Race to the Start
The night before my first marathon, I learned that its first runner died. The marathon comes from the Greek soldier Pheidippides, who reported Greece’s victory at the Battle of Marathon by running nonstop from Marathon to Athens. He collapsed at a total of 25 miles, not even a full marathon. As I sat on my living room floor, I couldn’t help but think, “If I didn’t train, would I die?” The long runs on Saturdays, the mid-week runs and the literal blood, sweat and tears that persisted throughout, was that all they were for?
During my training, I ran with people who had run a hundred marathons. Some had run Ironmans (which consist of biking, swimming and a marathon’s worth of running). They were so passionate about the sport that I knew I could do it. When the running group did the long runs on Saturdays I would often find myself saying, “this is the furthest I’ve ever run.” All I had run before training were 5Ks when I was younger. Last summer I trained for a half-marathon, so I figured the next progression was a full marathon.
The night before the race, I made sure I had all of my fuel and was ready to go, my clothes laid out on the floor like a flat version of myself. My mom sent me a text of a picture of myself when I was nine, holding a medal from the Twin Cities one mile race. I looked so angry. I used to hate running, and now here I was about to run 26.2 miles.
The morning of the race, I put in my Airpods and listened to “Golden” by Harry Styles— a go-to— while I ate peanut butter toast and took Ibuprofen. I went through the checklist in my head, noting that Pheidippides probably didn’t have any fuel.
The car ride there flies by, and by the time I look up, U.S Bank Stadium is already towering over me. With a large crackling, a man on the speakers starts shouting, “Helloooo runners, welcome to the Twin Cities Marathon. You should be drinking enough water to stay hydrated, as there is a risk of heat stroke, but if you drink too much water your kidneys may go into kidney failure.” The medical professional continued, but by then I couldn’t focus. Not long after, I hear the gun go off. It is 8:00, and the race has started. My dad and I look at each other and smile, knowing we’d finally made it. “See you at the end” I say as I fist bump him and take off.
These streets are normally bustling with cars, but today over 4,500 people have gathered to run a race that tests their physical and mental endurance. The first few miles my adrenaline is pumping, the crowd cheering me on. One such onlooker was a man in a Dr. Seuss' costume with three different signs, one of which loudly proclaimed, “This is a sign.” When I saw him, I was at mile 20, and rapidly hitting a wall. Before that I felt like I could run forever.
When I finally made it to St. Thomas, an intense pain shot down to my knee. I could feel the tears want to well up behind my eyes, but due to the dehydration, none came. Three women and a man saw me struggling up this hill and called out: “If you run backwards, it helps your quads!” We all ran backwards up the hill, and I wiped the imaginary tears away.
At the end of Summit Avenue, the Capital is within eyesight, the hill propelling me straight down to the finish. In front of me I see a man wearing flip flops, just like Pheidippides would have, while above the noise of the crowd I hear the “Go Zoe!” of my friends and family cheering me on. As I look for the man in flip flops, I find him barefoot, the flip flops now in his hands. My friends are now running with me towards the end.
I catch up to the man with the flip flops once I cross the finish line. I laugh out loud and he looks at me. “That is impressive.” I say, gesturing to his flip flops.
“Running a marathon is impressive,” he says.
