuff.”
“Any sage advice for me?”
She thought about that for a second, “Avoid the porta potties.”
“Why is that?” I ask
“You’ll understand when you get there.”
Once both braces are secure and I’ve checked my laces once more I straighten up. My wife takes off her smartwatch, “give me your left wrist.”
“Aww honey you shouldn’t have.” I say as she places her watch around my wrist. She presses a few buttons before I see my heartrate and a timer displayed.
“It’s all set, just push this button here to start the timer.” She says
“Right, got it.”
“And what’s your target pace?” she asks.
“I have to maintain a thirteen minute mile pace to ensure that I finish before the three hour time limit.”
“And for the first portion I’d say shoot for ten or eleven minute miles. You’ll want to bank some extra time for the last stretch because your legs are going to get heavy, trust me”
“That I do. Besides, you drilled those notecards into me good. I could be eighty and not remember my own name but I’ll be able to recite pacing verbatim” I reply.
“Your sarcasm is charming as ever.” She says before continuing, “Find your groove and stick with it as long as you can. But pay attention to your heartrate. If it gets above 170 slow down.”
“Aww come on, no guts no glory!” I jokingly exclaim. My wife gives me the sarcastically amused face but I can also sense she’s a bit nervous.
“Yeah ok there Rocky… I know you want to finish babe, and you’ve worked hard for this but don’t hurt yourself please.”
“I promise I’ll stay within reason.”
I give my wife a long hug. She says quietly in my ear, “you’re going to do great. I’ll be here at the finish line waiting for you.”
“I love you.” I say as I give her one last kiss.
“I love you too. Good luck.” She says, hesitating a moment before making her way back up to the grandstand.
Last adjustments made to my laces and braces I walk over to the starting line. I’ve somehow managed to get wedged in-between a cross country team. Here I am, rocking old ass headphones, neon green running shorts and a beer t-shirt. All I’m missing is the Walkman and a fanny pack and I could be a museum piece for these kids. A conspicuously perky fellow is shouting last minute encouragement and instructions to everybody, but it might as well be muted trumpets. The signal is given, I start my timer and the block of racers begins to surge forward as I take a deep breath and put one foot in front of the other.
I’ve only ever run with my wife in my life so moving through this big pack is somewhat disconcerting. It’s a bit like the times I’ve driven on the Garden State Parkway, people are flying past me on either side so I have to be cautious changing lanes lest I cause a pile up. The woman in front of me, who I’m sure is a lovely person, is pissing me right off. I feel like I’m running in place back here! To hell with it, I pass her on the right as we move away from the high school and out onto the roads. I go to start my i-Tunes playlist and… wait why am I hearing a timpani roll? I look down to make sure I’m on the right playlist but… “Dam Buster’s March?” I don’t recall putting that on my race playlist… my wife has infiltrated my i-Tunes again. That’s it, no more using passwords from The Goonies.
The first thousand yards or so of a run is a study in fleeting discomfort for me. First my aching feet express their displeasure at this exertion. Decades of fluctuating weight, improper insoles and general neglect have not done me any favors down there. I also suck some wind and work out cramps in the mid-section as the rest of my body adjusts to what I’m asking it to do. Once I turn the music up and settle into a steady pace the discomfort fades. The initial throng of runners has gradually spread out into a steady if unwieldy line. On Old Colchester Road we run past the soccer complex, the race organizers having placed a few porta-potties along the route just in case.
Once we cross onto Route 2A we move from the sidewalks to the street itself. There are cones giving us a portion of the road, it’s not particularly wide but I don’t think there will be too much two way traffic. My wife was right, this is perfect weather for a race. It’s not raining but the early morning mist is still heavy in the air so it’s almost like you’re getting a drink of water with every breath. More importantly, as an Irishman I’m grateful to not be running in the sun, because only mad dogs and Englishman run in the sun. As we approach the entrance and exit ramps leading to I-289 the police and fire departments have all traffic held. It’s actually kind of neat running through this normally busy intersection, I mean when’s the next time I’m going to get a chance to do this? The ambiance is somewhat soiled by the person in front crop dusting me. To be fair though, depending upon how my stomach progresses I might be tooting like Louie Armstrong at Newport soon enough.
