Crossing the Drawbridge

Last fall, when life was carefree and happy, before I was told that I required a new right hip, before I experienced internal bleeding in my right thigh, before my anti-DNA lupus antibody climbed, and before I began my journey of surrender in pure love...when I chased butterflies as a child, and photographed flowers with no time boundary, and loved for granted...along that way of my path, there was a drawbridge which pulled upon my soul like a magnet.

Each day I ran past the drawbridge, and I watched as the small boats waited patiently, as if in prayer on bended knees. The boats requested passage on the journey with their still silence. The tower-keeper eventually opened the drawbridge and allowed passage. I never ran past the point of the drawbridge. I do not know why. At that time, I was just not at all curious about the journey for the boats once permitted to cross. I was fixated only upon the point of passage, where the bridge drew open from inside and brought forth two large wings, which lifted to the sky...a man-made structure which recognized the pure symbolism of our dialogue with God.

Despite being pulled toward the symbol, its message was lost upon me at the time. Now I realize that the drawing open was an opening to God and the still silence was a necessary gesture for those wanting passage on the journey. Thankfully, the bridge imprinted my soul even though spiritual density tried its best to block the imprint.

On my final day with the drawbridge, I was disappointed to see that no boats requested passage during my run. Toward the end of my run, I was a half mile away from the bridge, when I saw a boat pass me in the direction of the bridge. I knew what this meant. With blind will, similar to that which caused me to later chase a huge buck across the ravine during the Griffy Lake run, I sprinted toward the drawbridge with the hope I might get a photo. My camera phone had no zoom, and so I had to run as fast as my legs would carry me.

I got my photo, from afar, which I now realize is exactly where I belonged on the stage of the metaphor at that time. It was an opening up that I did not comprehend in the transcendental sense, but which I recognized on an instinctual spiritual level. It was similar to when I studied in China and I knew no Chinese, but I quickly understood what was being said in a general sense. It was a survival thing because I used to pay cab drivers to take me where no foreigners were allowed, and then I had no way of getting myself back to the beginning. I used cases of cigarettes and a written Chinese note which gave the name of The East China Institute of Law and Politics, which I knew phonetically as hwa deng sheng faw shey uey...this landed me further away from school each time I tried to pronounce it.

Like the foreigner trying to engage a language she does not know, I recognize there is something from God being spoken, but I rarely comprehend. More often, I get myself further away from my home as I know it to be when I attempt to communicate in the language for which I have no fluency. I pass spiritually phonetic chicken scratches to the passers by on the journey and inevitably push myself further from home.

All of this revelation has led to a weekly Lenten pancake breakfast with my very dear friend. I'll call her Anne. We discuss our journeys with God. We are "reading" a CD on tape together which she introduced me to which is called "Entering the Castle" and it is based upon the mystical lessons of St. Terese of Avila. I cannot get past CD 1, and my friend is stuck on CD 2. We are both digesting the material in a way that only two like-minds can do.

It is all so relevant. Everything. That is the problem. The pancakes are relevant most of all. They are most necessary. They temporarily relieve the suffering and the pain.

As I explained to my friend, a person whom I feel completely free to trust in the healthiest sense, I am on my knees now on a way I have never been. I cannot speak a prayer other than the words, "help me, help me, help me, help me...." and I utter these words all day, every day, and all night, even in my sleep. Even the Our Father seems too complicated to me right now, and so my last trek to mass consisted of me holding hands during that prayer saying in my mind the only prayer that I could say, "helpmehelpmehelpmehelpmehelpme..."

Clint Eastwood's character in the movie Million Dollar Baby, had clearly lived a life of regret, pain, and suffering. He saw hope in a young female boxer who had to shake his soul to the core to get him to feel again. In the end, she had to leave him in a very bad and unexpected way. He prayed over her body and on his knees he made the sign of the cross in a manner that only a lost and spiritually disoriented man could. Because of his deep pain and suffering, he was unable to even complete a simple gesture such a making the sign of the cross.

