It’s a
cloudy Sunday morning, and feels quite a bit colder than the 50 degrees that
weather.com attested to. I’m standing
around in a crowd of about 500 other people, smushed together on a small
stretch of Center Drive in Prospect Park.
I am about to face my biggest challenge to date, and all I am thinking
is that I’m about to eat an elephant.
No, I am not
on Safari in Prospect Park (though on my way in I did spot a rat large enough
to be able to hold his own in the Serengeti), nor have I joined a communal
eating club that has decided to tackle extremely large game. I am about to run the Brooklyn Marathon.
So, what on
earth does the Brooklyn Marathon have to do with elephants? Well right now, everything. Specifically, it has to do with the infamous
question and answer allegedly spoken by Creighton Adams: “How do you eat an
elephant? One bite at a time.”
This isn’t
getting any clearer is it? OK, let me
explain. Two weeks ago I ran the NY
Marathon, and finished with a self-respectable time of 5:22:37. A few days after that, I heard about the
Brooklyn Marathon that was going to take place exactly two weeks after the New
York one (which still seems weird to me, but I digress). And even though I still couldn’t
walk down stairs or go from standing to sitting without dying a little bit
inside, I suddenly decided that I wanted to challenge myself and run that one,
too. Why not? I was already trained. I just had to taper again which was quite
easy given that it hurt to just walk, and then carb load again which was also
easy given that I used to be fat and frankly think I run so much just so that I
can eat carbs again without guilt or repercussion. So before I could let my brain convince me
what a bad idea this was, I signed up for what was going to be my second
marathon in 14 days. Thus, the elephant.
Normally
my anxiety increases at the same rate as my mileage in the months leading up to
a marathon, but since I only had about 12 days to think about it, I really wasn’t
that stressed even up to this morning. When
I get here, though, all that normal self-doubt wakes up and starts talking to
me: “What are you thinking? You can’t do
this!” But Prospect Park is a bitch to
get to from Westchester, and since I was already here I decided that I was
going to run this marathon. So my plan
was to eat this elephant one bite at a time.
Unlike
the NY Marathon where 5 separate boroughs shut down just so we can run through
their streets, this race takes place entirely in the recreation lanes of
Prospect Park. Now, this park isn’t that
big, so the race consists of 9 loops: 2 small lower loops, 6 full loops, and
one final lower loop, ending on Center Drive close to where it starts. For those that know Prospect Park, this means
that we are going to have to tackle THE HILL 6 times.
The
gun goes off, and having lined myself up in the back, I watch all the fast
people take off at what for me would be an all out sprint. I cross the start line, start my watch to
time my 4 minute running/2 minute walking intervals for me, and sink my teeth
into the first bite of elephant.
My
approach to this race is to just think about 1 loop at a time. I tell myself that I’m not running 26.2 miles,
but am just running 1 loop. I can do
that. And I do. That first lower loop is a breeze, mostly
because it’s less than 2 miles. Even the
second loop isn’t so bad.
Near
the end of the first loop, I spot two women, Cheryl and Heather. I know their names because I met them on our
way into the park. I spotted them
looking equally lost and we decided we’d find the marathon together. We chatted as we walked and I learned that
Cheryl and Heather are soldiers in the Army stationed at a base in Houston.
They’re both in their 20s and mistake me for being in my early 30s, causing
them to become my 2 favorite people in the whole world. They tell me about obstacle races they have
to do up mountains for training. So when
I see them now on loop 2, I’m a little surprised. They’re walking, and they look pretty
pissed. I ask if they’re OK, and they
say that they didn’t realize how hilly the park was and they can’t find a good
pace. They ask if they can tag along
with me for a bit, and I can’t help but smile inside. Two uber-fit 20 something soldiers want a
woman almost twice their age who used to be 70 pounds overweight and completely
sedentary to help them out. Cool.
