by Shaun Sperlingonly on LifeLube
After six months of training for the Chicago Marathon - marathon day was finally here. We worked long and hard to get here and there was no question that we were ready for one final journey.
During the week leading up to marathon day, I kept a keen eye on the weather report. At first it didn’t seem so bad, but when Friday rolled around and the forecasts predicted a high of 88 degrees and sunny - breaking records set in 1947, I was really worried. I was still determined to reach my goal of 26.2 miles in 4 hours and 15 minutes. More then that, I was determined to lead my pace group across the finish line.
We met at 7am in Grant Park on the day of the race. We were dressed in our running gear; short shorts, marathon number, and our yellow AIDS Marathon singlets with our names written on them large and proud. Naturally, I sported a hot pink tutu with matching sparkling headband. At 7am, the heat was already felt as 35,000 runners started gathering for the 30th anniversary of the Chicago Marathon. 10,000 runners didn’t even show up due to the extreme heat.
After running six marathons in various cities, I am familiar for the excited anticipation of beginning a marathon. The energy of thousands lined up ready to begin the journey can be felt for miles - it’s an unbelievable energy that I thrive on. Something was different that morning – I was worried. I knew that I would most likely not be able to keep the pace that we had trained for, but I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to lead my group.
My group and I started off together. While I looked fabulous in my tutu, it was all a façade. I was tired from the start due to the heat. The group quickly separated, with some ahead, some behind, and a couple by my side.
At mile 2, I spotted a friend of mine in the crowd with a sign that read “Go Shaun.” That helped. It sent familiar chills down my spine. I pushed on.
At mile 7 we hadn’t seen any water on the course. We can only see the remnants from faster runners who got to the water first. At that point, the camaraderie and encouragement from
fellow marathoners started dissipating. It was replaced, with the perpetuation of anger that we were running in this unbelievable heat wave without water. It was at that point that people started putting their heads in the fountain at Lincoln Park Zoo. Gross, I know - but we did what we had to do. The availability of water was sporadic for the entire race.At mile 8, we approached my neighborhood - Boystown. This part of the race is legendary, where the crowds are plenty and the energy is high. My group had already decided that whatever we did, we had to stay strong and run through the next few miles. Plus, my boyfriend, sisters and nieces would be there. Some of the familiar, un-filtered marathon emotions started creeping in as I saw familiar faces and felt the support from strangers. I think I cried when I saw my family (maybe it was in desperation for water). My boyfriend handed me a bottle of Smart Water and I hugged everyone. I pushed on.
Shortly after boystown, my group was completely separated. Extreme self-doubt started creeping in, I thought, “What if I can’t finish?” “What will I tell all the people who donated for me?” “What would people say at school the next day?” “Does this make me a failure?” I have never had these thoughts during the actual marathon. After my personal pity party, I decided that whatever I had to do, I would finish this race, even if I have to crawl.
Through my fleeting determination I started feeling Chicago’s love. People were on their porches spraying down runners with their water hoses, passing out water bottles or Gatorade
(that they provided) and giving us the support they knew we needed. Some were drinking mimosas and bloody marys and playing music for the runners. I loved that. This showing of support from the city’s neighborhoods was consistent all day. Somehow this display of humanity made up for the marathon’s problems in water supply. But then again I had the privilege of family to bring me water along the course. A lot of people didn’t have that luxury.At mile 14 I saw my family again. They gave me water and kisses. I didn’t let them see my doubt – so I pushed on.
I made it until mile 16 until reality started setting in. People were dropping like flies and the sound of ambulance sirens rang constantly through the air. It started getting scary. I saw people being rolled away on gurneys, throwing up on the side of the road, dry heaving and I think I saw one runner who was unconscious. I made a deal with myself that if I wasn’t feeling well enough to continue that I would stop – the pride is just not worth injuring myself. It was two miles later that the decision was made to cancel the race. Police officers got on their loud speakers and
announced, “stop running, the race has been cancelled.” I laughed out loud and said, “Are you kidding?” Nobody else was laughing, except maybe at me because I was still wearing the pink tutu! It was true - they cancelled the race. What a relief, I thought. For the next 8.2 miles I pretty much walked. I walked with thousands of others and it seemed with every step that I was more disappointed in myself. But people were still cheering us on the entire time. At mile 21.5 I saw my family again and I was almost ashamed to admit defeat. They gave me more water and encouragement to finish the race. And I did.I finished without the sense of accomplishment or pride that I was so use to. I got my medal, but I took it off almost right away. I didn’t fallow through on the plans I made to celebrate that evening. All I wanted to do was go home and sleep.
I woke up on Monday morning with a flood of voice mails and emails. People were so concerned that I made it through the heat ok. I told everyone that I was fine and that I made it -- hardly. I couldn’t believe how impressed people were that I ran in that heat and finished and the thanks I got for running the AIDS Marathon.
Then the emails started being sent between my running group. Some of us finished, some did not, some took 5 hours, and some took 6. It didn’t matter. The emails started with expressions of disappointment but the tone quickly changed. We supported each other and congratulated each other on what we set out to do and what we accomplished over 6 months of training and fundraising. The most beautiful emails came from members of our group who said they cried as they crossed the finish line because they were se grateful for this experience and grateful because we took a stand for them. We raised money and awareness for HIV and AIDS, a disease that effects them personally. They have to fight HIV on a daily basis.
When I read those email, I was struck by overwhelming feelings. I started thinking back to the marathon and picturing all the people on the sidelines that cheered on the “AIDS Runners.” They shouted things like, “go AIDS runners” and “Thank you AIDS Marathon.” During my own selfish pity, I failed to realize the beauty that was surrounding me all day. I failed to recognize all that we did accomplish and all that we each had to be grateful for.
I ran my first marathon with AIDS Marathon in 2003. Since then, “marathoning” has become a metaphor for how I strive to live my life. That is, with focus, determination, hard work, passion, ambition, creativity and undying energy. It is with these qualities that you can bring yourself to months of training and everything that goes along with it: aches, pains, strength, set backs, achievements, highs and lows. You are then eventually ready for the glory of running the race.
The race itself is also a metaphor for life’s journey. You start off strong and along the way you have highs and lows, moments of strength, moments of weakness, pride, and self-doubt. And with determination you eventually get the ultimate victory of crossing the finish line.
If I can live with those qualities, then I can live the life that I have imagined.
Every marathon experience is different. The one thing that has remained consistent in four years of being a marathon runner is the feeling of accomplishment and pride when I cross the finish line. That feeling can last for weeks - sometimes months.
On October 7, 2007, the feeling was different. I didn’t cross the finish line with pride, but I came away with more. Just like when running a marathon, sometimes life throws the unexpected at you. When that happens, it is not about whether you reached your goal or achieved what you hoped. It’s how you handle the unexpected and what you learned along the way. After the 30th annual Chicago Marathon, I have come away with more of life’s lessons that will no doubt last a lifetime.
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