The point is, though, that he tried anyway: He attended mass, in spite of himself, and he got on his knees and he prayed and he signed himself...he offered up his sloppy and sad and depressed attempts to be with God. I suspect that his internal words of prayer were simply "Help me, help me, help me..."

This brings me to Robert B. I took his case pro bono in 1999 and worked on it until 2007 in an attempt to free him from a 60-year sentence for a murder that he did not commit. I blindly fought for Robert while he did his time inside. I located the person who committed the murder and put him on the stand and got him to admit that he was present at the scene of the crime and did all of the things that the murderer did. He took the 5th. Robert was never legally vindicated, but he was factually and morally vindicated. He contacted me a few days after he was released from prison. I met him downtown and he wore a polyester suit with fake alligator shoes and his hair was braided and I hugged him in the public restaurant and I could not let him go. I could not have been happier to see one of my God-given soul mates in life, free at last.

Robert wore his sunglasses indoors. He was jumpy and shy and most afraid of his surroundings. Robert was held against his will for 30-years and was blinded by the light out of prison, even when indoors. I wanted to fix his soul but I could not. I could only tell him that I respected him, that he was my hero, and that I would do whatever it took to help him on his journey.

He asked nothing. He told me that I was his hero and that he was a permanent fixture in my life and that if I ever needed anything, he would be there "to cover my back." From Robert, this means the world. These words are better than any gold or treasure any person could ever give to me. Robert's vow to "cover my back" was a spiritual commitment from his soul to mine. It was his way of telling me that he loved me and that he was thankful for my friendship.

He recognized the running affect on my body and wondered aloud whether had I been thinner back in 1999 would I have won his post-conviction case. It was an honest thought, and Robert knows no thought other than an honest one.

Not long after, Robert was kind enough to address my Tuesday evening Criminal Law class, whose members he held spellbound for 3 hours, in spite of his prison lingo and lack of any education. He moved an entire room of people with his gentleness.

On our ride home, Robert shared with me that "God is great. God is good. I thank God every day."

After he exited my car, I knew inside I would likely never see Robert again. Maybe I am wrong, but he was headed to Louisiana, where he will disappear, I suspect. I felt a deep sadness for him and for his life, and he told me not to feel sad for his life. He reminded me again how good that God is. He told me that bitterness becomes a person inside and that he wants to shine inside and he said that God is with him and with me, and asked me not to be sad for him and not to regret that I did not win his case legally. He told me that God put him exactly where he was supposed to be on his journey.

The next day, as I ran where my hip allowed me to run, I thought that if Robert knows that God is good after having spent 30-years in prison for a murder that he beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt did not commit, then God must be good. If Robert doesn't belly-ache, then why should I ruminate about my hip or my blood or whatever else comes to my body?

On a later run, I considered that if Robert is not bitter about love lost, then how in God's name can I not surrender in love?

Robert inadvertently helped me run through myself on my longest run.

I told him when he gets back from Louisiana to call me, and we will have some pancakes...

Flying My Freak Flag High

I am back running, with time being my only constraint. "Today" (as is my custom, my today has gone into tomorrow) I anticipated a 7-mile run. I was prepared with 2 layers of running tights and 3 good layers of shirts, over which I wore my thick Nike running jacket that I obtained for $42 at a Kohls sale. It was the only running jacket on the rack and was my perfect size. The find was so great that Angels danced, right in Kohls, as they sang my name with a Nike chorus in the background. The jacket is my best friend this winter, similar to the wool pea coat that I cannot get my teen daughter to remove. I believe she may sleep in the pea coat, which we obtained recently on clearance at American Eagle, where Angels also danced at the find. She in her pea coat, me in my black Nike winter running jacket...we understand one another on a level that only mothers and daughters can.

I had exactly 1-hour-and-15-minutes to run. On a mission, I bid adieu to my computer and sped towards my running destination, an asphalt paved path which seemed to never end. I parked in an elementary school lot, hoping that me in my batman belt would not be mistaken for a loony with a bomb belt, as these are modern day considerations. I wore 2 sets of running gloves with a pair of Hinds mittens over them because I have Reynauld's Syndrome and when my extremities lose heat, it can never be gained. I needed to type on my computer after the run, and dial my phone, so I needed my fingers today.