Heather
and Cheryl run/walk with me for the rest of the loop and the start of the
third, which is the first one with THE HILL. At one point they both run ahead of me, but I
catch up to them on the walk interval and then pass them on the next run part,
never to see them again. I’m a little
sad about that, because I didn’t get to thank them. Not for mistaking me for a 30 year old. Cheryl and Heather if you are reading this,
thank you for your service and for keeping my world a place where a person can
run freely in a park on a Sunday morning with nothing more to fear than
enormous rats.
By
the beginning of loop three, I am ready for THE HILL, my next bite of elephant. And then I see it. And then I swear. A few times.
But I told myself I would do this, so up I go.
Now,
I’ve complained about hills in the past (and frequently). The big hill on the north end of Central Park
is tough no matter how you approach it because if you go clockwise the incline
is steep, and if you go counter-clockwise the uphill on that side is long. But the hill at Prospect Park must be the
love child of the two inclines in Central Park, as it was ridiculously steep
and unbelievably long. It was so long that it took at least 2 of my 6 minute
run/walk intervals to get up it. And it’s
hard to feel a sense of accomplishment for running up Mt Everest when you
realize you have to do it 5 more times. But
I remind myself that each time up is just one bite, even if it’s the biggest
bite of anything I’ve ever eaten in my life.
The
other side of the uphill is a downhill that is unsatisfyingly short. I go down that, and then up the other side of
the loop, which is also uphill but much less steep (though still as freaking
long). Before I know it, I’m finishing
up this loop and starting the next.
 |
| Drenched and cold |
This
marathon is only 1/100th the size of the NY Marathon 2 weeks prior,
and is also a lot less tech savvy. Each
runner is responsible for counting their own loops, and to help us keep track
(9 doesn’t sound like a high number to count up to, but try it 20 miles and 4 ½
hours into a workout) the race organizers have provided the runners with a
tracking system. This “system” consists
of 8 rubber bands. At the beginning of
each loop we’re supposed to shed a rubber band, and when we have none left we
should run to the finish line. And yes,
this race did take place in 2013. We all
know me, and know that not only did I use the rubber band system, but I also
developed two systems of my own. One is
rainbow paperclips attached to my race belt (with the orange one shaped like a
duck. Hey, you try finding 8 paperclips
of varying colors without having to dig into your kid’s school supplies). The other is different colored rubber bands
born from the Rainbow Loom craze that any parent with a child between the ages
of 7 and 10 knows all too well. Of
course, I’m using all 3 methods of tracking just in case I experience any kind
of system failure (which I actually did.
The duck paperclip fell off before I got to the “orange” loop). Each time around the park I shed a regular
rubber band, a rainbow loom band and one brightly colored paper clip. I curse all the way up the hill, give up
halfway up it, then talk myself out of quitting and manage to make it to the
top. At one point the skies open and it
starts to pour, so I’m soaked and all body parts other than my legs are
freezing, but I keep going. One bite at
a time.
Loop
4 is when things start to get tough. It’s
about mile 16. My legs are screaming at
me about how they barely had any rest since their last marathon. Because this marathon is so tiny, it draws
very few spectators, making this race a complete contrast to the 26.2 mile
block party I’d run a couple of weeks before.
A few people clap and call out our race numbers, but nobody is yelling
our names like they did a few weeks before.
There is one man holding a sign that says, “Smile if you’re sexy” that
makes me laugh out loud each time I pass it, but other than that there aren’t
any signs that motivate me along the way.
In the New York Marathon I was carried from borough to borough on the
energy of the crowds. This time I have
nothing but my own determination, and I’m trying to figure out if I still have
that. With whatever brain cells I have
that are not arguing with my legs to keep moving, I think for a second. When I was “Fat Girl”, I never challenged
myself. I never wanted to do anything difficult because I always assumed I’d
fail. But now I’m “Fit Girl”. I find things that seem out of reach, and
then I go for them. I usually succeed,
sometimes fail, but never give up. This
elephant is enormous, but less than half of it is left and I know that I am
determined. My brain utters some choice
words to my legs, my legs respond by cramping up a little, and I continue on.