We turn right at a gas station and run over a bridge as we head towards the extensive back road section. As we cross the bridge we see a sign posted mile marker two. I check my watch to see how I’m doing. Just passed the twenty minute mark and my pulse is 127. Excellent, a ten minute mile pace is exactly where I want to be. I feel a surge of adrenaline and confidence course through me, which is a good thing because we’re coming to the uphill climb. We come to a fork in the road, those doing the 5K and 10K fun runs turn around or proceed down a flat stretch while the hardy souls bear right and begin our assent into the woods.
I don’t know why, but whenever I run uphill I seem to adopt an exaggerated running motion like I was wearing a pair of moon shoes. Maybe it’s my brain’s way of instructing the rest of my body that it’s time to shift gears. Whatever the case, I’ve only got so much juice for uphill running so shifting my mind to something else seems like a good way to distract from the huffing and the burning in my quads. I hear “Arthur’s Theme” start playing and I immediately think of my parents. They went to see “Arthur” in the theaters for their first date, July of 1981 if I’m not mistaken. There are all sorts of stories from that evening, my mother being so rapt in conversation that she failed to notice the creemee melting before it engulfed her arm. My father, unable to take his eyes off of my mother, failed to see a crack in the sidewalk and ended up taking out a garbage can.
But it was also the night they first held hands and shared a kiss, it was the night they fell in love. Arthur’s theme became their theme, it’s why they chose to honeymoon in New York City. I remember hearing that song so often growing up that, whenever I hear Christopher Cross come to the chorus I can close my eyes and see my parents dancing around the kitchen on a Saturday night. They’re both gone now, and aside from some grainy VHS tapes and photo albums, I don’t have much in the way of vivid memories of the three of us anymore. But I can still close my eyes and get caught between the moon and New York City.
After the uphill section I slow down a bit to catch my breath, passing mile mark five with fifty three minutes gone by on the timer and my pulse up to 153. So far so good. Passing in the other direction I behold a triumvirate of hearty looking fellows sporting kilts. One of them running on a set of prosthetic legs and wearing a Wounder Warrior shirt. I give this man an imperfect but heartfelt salute. I receive a smile and a proper salute back as the boys carry on with their mission. A refueling station is set up on my right so I grab a cup of water and half a banana from one of the friendly volunteers. I have no idea how this banana is going to sit but, seeing as I didn’t really eat anything this morning a bit of extra fuel couldn’t hurt. I check in with the rest of my body. My feet seem to holding up reasonably well, no specific discomfort or pain to speak of. My knees are safely bundled in their bionic man braces, no complaints. The cramping in my mid-section dissipated within the first half mile and my breathing is nice and steady. Holy hell, I’m doing this thing!
I ride this momentum and confidence to the turn around point for the race, which looked to be about a half mile past mile marker seven. Set up in the road is an entrance way, a small area to turn around and then a second exit. I run through the entrance and then seamlessly wheel around and exit over what feels like wires under hard rubber. I’m assuming this check point is meant to scan the chip imbedded within my race bib and ensure there are no aspiring Rosie Ruiz’s among us. I wait until I run back down the road, to mile marker eight before checking my timer again. Wouldn’t you know, I’ve managed the first eight miles in ninety minutes, certainly faster than I thought I’d be and in great shape to finish the race. Running the other way I come across what I assume is a mother and daughter team. They are both sporting rainbow leggings, the daughter has a pink unicorn tube around her waist while the mom has a yellow ducky with sunglasses. I give these brave souls a cheer and shout encouragement as we pass one another.
After passing mile marker nine I begin to feel a change in my body. My quads are starting to get heavy and both my feet are becoming more sore with every stride. This is the farthest I’ve ever run in my life without a break so I’m hardly surprised that I’m starting to wear down. The real concern is emerging in my stomach, which apparently is not at all happy about the banana I fed it. I can feel the pressure building and I’m beginning to wonder whether I can make it to the finish line without an emergency pit stop. By the time I reach mile ten I’m beginning to noticeably drag as I turn left and start heading down towards the main road.