Placing an under armor running sock hat on my head, adjusting the iPod, then locating the satellites, I was off to the races. I ran as fast as my legs would carry me. I had the run timed perfectly so that I would keep my schedule.

My shoe came untied and I wasted 5-minutes trying to tie it without removing my hand covers. "Hells bells" I thought, as I surrendered to my inability and jeopardized my fingers in the cold. It only took a minute to lose all feeling in my fingers. Because I had stopped in the cold, my toes also began to get cold, another concern of mine. I try to avoid losing all feeling in my toes by keeping my blood moving. It is not always easy, but I have become almost an expert at managing my blood flow to the toes. I won't surrender my toes in the battle.

Come to think of it, I won't surrender anything in the battle. I won't give an inch. If I am to lose a battle, or even The War, it will have to be taken from me with energy. I understand that everyone at some point loses a battle or The War, and I am prepared to lose mine, but it will be with energy, and not with resignation.

So I ran to spite my toes and fingers. I'd show them. I hobbled like a toeless misfit searching for a purpose, until I felt the warmth return. My fingers, likewise, began to show life.

It was time to turn around.

I headed southbound on the path and within seconds it felt my face was being slapped by the devil himself. There was a cruel and stinging north wind blowing in my face I had not anticipated. In my hurry to get to my run, I did not check the weather stats, which left me entirely unprepared. I was 2-miles from my car.

I sped up, which triggered an asthma attack. This happens to me when I run in the cold without my inhaler or a cover over my face. If I caved to the asthma, that meant giving up my trusted and loyal soldiers on the front line: my toes and fingers. I ran through the asthma, reasoning that I was at least on a busy road, and that I had my Road ID on my tennis shoe. I weighed the options of the wager and placed my bet on running as fast as I could back to my car.

My Road ID gives me lots of courage to make irrational decisions. I once ran alone under a dark bridge in spite of 2 very unsavory characters waiting underneath, because "I have my Road ID". It not a death wish, but rather, a life fantasy of invincibility. My Road ID makes me Uber-Runner, in a way cloaking devices work for the Romulan.

And so it goes that me, a 43-year-old, female, spectacle-of-a-runner, ran into the north wind, gasping for air, while slightly hobbling and curling her fingers inward...I appeared to have been slapped repeatedly by some evil perpetrators across the face. With snot all over my nose and my mittens, I made it to the car in time to drive to pick up my 5th grader at school and transport her to volleyball practice.

As I was dumping her out of the car so that I could return to my computer and finish my work, she told me that she forgot her tennis shoes. I traded my sacred running shoes, with Road ID and Garmin Foot Pod, for a pair of cushy, suede Uggs, which are upper calf boots. She balked at the pod, telling me it was "too embarrassing" to have on her foot. It took me an eternity to untie the pod because I had no feeling in my fingers.

Forgetting my condition, I stopped into the dry cleaners and drug store on my way back to the computer. I got stares from men and women. I could not understand why. Lately I have gotten many stares from men when I wear my running tights in public. Being a recovering emotional retard and a newby to the Thin and Energetic Universe, it took me a while to figure out why. It was a 11 p.m. in a grocery produce section that I finally realized I could not wear the tights on such missions.

Problem is, in my rush today, I forgot that I was wearing my tights when I chose to run my errands this afternoon. In the line of the drug store, I self-consciously looked down, and remembered the tights. I searched for a tear, for sure that this was the source of the gender-blind stares.

It was then I realized that I was flying my Freak Flag high with the Uggs and running tights. I looked like a 43-year old, stay-at-home-stripper, who longed for the glory days of 5th Grade. Even the toddler twins behind me in line stood still and stared at me. I feared I might scare them if I tried to explain to the adults what was going on with me at that moment. I couldn't tell the toddlers that I was Santa's helper because Christmas was over.

