The First Time I Trained for a Marathon..

The first time I trained for a marathon my frontal lobe wasn’t fully developed. 

I like to think that’s why I was—from the second I won the lottery for the New York City Marathon until the moment I hit the starting line on Staten Island—never nervous. I wasn’t worried about whether or not I could do it. I also wasn’t worried about time. I wanted to finish. But finishing was never a question. 

Life is easy when you are 23 and fully, wholly trust that anything is possible.  

I did research, building my training plan and talking to my endurance athlete friends. I followed my routine. On race day, I taped my name to my shirt just above my bib and, fueled by cheap pasta and the roar of the city I’d spent the last two years calling my home, I crossed the finish line in Central Park, officially a marathoner. 

It was a beautiful experience and one I think of fondly, even if, in hindsight, I paced myself very poorly. 

It took me five years to run my second marathon. December. Florida. This time, I knew what to expect. I had a perfect training block and a terrible race. I didn’t really understand how that could happen and it felt deeply unfair. 

Three years after that race, I found myself on the starting line again. I had something to prove. And prove I did. Despite a rough couple weeks of tapering and a twinge in my knee the night before that I’m convinced now was 100% mental, I had the best race of my life. 

Every marathon has gotten easier—even with my big fully developed frontal lobe—I think because every marathon has given me another reference point, another piece of tangible evidence that I can do the thing.

And so I signed up for another marathon. An international one. The biggest adventure yet. And I ran hard through the winter and when my training block officially began in the spring, I had a foundation so solid, I started dreaming crazy dreams. 

And then I hurt my foot. And I watched my tendon swell to firetruck red. And I crawled up the stairs to my third floor apartment. And I stared dumbly at the ice pack and I wished I was young enough to foolishly run through something I knew I shouldn’t. But reason wins out when you’re in your thirties. So I propped my foot up and I stared at the ceiling and I made peace with losing my race. 

A month and change later, after barely leaving my home, after no walking or biking or jumping jacks, I went for a run. It was hot and it was hilly and it was slow but it was a run. 

A few weeks ago I ran 21 miles and in a few days, I’ll attempt 26.2 for the fourth time.

In the last month, I’ve had friends and family ask what my goal is for this race. I’ve told everyone the same story. My goal before I hurt my foot. My goal now. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t really still shooting for the former. I’m grateful beyond measure to be healthy and able to run. But I’m also competitive with myself. And that means I want my comeback story, a new personal record, a second perfect race. 

This training block was weird. It shook my fitness but also my confidence. But having a weird training block doesn’t remove the years of miles I’ve poured into myself. Doesn’t negate the winter runs with four layers and two gloves. Doesn’t take away from the work I did on the other side of the injury. 

Running a marathon is a mental game, one I’ve played formally three times and one I’ve trained for my entire life. Every workout. Every challenge. Every time I’ve wanted to stop but have pushed through to the other side has prepared me for this race. When I pin on my bib, it’s not just this training block I’m leaning on, it’s every time I’ve laced up my shoes. 

It’s running a mile in my childhood backyard while my dad waits with the stop watch. It’s sprinting up hills with my high school teammates for fun while singing to “improve our lung capacity.” It’s the six am workouts with my college cross country team and the people who cheered me on when I ran my first marathon. It’s rerouting your long run because a bridge is closed and reminding yourself how to play in this sport. Or bumping into a friend on the track and running a little further because you’re just excited to be together. 

It’s every time I’ve thought it was too hot or too cold or I was too tired but showed up anyway. Every time my legs felt heavy in mile 2 but I trusted them to get me through the workout and felt effortless 3 miles later. It’s hearing that voice in your head telling you not to take another step forward and then taking many, many more steps. 

It’s belief in yourself. It’s trust in the plan. It’s remembering who you are. 

The fourth time I trained for a marathon, I was a little older and a little wiser. I knew anything could happen on race day. But I showed up anyway… 

Because life is easy when you are 32 and fully, wholly trust that anything is possible.