The Point Is: You Can’t Beat Me
I ran the Richmond, Virginia marathon to prove a point: I could qualify for the coveted Boston Marathon.
I didn’t tell anyone I was running it because I didn’t need to hear their opinions, I knew I could do it.
Kevin, my then-boyfriend, used to compete with me in nearly everything. Sometimes he competed over things like remembering something quicker than me but more generally, I felt the vibe that he was constantly trying to one up me. He’d try to cook a more elaborate meal than me, read more unique books than me, travel to more exotic places than me, and meet more interesting people than me. He tried to make himself eclectic. He wasn’t a fan of anything mainstream, i.e. things I tended to enjoy, especially music unless it was Zeppelin. He prided himself on finding new underground bands and then pretending he’d been listening to them for years. One time, I actually recognized a song from one of those no name bands I’d heard years ago. He immediately rejected the possibility and proclaimed that he heard it first. He spoke about politics and world affairs with such certainty like he was in the room when a trade deal took place and knew the real truth. But in actuality, he just regurgitated some biased article he read or story he heard. He would speak matter-of-fact-ly about a range of topics as if he were an expert except his flawed opinion was clear to anyone with a morsel of common sense. One time, he told me not to drink too much water after a run because I would suffer hyponatremia and die (he didn’t even know the word hyponatremia, I had to explain it to him). While that is a real condition, it results from chugging huge quantities of water in one sitting not from normal post-workout re-hydration. He loathed my confrontations about his vices. He often lied to me trying to appear more noble or righteous. He especially lied about smoking cigarettes and watching excessive porn but he was never clever enough to destroy all evidence. (In retrospect, I wonder whether I was angrier that he lied to me or that I dated someone too short-sighted to get away with it). Over time, his attitude portrayed him as a scrappy little runt seeking attention and validation from the “big dogs” but never holding quite enough clout to turn their heads. I couldn’t help but snicker when he tried to exert some power. It always reminded me of the scene in The Wizard of Oz when Glinda, with Dorothy in Munchkin Land, laughs at the Wicked Witch of the West (Kevin) and says, “Oh rubbish! You have no power here. Now be gone, before somebody drops a house on you too!”
Out-running me was a particularly difficult triumph for him. For years, he had competed against me trying to run faster and longer but never met his goal. Conversely, I, an experienced and passionate collegiate runner, challenged myself to more competitive racing goals post college. In addition to our gaping fitness differentials, I imagine the times people told him I was the more serious athlete caused him further frustration and resentment sending his already fragile ego spiraling into deeper pits of insecurity. He didn’t wait too long before setting a goal he thought would defeat me — running a marathon. I almost let him have the win since I had no desire to ever run a marathon. However, in pure coincidence, within a week of Kevin’s announcement my college cross country teammate, Adrienne, regaled me with an enthusiastic account of her first marathon. She loved it and urged me to consider running one as well. Between her pep talk and Kevin’s interest, I decided to run. Except, unlike them, I was not running 26.2 miles for “fun.” While Kevin set his sights on breaking the magical 4 hour mark, my goal was to qualify for the Boston Marathon and defend my position as the more serious athlete. Then, immediately end my marathon career.
Kevin didn’t believe I could do it and I’m sure he was mad I posed a threat to his achievement. Through our entire training season he frequently tried to shake my confidence by telling me things like, “You’re overestimating your ability and underestimating the course” and “You’re good for an average runner.” In actuality, he quite often said mean, hurtful things throughout the entire course of our relationship. His words cut me every time. In the beginning, they felt like little stings, like when I nick my knee shaving; I didn’t think he was purposely trying to be mean. But as time went on it became clear that his words were intentionally meant to harm. The pain felt more like a serrated knife deliberately slicing deep, gaping wounds all over my body. Eventually, his words started to erase my identity and I became nearly numb to everything. My spirit broke and I fell into a deep, self-loathing depression. I guess his only success was in cutting me down to his level.