Almost
exactly at mile 19 I hit the wall. I
suddenly feel like I’m running in slow motion. When this happened a few weeks
ago, all I wanted was candy. This time,
all I want is – candy. Last time I didn’t
have any and ended up relying on a complete stranger in the crowd to not poison
me with the candy she was passing out (she didn’t. Thanks, stranger). I expected there to not be a big crowd, so I
came prepared with some Skittles pilfered from my kids’ Halloween loot. I hate Skittles, and the first few are
awful. But I almost immediately start to
feel better, so I suddenly love Skittles and suck the rest of them down. My spirits escalate with my blood sugar
levels and I realize I’m getting awfully close to finishing this entire
elephant. Because we’re running in
circles, I run past mile markers I’ve already conquered, and I keep saying to myself
“did that one” and smile without the need of a sign asking me if I’m sexy.
Quite
a ways after mile 22, I get to the beginning of the next loop. I reach down for
a paperclip and see that I’m pulling off the last one. I shoot the final rubber band into the air
and think “this is it”. It’s my last
time around, my last bite of the elephant.
I get to the base of THE HILL and I get excited smile on the way
up. I haven’t become friends with
it. I just know that climbing this hill
will get me closer to something very special I have at mile 25. I keep moving around the circle with a smile
on my face and almost no gas left in the tank.
It had stopped raining at some point, and though I’m still wet and cold,
I couldn’t care less. Mile 25 is just
ahead.
I
run down a hill (and try to remember if I’d noticed it before and if it was
making me as happy on each loop as it is now), and off to the left I see
them. My husband Wil and kids Olivia and
Ben are waiting for me (I didn’t want them to stand there all day, so Wil and I
calculated what time he needed to be there to see me on the last loop. And when two Mensans try to calculate
something, they get it right J).
They see me come and start cheering and screaming. They’re right next to a water table, and all
the volunteers start yelling for me too (and since they didn’t know my name,
they join Wil and the kids and scream out, “Yay, Mommy!” It was cute).
I
stop for a minute and hug them all (family, not volunteers. That would be weird). Mile 25 is at the intersection of West Drive
and Center Drive, so while I run around the lower part of the loop, they cut
through Center Drive to be at the finish line for me. Excited to see them again, I take off. But, that ended up being a huge mistake. I get to Center Drive on the east side of the
park, and finally get to turn in towards the finish line. Since the race is so small, and since I am so
slow, most runners have finished and are walking towards me with all their gear
and a huge medal around their necks.
They cheer things like “You got it!
Finish Strong! Almost done!” But I can’t.
I ran too fast after I saw Wil and the kids, and now the tank really is
empty. I pass the 26 mile marker and
actually slow to a walk (I had abandoned my run/walk intervals after I passed
my family) and even stop for a second. I
can’t go another step. Not one. This elephant is just too damned big.
This
time, though, it’s my legs that are arguing to continue:
Legs:
“We’re going.”
Brain:
“No.”
Legs:
“Come on! We’re almost there! Liv and Ben are waiting for us!”
Brain:
“I can’t.”
Legs:
“Wait a second. Do you mean to tell us
that you made us run a marathon 2 weeks ago and then 26 miles of one today just
to quit?”
 |
| Ben, Olivia and Wil in the background |
Brain
(sighs): “No, I guess not.”
My
legs take charge and start moving again.
I turn a corner and see the finish line, with Olivia, Ben and Wil
screaming like I’m a rock star. I do my
best to sprint and cross the finish line, making sure that I don’t collapse in
front of my two young children.
I
get my medal (which is enormous!) and go over to my family. They all tell me how proud they are of
me. Two marathons in 3 weeks. Done.
The
organizers direct me over to the recovery food.
A woman offers me a doughnut and I gratefully take it from her. Wil looks at me funny and says, “A
doughnut? When is the last time you had a
doughnut?” I know the answer. It was 5 years ago, before I decided to lose
70 pounds and eventually become a marathoner and triathlete. Instead of giving Wil that answer, I shrug my
shoulders and say, “Ah, what’s one doughnut?
I just ate a whole elephant.”
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