A marathon of a moment

I know for a fact The Wall isn't a myth.

Sure, there are plenty of ways to avoid it, but it doesn't always happen as one would like. I re-learned this in the White Rock Marathon recently. I realize that a lot of it is "all mental," but there can come a point where your body just feels like death run over and that you have nothing left.

Enter yours truly at about mile 24.

To qualify for Boston, which I've done once but never went to run it, I needed to run a 3:40. But I wanted to do more than that; my goal was to break 3:30. And I sure as heck wasn't about to let The Wall wreak havoc on my plans.

To play spoiler for you, I ran a 3:26:05, so I definitely got more than I wanted, but those last 2.2 miles were pretty much hell on earth. I had run a solid race, though probably ran the first half too quickly, on par for probably a sub-3:20, which I knew wasn't my smartest move. But at some point in the race, I decided my best bet was just to run as hard as I could until I had absolutely nothing left in the tank.

Again, let's mention mile 24.

I think that might forever be a cursed number for me now.

I had lost some circulation in my hands and couldn't really feel them, so I had trouble grabbing a cup of water around the 24-mile mark. I would like to extend my apologies to the poor little girl who graciously volunteered her Sunday morning to help the masses pass out hydration to the runners. Little did she know that some redhead marathoner would knock a full cup all over her previously dry little body and just keep running without even looking back. I don't think you heard me mutter an "I'm sorry," but it was there. And, again, my sincerest apologies.

At this point, I knew I was going to smash my 3:30 goal; now it was just a matter of getting to that finish line that was so close, yet a world away. I had come this far, so what was another couple of miles?

Don't ever ask me that if you don't want to receive the face that some of my students have termed "The Merrill Look." Trust me, you don't want that one.

I was definitely quoting Isaiah and praying for strength (and for God to carry me the rest of the way), and with about half a mile left I thought I was going to cry. And I don't cry. But then I saw something that stopped my tear ducts from activating and took my mind off my cement-weighted legs: my little sister was running toward me to help me finish.

Steph had run the first leg of the relay with some friends, and she waited at the finish line so she could motivate me to the end. I tried pushing as hard as I could when she came and started encouraging me, and one of my favorite exchanges of the day was:

Steph: Are you ready to sprint it in?

Me: Am I not sprinting yet?!

When I crossed that line at 3:26:05, it wasn't just special because I had achieved a goal I had been working to obtain through grueling long runs and months of training; I was doing it with my favorite person right beside me.