Running was the one thing I could do to correct his abuses. I was good at it and that left me a crumb of self-confidence that I clung to with an obsessive fixation. It reminded me that I still existed. It was the one love that he couldn’t take away from me. My safe haven; the only place he couldn’t hurt me despite his persistent efforts. Within this space, I found great power.
I knew I could easily qualify. All I had to do was run a constant 8:23 minute per mile pace, which is very slow for me. However, in an effort to sound less pompous, I must admit that holding that pace for an entire marathon is a challenge. Slow becomes very painful and boring after a couple miles and it takes intense strength and focus to persist. I planned on running faster than that, though, because Richmond is one of the flatter qualifying courses and held in November, the month with perfect running weather.
We encountered heavy traffic on our drive down to Richmond, which was to be expected since we were driving through the D.C. beltway. However, it was so bad that a three hour drive became a six hour drive. Now, I know unexpected traffic tends to annoy people but expected traffic shouldn’t cause a reaction like Kevin’s. He went ballistic and screamed at me for the entire six hours about anything he could think of. He screamed at me because there was traffic. He screamed at me because I couldn’t get out of work earlier. He screamed at me because I texted a friend, because I read a magazine, because I looked out the window, because I liked a song on the radio. He screamed so much that he actually lost his voice. Unfortunately, this display was not unusual for him. I didn’t acknowledge his irrational and emotional behavior — screaming at me and calling me names — until he called me a “stupid bitch cunt” when I offered to drive because he couldn’t handle the stress. With those words, I realized he was much more than frustrated with the traffic, he was full of hate and rage; he despised me. His mean behavior, on this ride and in all previous occurrences, abruptly made such perfect sense — he was a deeply disturbed, evil person. This wasn’t an isolated, first-time event either. There were several previous instances where his rage contorted his face and his eyes glazed over causing me to become acutely alert and plan my defense or escape. But this time, I felt defenseless and started to fear for my life. Sitting in a car with someone who passionately hated me and was violently screaming at me over nothing convinced me that he was emotionally unstable and capable of causing real harm with no remorse. I thought he might intentionally cause a car accident to injure or kill us. Instead, he pummeled his dashboard radio causing a noticeable dent. I called my parents for help and advice but both calls went to voicemail. My mom texted back that she was having fun at a concert and my dad never responded. I called Kevin’s mom. She didn’t like me very much, that’s what Kevin told me, and she didn’t answer either. I left a message anyway asking her to please call Kevin because he was violently overreacting and I was afraid he might hurt us. Thankfully, she called his cell phone. He calmed down for about 20 minutes, which was enough time to get us to the marathon expo in one piece.
We checked in and picked up our bib numbers. At this point, it was about 9 p.m. and we still had to check into our hotel. Because we were so late, Kevin thought they wouldn’t hold the room for us so he started screaming at me again. On our way there, he took a wrong turn. I think this was the last straw for his rage that day. He swerved so forcefully around a corner that I thought the car might flip. He slammed on the breaks, screamed at the top of his lungs, and repeatedly pounded the steering wheel. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing! He was acting like a lunatic who forgot to take his psych meds. I laughed because I didn’t know what else to do.
He turned to me, screamed in my face and shouted, “If I had a gun, I’d put a bullet in your head and my head.”
In the dingy hotel bathroom, I stared in the mirror at my fluorescent yellow reflection. I remember snickering at the situation — the hotel room, the drab, poorly lit bathroom, my boyfriend threatening to kill me, it all looked like a scene out of a LifeTime movie. I ran the water because it made me sound busy so he wouldn’t disturb me. I thought back over the years to all the excuses I used to justify his bad behavior, the names he called me, the times he pushed me, the manipulation and control tactics. Even though he hurt me, I forgave him because I cared about him and felt bad for him. But this time was different. I couldn’t justify those names he called me or the death threat. A calm fell over me as I decided that he didn’t matter to me anymore. I was more important and I had an important race the next morning. It was late, I stopped thinking about him, drank some water, and fell asleep.