Without warning, a Gwen Stefani song blasts through my headphones so loudly it nearly blows my ear drums out my asshole. Once I turn the volume down a tad I find she’s singing something about the shit being bananas, b-a-n-a-n-a-s. I check and apparently I have several more Gwen Stefani songs to look forward to, courtesy of my wife. I try to pick up the pace a bit and upon checking, no I haven’t sprung a leak. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up though. I try to distract myself by looking around at this beautiful, green, wooded back country road. No I still need to shit. I start cycling through Forest Gump quotes in my head, and no I still need to shit. At this point I’m about to squat behind a tree and hope for the best. Then I remember that there’s a porta-potti less than two miles from here. If I can just make it there… but how?
I try to think about why I’m running this race in the first place. It’s not because I believe I have a future as a mid-life athlete, not in this body anyway. I’m running this race not just to prove something to myself, but to my wife as well. Six months ago I was fired for drinking on the job. It started last fall, when I returned to work after my father’s passing. The end had been extremely difficult and I did not handle it well. My wife encouraged me to take a leave of absence from work and see a therapist. But the idea of sitting home all day with my thoughts, which were beginning to suffocate me, was frightening. I figured if I got back to work at least I’d keep busy during the day and, hopefully it would begin to hurt less as time went by. It didn’t. By the time I came back I had turned into this angry, deeply cynical person that I hardly recognized. One time I got so mad after getting off a call with a client I punched my office door and cursed loud enough for HR to come from upstairs to see what had happened. My boss had me go for a walk and eventually sent me home early.
I was also becoming quiet and withdrawn at home. I spent countless hours in the basement by myself, playing video games and watching movies, anything to keep from thinking too hard and getting angry again. I knew I had to figure out a way to calm down and fast, because if I ever brought that anger home and took it out on the love of my life I would never be able to live with myself. A rational person would’ve taken advantage of his wife’s connections at the hospital and seek professional help, but at that time I was not a rational person. I decided I’d start having a drink at work, not getting crazy mind you, just enough to take the edge off. I’d buy a bottle of Cherry Coke Zero, pour a bit out and put some rum in. It seemed to work at first, I relaxed a bit and didn’t get so wound up. It was actually a bit of fun breaking the rules on the down low, like I was Ferris Bueller in the work place. But the anger didn’t stay away long, and soon I needed more and more rum. A bit to top off the bottle soon became dumping half of it out and filling the rest with rum, then I needed multiple bottles.
I started staying late at work so I could sober up a bit and so my wife didn’t catch on to what I was doing. You can’t keep that sort of thing up forever though, and eventually things came to a head on a Tuesday morning in January. I showed up to an all staff meeting with one of my bottles, something I’d never done before but, by that point, I just didn’t give a shit anymore. I happened to sit next to one of the women from HR and she smelled it on me. After the meeting she went to the HR director and my boss with her suspicions, and the three of them came to my office to confront me. After considering a flat denial I came clean and admitted everything, hoping they might take pity on me. But my boss, who put his hands on his knees like he’d been punched in the gut, said there was no choice, they had to fire me. As a further humiliation, they weren’t going to allow me to drive home as I had been drinking so the HR director called my wife to come pick me up.
After cleaning out my office I took my box of belongings and went to sit outside on the curb. Everybody encouraged me to stay inside where it was warm but I didn’t want to be in that office another second, so my boss and the HR director waited outside with me. Eventually my wife arrived, still wearing her scrubs under her jacket. She quietly got out of the car as I put my box in the back seat and sat in passenger seat without a word. She stood outside for a few minutes talking to my boss and HR before getting back in, I was almost completely turned towards the window, unable to even look at her. I could feel her hand on my shoulder for a minute before we drove away. Neither of us talked the entire drive in what was the most uncomfortable silence of my life. When we got home I took my box and walked straight to the basement, curled up on the couch and listened to my music for hours. Finally, as the sun was going down I could hear my wife’s soft foot steps on the stairs.
She walked over to the couch and sat next to me as I took my headphones off and finally looked at her.
“Hi there.” she said with a tremor in her voice.
“Hey.” was all I could quietly muster.
“Honey… we need to get you some help.”
“I’m sorry, I know I screwed up but I can cut back on the drinking.”
“It’s not just the drinking.” she began, “You are sullen and withdrawn, all the time. You barely talk to me anymore and it’s a struggle just getting you to sit in a room with me for more than fifteen minutes. I’ve wanted to give you space to process your grief but things can’t go on like this.”
“Honey I love you, with all my heart and I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel anything other than that.”
