Small detours contained the capability to set the entire marathon adrift.
So, too, would a fellow runner with a selfie stick, cell phone high in the air, tossed against an early morning sun. A minor inconvenience on a narrow path that disrupted the flow of those all-important first two minutes.
Thankfully, this was a 26.2-mile race, where true ruination arrived after hitting the all-encompassing wall at mile 22.
Eighteen weeks of focused training built towards my first-ever attempt at a marathon. A grand race. Well, grand for me. Training was a wonderful journey of Boise (and beyond), exploring the vast trails of the Boise River Greenbelt. Short runs to the Train Depot and dodging trains along the track. Traversing most of East Boise, jogging past a vacant fairground, and dipping my shoes into the city of Eagle, where walls hemmed houses in, protecting outdoor basketball courts, pools, and the occasional game of pickleball.
Four days a week, battling sun and wildfire smoke, rain and wind, all with the goal of 26.2 miles looming far away. Soft inclines traversed, tucked away neighborhoods discovered, and cars and ducks and geese all avoided with delicate care.
One day, even a deer stood nearby, glancing up to lock eyes with me until it was I who ran by. The deer basking in the glow of the sun's reflection off the river, enjoying its routine, same as I.
Training distances grew longer, the race crept closer. Knocking miles down, over 30 a week, en route to building up stamina and, with hope, more gumption in believing I could do this. Could I do this? Too late. I had already paid the entry fee.
One modern marathon, as it were, based on the tradition of when a messenger ran in Greece ran from Marathon to Athens to bring news of victory over the Persians. This trek covered roughly 25 miles. But wait. At the 1908 Olympic Games in London, Queen Alexandra decided the race should begin on the lawn of Windsor Castle and end in front of the royal box at the Olympic Stadium. That distance was 26.2 miles.
Thank you, Queen Alexandra, for that decry and making us all run a little bit more. Because my legs, as it turned out, would have appreciated the original distance the Greek messenger ran.
Heading east in those first minutes of the race, sun barely peeking its face over the city to begin the day, the race picked up we all followed leaders the wrong way to start. At the start of any distance foot race, it is a game of follow the leader. And this time the leaders took us throw a large area of grass, forced to hop over a wood fence to get back on the path.
Not ideal, but frustrating. I then jogged past the aforementioned runner snapping selfies. Strides started slowly, settling the nerves, not wanting to go out too quickly knowing the hours that lay ahead. I am no world class runner but with training, and running steadily the last two years, I was confident the endurance lived within.
How long will positive thoughts last?
Extended now three miles, jogging along the fringe of Warm Springs Golf Course, no golfers yet present except on the driving range, I picked up the pace. A pace that remained steady for the next seven miles, crossing bridges, navigating Park Center neighborhoods, and heading back towards downtown. Mile 11. Check. Mile 12. Check. Fast and furious the markers arrived and so on until the halfway point reached. I was in a good spot.
Only later did I learn the pace was too quick when fatigue settled in around mile 19.
Dull aches attacked both calves. The path stretched deep into Garden City, where the mile markers seemingly moved further apart. Sweat dried on my face, a realization I no longer exerted the same speed. Onward, into mile 22, where the calves felt better. Too bad fatigue settled heavy in the quads and, without thinking, I discovered I was walking, choppy steps holding me up, forward momentum barely hanging on.
Encouragement from bystanders, volunteers at (heaven sent) water stations, and fellow runners kept me upright and going. Some runners I passed, others passed me, and we all shared this experience. The magical 26.2-mile marker was still over one mile away and I silently cursed Queen Alexandra for making me run this last bit.
Into the homestretch, passing mile number 26. I mustered all the energy I could and headed down the final chute, cheered on by strangers. There was no tape to break but cross the line I did with one last gasp of gusto. Fighting every urge to simply collapse, I slowed to a walk, grabbed a participant's medal, a bottle of water, and I kept on walking. The finish line was only five minutes from my apartment, and I feared if I stopped, I would never get home again.
It was the longest five-minute walk of my life. A journey across the city of Boise, pride intact, and relief, joy, and anguish upon reflection of a marathon, complete.
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