A long-running journal…
2 weeks before I ran my first marathon last year, I got a text from an acquaintance.
I had been training for my marathon. I was thinking through a number of things that could go wrong. Bad weather, fatigue, insufficient training, injury, or sheer disappearance of the will were some that I was preparing myself for.
If I had observed anything about myself through my previous half marathon runs and training runs, it is that I constantly assess to make sure that I am supporting my body adequately as I am pushing it to do the impossible. So, at the time, I thought, “It’s a relay. Not undermining the effort it takes to pull off a 200-mile relay, how difficult can it really be?”
I didn’t realize that the experience of the relay was about to become the craziest thing I have done in my life.
I finished my first marathon. My legs were numb and I managed to walk to collect my medal and then walk home. Sitting in the ice bath to reduce any trauma and impact from my 26.2-mile run, I hated every second of it. I am never a fan of cold runs or baths. A hot shower is a cheap luxury that I enjoy every chance I get.
The next day, I woke up with legs as sore as they can be. I sent a thank you note to all the donors that pitched in to contribute to my fundraising via the marathon.
“Woohoo! Awesome job Praveena. I hope you bring that endurance and speed to our bourbon chase race in a couple weeks :-)
Sent from my iPhone”
I knew 2 people out of the 12 member relay team that I would be running with. I started looking forward to this 200-mile relay. The unknown was so intriguing.
On the day of the race, I kept my bag in the trunk of the van where I along with the first 5 runners will stay for our first legs of the race. We reached the start of the race — Jim Beam distillery at Clermont, Kentucky. It was a beautiful Friday morning. I took a picture of the distillery standing high and tall on the lush grass with hundreds of vans of runners parked to send off their first runner. I sent the picture to my boss as a reminder that I am out-of-office that Friday and to let him know that I reached safely.
We cheered and sent off our first runner. We started driving the van to the next exchange point where we would pick up our first runner and the second runner would take off. We needed to navigate through the van routes. If we were lucky, the van routes would overlap with the runner routes. When it did, we eagerly looked on the roads to find our runner. When we found him/her, we would slow down and cheer. That was golden both for the runner and the rest of the team in the van. We weren’t allowed to stop the van or tail the runner in an attempt to stay with them to be mindful of safety and other vans supporting their runners on the road.
In contrary to other road races, there was no one else cheering on the roads. The runners were running through beautiful but deserted farms, hills, and roads that were open for traffic. If you were lucky, you would catch another runner in your sight.
We were driving the vans from one exchange to the next, making sure we were on time so we didn’t make our runner wait at an exchange to swap his/her wrist band to the next runner. We were talking, navigating, and learning about each other. We were also assessing our runner’s pace betting on the time they were going to reach the next exchange as we drove to pick them up.
Almost 64.4 miles into the race, I got ready for my first leg of the race at the exchange point. I saw runner 4 in a distance heading towards the exchange point. He came closer with a smile, slapped the wrist band on my wrist, and wished me the best. And there I went down a hill with no runners to follow, with no headphones to distract me from the exhaustion and hoping that I don’t take a wrong turn.
Hills — that was my first challenge. I am a long-distance runner — a flat course long-distance runner. I had never trained for elevations. So, my unstrengthened quadriceps were yelling at me. I started thinking of the remainder of the race. Self-doubt crept in.
“This is harder than my body can take. Oh crap, stopping isn’t a choice. This is not just my experience; its an experience for 12 of us. There is no way I can ruin that. I have bitten more than I can chew on. Just take one step at a time.”
Then I heard yelling. My van caught up to me. My team slowed down and cheered. I was out of breath but managed to smile and wave at them. The van was struggling to climb up the elevation of the hill. “Oh god!”, I thought.
There went the van out of sight. It was a relief so I can suffer in solitude. Then I saw another runner in front of me. With the motivation that she gave me just with her presence, I got steadier. Slowly, I passed her. I later found out that this was called a “kill” when you outpace a fellow runner. That was my first kill.
Running on the state highway for a few miles, moving to the shoulder to get as away as possible from a passing truck, I took the turn to my exchange. I saw my team! And, the next runner was ready on the exchange point. I removed my wristband as I was slowing down and wrapped it on her arms. Off she went.
“How do you feel?”, asked my teammates.
“It was really hard.”, I said.
“You did good.”, they said handing me a water bottle.
We hopped back in the van and were on our way to the next stop to pick up the last runner of our van. We were now heading to a major exchange — this was where we would meet the rest of our team in van 2. They would take care of the next 6 legs of the race while we ate, hydrated, and rested before our next leg. That was about 5 hours of running for them.
We headed to the next major exchange where we would meet van 1 again and runner 12 would hand off the wrist band to runner 1 and van 1 would take off again. It was at 8.32 pm when our van started running again and I would start running my leg at 11.42 pm.
It was probably around 11.30 pm when I waited at the exchange point for my turn. Runner 5 came in sight completely drenched in the sudden rain. I was about to take off into the dark lonely woods and the rain wasn’t getting any kinder on us.
“Be careful”, said, my team. I took a deep breath and started running my second leg.
And that was the closest I had come to running for my life.
Not very long after I started running, I saw a dead end and three other runners that had stopped. I had taken a dreaded wrong turn. I checked the map on my phone and was on my way again. All I could see was darkness with some rain through my headlamp. That was the only source of light. I might have been running through cornfields or quiet suburbs; I couldn’t tell. I was hoping to see another human. But I didn’t. I started to pant and whimper. After what felt like a never-ending stretch of time, I heard a sudden huff and puff from another runner that ran past me. I almost screamed.
Then I saw the light in a distance.