“I had started asking myself if that was still the case.” she said as her eyes welled up.
This hit me like a right hook to the jaw. I loved my wife more than life itself and here I was about to throw it all away. I held out my hands to see if it was ok to hold hers. She placed her hands in mine.
“I love you, I love you so much, and there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.” I said, getting choked up.
“I love you too… and I’m glad to hear that, because there is something I need you to do for me.” She sniffled before she continued, “I need you to let me help you.”
“Look, I can cut back the drinking or even try going without, but I don’t… I don’t think…” I was looking down again but I couldn’t finish. I felt my wife place her hands on my cheeks and gently lift my head up.
“I need you to look at me babe, look at me.” she said as she brought me back to her gaze before continuing, “I can’t stand by and watch you destroy yourself, I don’t have the heart for it.”
I tried saying something but couldn’t get anything out so she continued, “I need you to make a choice. You can choose to get help and I will be with you every step of the way, whatever it takes. Or you can keep walking into the darkness… but I won’t follow you. I will not stay here and watch you kill yourself.”
Her voice broke at the end, and she took a moment to regain herself before saying, “You have a choice honey, you can choose to let people help you or I can go upstairs and pack a bag. I want you to stay here and think about it, take all the time you need and when you’re ready I’ll be upstairs. Ok?”
I quietly nodded and my wife gave me a kiss on the forehead before walking back upstairs. As I sat on the couch, the last light of day gone from the wall, the light over the stairs was the only thing keeping the darkness from swallowing me in that basement. The full weight of the situation covered me like a blanket made out of lead. How could things have gone this far? How could I let them? I was so ashamed of myself, and I can’t even imagine what my parents would say if they were still alive. There little boy had turned into a failure and a drunk. And my wife, my God how could I have failed her so utterly and completely as a husband? I wanted to crawl into a corner and never come out, but that stubborn light on the stairs stayed on. I had to make a decision, I could choose life or I could choose despair. My wife was waiting for me, and I’ve kept her waiting for far too long. I won’t keep her waiting any longer.
I dragged myself off that couch and up those stairs before closing the door on the dark. I found my wife waiting with a cup of tea she clearly hadn’t touched, though she had gone through a few tissues. She stood up as I entered the living room. I couldn’t find the right words to say to her, all I could do was walk over to the love of my life and hug her. I broke down crying as she hugged me back. We stood there and cried together and held each other. I told my wife I loved her so much and I was so sorry over and over again. She stroked my hair and told me she loved me too, that we were going to figure this out and she wouldn’t let me fall. That may have been a literal statement because I didn’t have much strength left in my legs and she was mostly holding me up by that juncture, but my wife’s a Maine girl, and Maine girls are strong.
It wasn’t going to be easy, I was an Irish Catholic boy who all his life had pushed his feelings down and never let people know how much he was hurting. But I loved my wife, and I was willing to do anything to avoid losing her. The next morning I showed her where my secret stash of rum was and we walked out to the back porch and poured all the booze out into the fresh snow. From that moment on we were a wine and beer couple, no hard liquor was allowed in our house again. She also took some time off of work and drove me to my first therapy appointments. I could tell she was hoping I might feel comfortable talking to her about some of it but wouldn’t pressure me to say anything I didn’t want to. At first I didn’t share much, but around the anniversary of my mother’s death I did talk to her about my session, including the story of how my parents first met. She honestly had no idea why I put “Arthur’s Theme” into just about every playlist.
Later that week, on the anniversary itself I got out my old DVD copy of the movie and was going to watch it down in the basement. I paused though, and asked my wife if she’d like to join me. She was hesitant at first, not wanting to intrude on me but I said I would very much like her to watch it with me. So my wife and I went downstairs with a bottle of wine and curled up on the couch like a couple of teenagers. When the song came on I got up and asked her to dance, and we slowly swayed around the basement carpet, illuminated only by the light of the moon flickering over our old TV.
