Running through Pain

Yes, I ran in Myrtle Beach. I have the medal and the postrace photo to prove it to myself. But it feels like a dream. The sunshine that morning shone cheerfully. The volunteers shouted encouragement. I passed the now-familiar landmarks, the pretty-colored shops and hotels and fountains that make me smile. I ran tired. A sadness pressed on me. But my pace held steady. The sadness pressed and yet didn’t crush.

That morning was a gift. In the afternoon, the sun disappeared and the winds howled. I left Myrtle Beach as a storm rushed up. The bright image of race day dissolved into grayness. I thought I could drive away from the storm, but that night I drove into another. I came around a bend in the mountains and got swallowed up in a sudden flurry of white flakes. I could barely see the road. The swirl of flakes made me dizzy. I got off the freeway and tried to find a place to stay. At one of the hotels that turned me away, I almost snatched a cookie from the lobby. But I guess I kept my head enough to restrain myself.

So what was I doing in a mountain pass on the night after the Myrtle Beach Marathon, anyway? A funny thing happened on my way home from South Carolina—I traveled by way of St. Louis. I had hoped for a rest there. I feel like the Pope, you see. It’s like he says: I don’t have the capacity to go on like this. Whenever I would hear talk of the Pope’s retirement, I would think of my own period of rest, and the idea brought a sense of relief.

But if I was dreaming last weekend, it wasn’t of the marathon, which was real enough; it was of the resting period that never came. My long journey by car is now over. I have left South Carolina and St. Louis, too. I have not crashed on any mountain highways. Saturday night, a friend of mine passed in what I hope was a quieter way. I cannot believe she is gone from this earth.

This year, the Myrtle Beach marathon goodie bag included a blanket with the word “Marathon” printed in large, black letters. I have spent a good part of the past two days curled up in it. I have hung my medal where I can see it. I am getting caught up on laundry. These things—blankets, medals, dirty clothes—they are concrete. They are real.

Next marathon, three weeks from tomorrow.