Lucky Number 13

When I first moved into a high-rise apartment building, I was amused to discover that it had no 13th floor. It had a 12th floor and a 14th floor, but the elevator buttons and stairwell signs ignored the existence of the number 13. Since I lived on the 9th floor, I couldn’t argue with the apartment manager over whether my unit number should be, say, 1402 or 1302, but seriously, no 13th floor?

Can I please see a unit on level 13?

I scoff, but the fact is I’m superstitious myself. This trait usually manifests in my reluctance to mention something I either hope or fear will happen. Who knows, maybe my stating a preference out loud will bring about the unwanted outcome. In certain situations, for example, you must never say the word “rain.” Shush, just don’t say it!

I’m not generally superstitious about numbers. I therefore find it funny in a painful sort of way that my 13th marathon ended up proving unlucky. It took place in 2009, which was about the worst year I’d ever had (um, maybe I shouldn’t have written that). I started the race on a fine March morning in Washington, DC, intent on demonstrating that my recent vague physical ailments meant nothing, absolutely nothing. My feet pounded the pavement, and wow, it pounded me back. Before long, I was ready to beg for mercy. I longed to quit. Heck, I wanted to die. I faced only one obstacle: I’d ridden to the race with a friend, who planned to watch the race from a few different points along the course, the first being around mile 18. I couldn’t think of any way to find him and tell him I wanted to go home other than running to mile 18. So I made it to mile 18 and there he was, and I informed him I felt horrible and wanted to quit. He seemed a little surprised but told me it was OK. And then I don’t know what happened. Maybe it was his incredulity that I was ready to drop out. Maybe it was marathon autopilot taking over. For whatever reason, I asked what was the next mile marker he could meet me at. He said mile 21. I said I’d see him at mile 21.

By mile 21, I figured I could walk to the finish and at least say I’d completed the race. But it would take a long time to walk 5 miles, a lot longer than it would take to run it, even if I ran slowly. More than anything, I wanted to end this ordeal. So I kept running. And yeah, I made it to the finish and got my medal, and later that day I went furniture shopping with my mom. She was searching for a new recliner.

So it doesn’t seem unlucky, but I blame that marathon for what happened in the following days. I noticed right away that my muscles felt more sore than usual. The Tuesday morning after the race, I went for a routine workout run and developed a shooting pain in my ankle. My first instinct was to run through it, but I changed my mind fast. Suddenly, I could barely even walk.

I went to see an orthopedic specialist, who put me in an ankle brace and ordered an MRI. Then he uttered those dreaded words: “stress fracture.” Or rather, he clarified, “stress reaction.” The upshot was no running for six to eight weeks. And then, as often seems to happen with injuries, the time dragged on. One injury led to another. I borrowed the word first brought up by my last orthopedic specialist the last time I got caught up in this cycle: “saga.” This time it was the Great Saga of Unlucky Marathon 13, or the Tragic Saga of the Unfortunate Year 2009, or something like that. At least I can always remember which marathon was number 13.

Earlier this year, after I finished marathon number 20, I started to lose count of how many marathons I’d run. Still, I can always figure it out by going back to number 13 and counting forward. When someone asked me this weekend how many I’ve done, I realized that the Richmond Marathon was number 25.

Wow, 25. Should I take myself out for a nice dinner? Maybe buy myself some jewelry? Or just be glad that any buildings tall enough to have a 26th floor usually have a 25th floor too?

Here’s to number 25.