Nike Women's Marathon

Growing up in Texas, Kerrie Jo is the perfect name for a little girl.  Or it might have been, except I was born a tomboy and despised anything girly.  I spent a lot of time in trouble for sneaking outside when I was supposed to be inside doing chores, because I loved the boy jobs and games. My mom eventually gave up on trying to get me in dresses, and pictures after that show me in tube socks, jean shorts and Astros jerseys.

One of my most powerful memories is my first game of tackle football in the backyard.  As the only girl in the family, my older brother would have preferred I fall off the face of the earth. It didn’t matter how much I begged, he was never going to let me in on his weekly game of football with his friends.  Each week I begged anyway, and finally my dad made him include me.  The week I finally got to join, I put on my Houston Oilers shirt on and raced to the backyard.  I was the only girl and three years younger than the boys.  At 5 years old I didn’t realize what it would be like to play the game with boys that really didn’t want you there.  I learned within the first few minutes though and I learned the hard way.  It was not flag football and they were not gentle with me, in fact just the opposite.  I kept playing and trying until one tackle made me eat dirt and tore part of my ear. At that point I did what most 5 year old girls would do.  I went running as fast as I could, crying to daddy.  I was sobbing, bleeding and couldn’t tell him fast enough about the boys ganging up on me and how unfair they were. I waited for the hug, the soothing words and of secretly hoped they might get in a little bit of trouble.  

What I got was a verbal spanking, reminding me I had begged for this chance. He told me I better stop crying, get back in the game and he better not see me again until at least one of the boys looked like I did.  He made it clear that quitting was not an option and fighting back was my only choice.  I was further humiliated when he smacked me on the backside and sent me off.  Bleeding all over my favorite shirt and sniffling, I headed to the back of the house.  In the few minutes it took me to get there, I got really mad. I was mad at the boys, I was mad at my dad and I was mad that I was bleeding.  I rejoined the game and although I don’t recall doing a lot of damage to the 8 year old boys, I do remember looking at my ripped and bloody Houston Oilers shirt later on and feeling ridiculously proud of it. 

It was one of my first lessons in experiencing strength and humility in the same breath.  I learned what it means to be resilient and to stay in the game even when the odds are good that you are going to bleed.  His approach seems harsh to some, but my dad’s refusal to rescue me taught me a lot about perseverance. It shaped a part of who I am today and it helped me be the person who ran a marathon last week.

A few days ago, I was in San Francisco for the Nike Women’s Marathon one year after vowing to come back and "run the hell" out of the course. A year ago I couldn’t wait to do this, but in the past year, a lot had changed.  Eight months earlier I had my second spinal fusion, so instead of feeling excited, I was anxious and scared.  The surgery had not been in my plans last year and it changed everything.  The night before the run was pure emotional chaos. I was afraid, knowing I would finish no matter what, yet also knowing with certainty I was not ready for this.  I had no way of knowing how my body was going to react which scared the hell out of me. I knew it was going to hurt, I knew I would be slow, and I even expected to have problems with my leg.  Knowing those things and feeling uncertain made it difficult for me to find any internal stability.  Eventually I had one big emotional tantrum, which left me feeling only slightly better. By the morning of the marathon morning I still couldn't get focused, but it was time to run.

I went into it with a secret goal.  It is one of those goals you whisper to yourself but don’t say out loud.  My secret wish was a  4:30:00 finish time.  I knew this would be tough, but I thought it might be possible.  In the end I didn’t even come close and I spent most of the marathon watching it slip further and further away, but not really caring at that point.  For several hours,I was in the kind of pain that allows you to focus on only one thing.  My single thought, over and over, was putting one foot in front of the other, with no room for any other thoughts.  It was not the race I expected and I keep struggling to find some perspective and in trying to sort out my conflicting emotions.  Did I fail, did I succeed?  I go back and forth and can’t seem to find a middle spot to balance on. 

Almost a week later, I am still undecided.  I know the right answer is to say I succeeded because I crossed the finish line. I agree but I would also be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed too. I am disappointed in my body and myself, and at a deep level I feel as though I failed in some ways.  This marathon brought me to a place I haven’t been before and it was demanding physically and emotionally.  I was challenged to manage my disappointment for several hours, and I didn’t handle it as well as I would have hoped.  Of course I wonder if I could have pushed harder and done better, which is always an easy question to ask when you are no longer running.

Along with my disappointment, I feel proud and successful. Ironically, it has little to do with crossing the finish line and more to do with passing the finish line.  This course starts those running 26.2 and those running 13.1 at the same time.  The two groups stay together until mile 11 when the course splits, and by mile 11, I had already been struggling for a while. Physically I was falling apart, the pain was increasing, and my right leg was not doing its job. With an option to take a right turn, cutting off 13.1 miles but still “finishing”, I never once considered it.   I knew the next 17 miles were going to get a lot worse, but it never crossed my mind to take the shortcut.

I am also proud that I didn’t stop.  Once the urge to quit running loops through your mind, it is relentless.  It starts as a small voice and it crowds out every other thought. It makes convincing arguments, showing the wisdom in giving up, and telling you how much people would understand.  I had to force myself to make a decision to keep going with every step.  My only concession was walking as fast as I could when I couldn’t run, and then making myself start to run again when I could.  I also feel success in knowing I crossed the finish line running.  It may not have been fast but I crossed the line running.

I can’t really figure out any one thing that decides if it is a success or failure.  I would have liked to have finished in less time and to have felt stronger.  I could have done without the reminder of how far I have yet to go in my recovery.  I don’t like the reality that no matter how hard I work, I can’t will my body into something it doesn’t have. As much I am bothered by those things, I also feel grateful and proud.

I realize it’s not about the race at all, but about me, and who I was, and who I become with each experience.  How do you divide strength and humility when they come hand in hand?  How do you know which moments are there to build you today, and which are lessons waiting to be learned another day?  

In the same moment that I judge myself, I also believe next time will be different.  I am confident I have the resilience to do it again and it won’t be long before I do. And I might still fall short of my expectations but I know next time my fears will be a little smaller and rob me of a few less moments. I have complete faith in this, and I remember to be grateful I get to do this and to appreciate the experience.  I am committed to the lessons I learn today, as well as those I will see clearly only in future days. For now my challenge is accepting both the failure and the success in the day.  I know the lesson I learned in the backyard is as powerful today as it was at 5 years old. 

Although it turned out so different than I hoped, I am truly at peace with it.  I notice the things I work for on the outside make me stronger on the inside. Working for the finish line I had moments of living so far outside of my comfort zone I couldn’t imagine getting through it.  Last Sunday, I lived what I believe, which is to never accept that who I am today is good enough for tomorrow.  I felt the passion, the risk of believing in myself, and the thrill of heading to the start line even with bad odds.  The ripped and bloody Houston Oilers shirt symbolized a win, and I think I might have been wearing it when I crossed the finish line.