The next morning, I confidently filed into my corral. I can’t say that I had butterflies in my stomach or that I didn’t sleep well as I dwelled over race-day details or Kevin’s behavior. Instead, I felt free choosing to treat the day like another long run. Kevin was two corrals behind me; I was happy to be surrounded by new people whom I would share this experience with. The crisp air invigorated my senses. The fall leaves were beautiful shades of gold and red, the laughter from those around me made me smile, and my legs felt ready to release some energy. The start-gun fired and we began running. Within the first five miles, I befriended a gentleman who was a seasoned marathoner. I confessed that I didn’t really have a strategy, having never ran a marathon before, but intended on qualifying for Boston. The best advice he gave me was to hold back (which means run a little slower than you feel like you can run) until about mile 21 or so and then race the last 5–10k. I thanked him and stuck to the new plan.
Frequently, I glanced back to see if Kevin threatened to pass me as I had intentionally slowed my pace. Around mile 13, I still saw him in his fluorescent orange running shirt (part of the special gear he bought when he declared himself a “serious” runner. He also bought a heart rate monitor, GPS watch, iPod with a clip, and compression pants). He was closer than I expected. So, I picked up my pace a little bit, made a new friend, and ran with her for the next 4 miles. There was definitely no way that I would let him pass me. As it turned out, all that special gear never taught him how to pace himself. He went out too fast and lost too much energy. Around mile 17 he was nowhere in sight.
As I crossed the 17 mile mark, I realized I was now running the furthest continuous distance I had ever run, which was pretty exciting. The first dull throbs in my hips and quads became apparent. I had 9 more miles to run until the finish line and 3–6 more miles before I would start to “race the last 5–10k.” As the dull throbs became sharper, stabbing pains, I tried to distract myself with the psychological techniques I had read about. I tried to think of a special person with each passing mile but I didn’t have enough special people in my life. I tried to think of each mile as my age and what was special during that year but it happened that my teen years were pretty uneventful. Around mile 21, my body felt like it was being torn apart and I wondered if childbirth was comparable agony. The pain alone was not enough to stop me, though. I told myself things like, “Stop complaining, be strong,” “It only hurts as bad as you want it to,” “You will qualify or you will die trying,” “Kevin is a weak, piece of shit and you will destroy him.” I repeated these thoughts on an endless loop. Around mile 23, the quantity of fans and supporters grew and the sound of their cheers intensified. Their motivational signs and support reminded me that it was time to start racing those last 3 miles.
I rebelled against my pain and pushed my feet off the ground harder and faster. Around mile 24, I realized I was actually completing a marathon — how incredible! At mile 25, with searing pain, I told myself that only one measly mile stood between me and the finish line. I rounded the last corner and saw the finish line about ½ a mile down the hill. With that, a surge of energy consumed me. I let myself “fall” downhill faster and faster and saved my energy for the last 100 meters. (Running downhill uses more energy because you essentially stop yourself with your landing foot to keep the pace. This slows you down and can cause injury. “Falling” downhill lets gravity pull you down. Gravity is faster than you could ever run. In this case, your landing foot is used more like a spring that helps to propel you with minimal effort).
I crossed the finish line in 3:35:35. I did it! I finished the marathon and qualified for Boston with 5 minutes to spare! Almost everyone’s marathon goal is to qualify for Boston so people study those qualifying times and understand their significance. Fellow runners I didn’t know congratulated me. When we chatted for a minute and I revealed it was my first marathon, their support became more enthusiastic. The reaction from these strangers made pushing through all my pain feel like a rite of passage. I felt immensely proud and accomplished.
I waited over 35 minutes for Kevin to finish. He didn’t meet his 4 hour goal and I had one more huge thing that he couldn’t take away from me. I started to believe in myself again and knew that I would accomplish many things in life that he couldn’t take away from me. I started to believe that I deserved more in my life than what that relationship gave me or rather, what that relationship took away from me.
I proved my point to Kevin…and to myself: I’m amazing and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