When the spring came she also encouraged me to give running a try, saying it would lower my blood pressure and help reduce stress and anxiety. I hadn’t jogged with any regularity since my early twenties, but figured why not so I bought myself a pair of running shoes and started. At first it was pretty sad, I could barely make it off of our street before needing to stop because of the intense cramping in my sides. I was also just wearing regular boxers and incurring serious chafing, along with renewed knee pain. I almost quit but my wife said these were all problems that could be addressed. She helped me pick out performance underwear and find the right knee braces, along with a supplement to encourage joint health. I started getting better and running for longer. At first I would run three hundred yards and then walk for a bit before running again. Then it became five hundred yards, then one thousand. I’ll never forget the evening I managed to run an entire 5K without stopping once. I was so proud when I stumbled into the living room and announced my feat. My wife gave me a standing ovation and then promptly found some ice packs and Advil.
That night, while she was asleep I sat up in bed with my laptop and decided I wanted to set a goal for myself. I was browsing around when I came across the Essex Half Marathon. Crazy as it seemed I felt in my gut that this was something I needed to do. I wanted to prove to her and myself that I was still capable of setting and meeting goals, that I could still be the man she married. I fished my wallet off the night stand and quietly signed up to run the full race in July. When I told my wife the news at the breakfast counter she was very much surprised, but I could also tell she was excited too. She immediately set about helping me establish a training regimen. In addition to putting me on a diet of lean meats and low sugar, my wife started running with me on the weekends to help me train. She generously ran at what must have been a snails pace for her in order to stay with me. I turned my music up as loud as I could and kept my headphones around my neck so we could still talk. She entertained me with all her adventures and misadventures in running and encouraged me to try adding some Gwen Stefani to my playlist. I said I would take it under advisement.
That brings me back to my current situation, as I listen to Gwen’s stylish interpretation of a number from “Fiddler On The Roof.” I come out of the woods and approach the same bridge I crossed earlier. I trudge on, taking a cup of Gatorade from a volunteer. I can hear him cheering me on as I pass mile marker eleven and turn back onto the main road. I was at two hours and five minutes and my pulse was at 163. I lumber towards the exit ramp for I-289 and give the police officer a nod so she could hold traffic as I went by. I pass the intersection and was now on the home stretch, less than two miles from a seemingly impossible goal. I think for a moment I might make it, but then my stomach renewed it’s campaign of awful cramping and I realize that wasn’t going to happen. Painfully approaching the soccer fields I have rarely been as relieved in my life then when I saw that there was a porta-potti unoccupied. I stumble in, lock the door and barely get my shorts off in time before all hell breaks loose. What follows is minutes of pure bodily violence that, to somebody standing outside must sound like a scat singer is being strangled.
After the last of the lower convulsions subside I lean back on the toilet, utterly exhausted. It’s a struggle to sit back up, let alone get my shorts back on but with great effort it’s accomplished. I go to use the blue hand sanitizer and manage to spray a jet of it across my shirt and down the front of my shorts. My hands are covered in so much of it I have to wipe the excess onto my shirt. I put my headphones back on and go to unlock the latch but it seems to be jammed. I try again and again as the damn latch wouldn’t open. At this moment “Paradise City” starts playing and I fly into a rage.
“Fucking open you cheap ass piece of shit!” I scream, “And why is this fucking song playing? Fucking Guns N Roses, Goddammit!”
I’m shaking the entire porta-potti now, exclaiming, “I will break this motherfucker if I have to!”
I start ramming the door with my right shoulder, on the second try I force the door open and stumble out onto the sidewalk. Painfully getting to my feet I go over, kick the porta-potti and tell this inanimate object to go fuck itself. I look back to the course and see a guy my age staring at me like I was an absolute lunatic.
“Door got jammed.” I say as I sheepishly point towards that blue bastard, “wouldn’t recommend it.”
The man shakes his head and runs on as I shout apologies to him. While looking at him I also catch sight of mile marker twelve and realize that I’m almost there. After a quick stretch I start running again, or more aptly shuffling with purpose. My legs are now so heavy it feels like I’m trying to run in a pool. Both of my feet are seriously unhappy with me and even my lower back is getting tight. I pass mile twelve and stubbornly push through the pain. I need something to get me across the finish line, and I know what I have to do. I skip back on my playlist and find “Sledgehammer” by Peter Gabriel. The funky brass kicks in and I put the song on repeat before turning up the volume, there is only “Sledgehammer” now. I close out of the playlist and look at my i-Pod’s home screen. In the background is a smiling picture of my wife and I. I love that smile, I love my wife and damnit I’m going to do this for us!
