Generic title: My First Marathon
More accurate subtitle: From here it can only get better, right?

My first impression of Texas was, “Does that guy really have a legit, old-fashioned, wood-handled, revolver strapped to his hip??”

And the answer, holding true to the Texas stereotype, was yes. Yes he did.

My second, more lasting impression, is that everyone I encountered down here is surprisingly nice, and hospitable. On the flight down, sitting next to a Fredrick Douglass (great name, right?) and chatting with him the whole 3 hours. Then the guy at Subway who courteously offered to get the door for me. The race director giving tips on drafting for me, and spectating for mom. The cheery hotel check in lady. The tired restaurant helper firing up a grill to make me toast at 6am. And then my newly met running buddies.

Surfside Beach Marathon isn’t typically what people go for when they pick their first marathon. It’s small - 161 people doing the full, and 384 doing the half. Like the name suggests, it’s on the beach. Yes, that means on the sand.

*Queue a bunch of comments on the horrendousness of running in sand, and how I really shouldn’t choose this obscure event, and running 26 consecutive miles is not good for my mere 17 year old joints anyways.*

Calm down, it’s hard packed.

The night before it was already thunder storming. Shake the walls, rattle the windows, flicker the lights sort of thunder storming. Flash BOOM thunder storming. But, out I headed for that run, inducing a oh-no-will-my-socks-and-shoes-be-dry-in-the-morning panic. Little did I know, it wouldn’t really matter, for less than a mile in they would be utterly drenched again.

At the start line, the mosquitos attacked. I didn’t even know they had those in Texas. I was wearing knee high compression socks for crying out loud! The mosquitos apparently found them delicious.

Around mile 5, I fell into step with a super group of guys. It’s amazing what you learn about people when all you’ve got to do is put one foot in front of the other. Serving as a doctor in Kenya for 6 years. Second marathon this month. Pro at ultras. Won a Tour de France quality bike in some contest. Then, the 17 year old girl running her first marathon. Which of these things is not like the other, if you catch my drift.

The five of us stuck together, through the lighting and torrential rain, splashing through the ankle deep streams that had formed with the storm. Debating the weather and the Boston Marathon, where we were from and what we had done.

At mile 15, me and one of the guys Ben, fell back with promises we’d see them all at the finish line. Soon after, we hit the turn around point and it really is quite amazing how quiet it gets when you aren’t running into fifteen mile an hour winds and sheets of rain.

Dutifully eating my Gu (mint chocolate and chocolate outrage only, the rest are nasty) every 5 miles, and alternating Gatorade and water every station, I nervously anticipated “The Wall.” I’d heard horror stories of it, Ben even enlightened me on his first Wall-hitting experience, filled with exhaustion and legs cramped so bad they wouldn’t even lift. So, to say the least, I was nervous.

Hitting 20 was the first big mile marker for me. The farthest I’d ever run. 6 miles to go. A mere 6 miles. 6 miles was nothing. That’s what I told myself at least.

At 22, I started fading. I’m not sure if my feet felt heavy due to having run twenty-two miles, or if it was the fact that they, quite literally weighed about three times more than usual due to soaking up the constant rain and ever growing streams, now about the size of small rivers.

I was told, “if you make it through this, you can guarantee you will never face worse weather. You’re next marathon will be 20, 25 minutes faster, easy.”

At 23, my hips are burning. The quick stop for water leaves them feeling like rusted hinges, my first few strides look more like hobbles, and I know I won’t be able to keep up with Ben, a 3:38 marathoner (in humane conditions that is, he says this weather added on about 20 minutes to his time).  So just before 24 I let him go too.

At 25, I almost die. At this point my near silent, mental mantra of “Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. One step at a time.” has become an out loud thing, and I’m getting some weird looks from the half marathoners going the opposite direction. They think I am deranged or delirious. I don’t really care.

I almost stop and walk. I don’t want to. I’ve made it too far to walk now, but I am almost in crazed tears and my hips are screaming. The guy behind me must have sensed this, because he goes “No. Don’t walk, you can do this. We’re almost there, let’s finish this.” gesturing for me to run with him. So I do, sometimes all you need is one little push. The last half mile I pick things up and he falls back. I cross the line at 4:06:21.

And of course, it’s still raining. It’s funny how after a run, especially that long, everything tastes about eight billion times than it regularly does. I am still dripping wet, and unlike the smart people, I lack anything to change into, but I’d swear that egg and cheese wrap was the best thing I’d ever tasted.

Chatting with the people I’d run with in the post run brunch, giving congrats and thanks, was kind of surreal, like it hadn’t set in yet that I actually did it (even though my legs reminded me, quite loudly, that I had.)

I ended up winning not only my finishers medal, but also first in the females under 20. I guess it’s an easy win when you’re the only one in the category. Still, there were two other 17 year old guys and I beat them too (I may or may not hold a little bit of satisfaction about that).

My mom, not only far exceeding her cheering duties - standing in the down pour, driving to a bunch of different spots on the course, enthusiastically yelling me on - went out and picked up the most magnificent feast ever. Warm pasta (in a place where it is nearly unheard off), a fresh roll, watermelon, chocolate almond milk, and ginger!!

That night and the following morning I felt like I had gotten hit by a speeding cement truck, and then scrubbed across a cheese grater. But, the next day I was out there running. I passed a guy on the beach, and he looked at me incredulously and asked “that marathon wasn’t enough??”

 Nope, it wasn’t. It was enough for yesterday, and hobbling through today’s mile will be enough for today, but it will never be enough for tomorrow.