The Race

This weekend I’m running the Chicago Marathon with my sister. It’s been a long and mostly wonderful six months of preparation.  I’ve run in three countries, twelve states these past months.  Up rock and snow to the top of the highest waterfall in Europe,  along sandy beaches in Hawaii and dirt roads through groves of aspen in northern Saskatchewan.  Run with my sister, my nephew, my brother-in-law, my niece, my friend and running trainer, Larry, at the Y.  But most often, alone.  Long morning runs along Lake Washington, around Seward Park.  Winding my way through the arboretum to work.  So quiet, peaceful, but for the slow beating of feet and breathing, breathing, breathing.  It’s been my meditation. Following a little chart each day that told me what to do – run, rest, run, run, run, rest.  Following a little chart that has enabled me to go further than I ever have gone in my life.

It began, this impossible idea to run a marathon, on March 27 when I ran the Mercer Island Half Marathon with a team raising money for the University District YMCA.  I’d never run so far, 13.2 miles and months before doubted I could.  But when I finished the race, I called my sister and said, “Nan, what do you think?  What about trying a marathon?”   On Sunday, we’ll join 45,000 others running further than we ever have before.

You know, it really has nothing to do with running.  But everything to do with what helps us move there – out, beyond the edge, of all we thought possible.

It had nothing to do with the race

Followed the running chart each day –