With each labored step I push closer and closer to the high school. Once it comes within view my pace quickens and I actually start jogging again. Volunteers applaud and cheer me on as I make my way back up the hill and towards the track. My stomach drops when I see they have the infield roped off and I have to run around the entire track to finish, but I’ve come too far to stop now. I round the final turn and, at long last, there is the finish line. With everything I have left I run towards the smattering of volunteers and fans who remain. I catch sight of my wife waving unreservedly and setting up with a camera behind the finish line. I run those final yards and stretch my arms out as I cross that finish line and come to a stop, doubled over next to my wife. I can hear she’s trying to talk to me but it takes a few seconds to get my headphones off.
“Honey are you alright?” My wife says excitedly as she puts her arm around my back, “Do you feel ok or like you’re going to pass out?”
“Nah, just a bit tired.” I manage through the heavy breathing, “I just ran this half-marathon thing.”
“Yes, yes you did.” My wife says as she helps me straighten up, “and I couldn’t be prouder of you.” She says before giving me a big hug and kiss.
One of the volunteers comes over and congratulates me before handing me a medal hung on a blue ribbon.
“You mean I finished in regulation?” I said, having ignored my watch and just assuming my fight with the porta-potti had cost me.
“Yes you did sir, looks like your official time was two hours, forty two minutes and thirty six seconds.”
“Didn’t exactly break any land speed records but holy shit, I did it.” I say as I take the medal
“Didn’t you check your watch?” My wife asks as she takes my left wrist in her hands and looks at the smartwatch. I look of concern comes across her face. “Honey your pulse is a bit high, let’s find a place to sit you down.”
We thank the volunteer and slowly make our way over to a bench in the infield and carefully sit down.
“Just lean on my babe, I’ve got you.” My wife says as she puts her arm around me.
We sit there for a while, our heads leaned together as my wife periodically gets me to sip water and checks my wrist and neck to take my pulse.
“What do you think nurse, am I going to make it?” I say
“I believe so,” she says with a smile, “But we don’t need to rush, just sit and relax.”
“Honey, could you do me a favor?” I ask
“Of course, what’s up?”
“Would you put this on me?” I say, showing that I still have the medal in my hand.
She cracks a big smile, “It would be my honor.”
She takes the medal from my hand. I lower my head as she drapes it around my neck. I pick my head back up and look into her eyes.
“My champion.” she says as she gives me another kiss and pulls me in for a hug.
“I’m sorry, I getting sweat all over your jacket and probably stink.”
“You’re fine.” she says before pulling back a bit, “But I have to ask, is that hand sanitizer all over your shirt?”
I look down to see hand prints on my sides and my middle still stained with it, “Yeah it is.”
“You used a porta-potti, didn’t you?” she says with a grin.
“Damn thing tried to kill me.”
She laughs as I tell her all about my escape from the plastic prison of poop.
“Oh my gosh honey, I swear I’m not laughing at you.”
“Hell I’d be laughing at me too, that was absurd. Anyway I think we’re good to go.” I say as I slowly get to my feet.
“Are you sure, we can wait a bit longer if you need.” She says
“No.” I say with a smile, “Let’s go home.”
My wife puts her arm around me as we slowly walk back towards the car. She tells me in no uncertain terms that she’s driving and I’m happy to oblige. I lower myself into the passenger seat as she produces a CD from her purse and starts the car. I look at the CD, and written in black marker it says “Michael and Tracey’s mix.”
“Aww honey, you made us a mix CD? It’s like we’re back in the 90’s.”
“Not quite the 90’s.” she says with a grin as she puts the CD in. Then I hear the familiar bars of piano I’ve known all my life.
“Is this….?” before I finish asking the question my wife nods.
I take her hand in mine and give it a kiss as we pull out onto the road and the familiar chorus sweeps through the speakers.
“When you get caught between the moon and New York City.
I know it’s crazy, but it’s true.
If you get caught between the moon and New York City.
The best that you can do,
The best that you can do, is fall in love.”
It’s true, and whether I’m caught between the moon and New York City or sitting in the car smelling like an odd mixture of sweat and Purell, there is nowhere in the world I’d rather be than with my wife.
(Special thanks to my friends Tonya and Ari for helping me edit and shape this story).