I had exactly 1-hour to get home, finish my research and writing, and get back to the volleyball parking lot. I made it in time, as I always do. I hoped I would not be pulled over by the Po-Po for speeding while wearing the Uggs and tights. I imagined myself standing outside of my car while k-9 search dogs explored my car for contraband and drugs, as neighbors and friends whizzed by and honked at me holding my freak flag.

I did trade the Uggs for a pair of running shoes before returning to pick up my volleyball girl, because I save my embarrassing clothes for my teen daughter.

"Today" I know this: I came and I conquered. I ran the good run, through the obstacles and beyond. The lesson remembered is that we are nothing, if not but a scripted line in The Great Divine Comedy. Today was just my day to play the lead.

The Run Within

It was my every intention to discontinue this blog after the Chicago Marathon. I did discontinue, only to be told by various friends and acquaintances to keep my blog for as long as I run. This, I thought, is a huge commitment. I am not one these days to make huge commitments, let alone new commitments, but one friend made a persuasive point with me. She said that I run for myself and that I should blog for others because others will vicariously benefit from experiencing my personal growth via the blog. She said that I might motivate one person to move from the couch to the trail. She said that I might bring light to others. My response was that I search for the light myself and when I find it there is no way to cover the light rays and so whether I blog my runs or not, the light rays will expand, regardless. She said, "shut up and write."

It has been over a month since the Chicago Marathon and I have logged approximately 200 miles on the path since then. I would like to do another marathon soon, in an effort to get myself over the trauma of the Chicago Marathon experience. My thinking was that I should get out there as soon as possible and shake off the dust and move forward, because surely not all marathons involve hundreds down, helicopters, first responders, stretchers, overflowing aid tents, and police officers with bull horns. I needed to move on.

Problem is, I no longer feel that need to move on. Indeed, I have enjoyed the running this month which does not involve strict guidance. If I want to run 20 miles, I will. If I have time to run only 5 miles, I will, without feeling a nagging guilt that I must make up the miles. If I choose to run 20 miles two days in a row, I will (running advice, be damned). Speed work is done when I am up to the task, and not every Thursday.

Not training for a marathon takes the structure out of running for me. I don't know whether that is good or bad. Structure is important for me to improve as a runner. Structure involves discipline and good results. Free form running, on the other hand, requires no discipline and results are irrelevant. Either way, my mind still wanders when I run. I get the benefit of thinking and of problem solving in my head whether I am meeting a running goal or whether I am running just for the sake of running.

As I see it, I have spent 43-years alive. The first 6-years consisted of growing to a point where I could at least climb up on the counter and get my own food out of the cabinet when no one else would. The next 6-years consisted of figuring out how to go out there and get my own food for the cabinet. At age 11, I had 3 paper routes at once. Those were the days when the paper girl or boy rode a bike with horns on the handle bar to strap on the paper bag. I "collected" once per week--made good money for an 11-year-old. By age 13 I had a real job working at a clothing store where I was relegated to the sidewalk sale. I sat outside all day on hot summer days when my friends went to the pool and rode their bikes.

Not complaining. It built character. For the next 15-years I achieved in academics, attending college on a scholarship, graduating with double majors in English and philosophy, and then on to law school, where I had to be Editor-in-Chief of my law review, and I had to travel to China to study Chinese law, and I had to over-achieve where ever I could.

The past 15-years have been spent as a lawyer, earning the best living possible, and trying to win whenever possible. Once again, not complaining. This was all very good life formation for the inevitable, but I guess the point is that I no longer feel that need to achieve. This applies in life and in running.

Instead, I want to be. That's it. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Just be.

I suppose at age 43 I should be at the peak of my career and I should be pushing to win at every angle. Funny thing is that I feel more like a winner now than ever before. I just do not have to measure my progress. I will continue to search for another marathon to run, and that may be next month or next year, or never. It doesn't matter.

So it goes that when I run, at least for now, I will measure my results by the beat of my soul, rather than by the beat of my heart, and by the steps not taken as much as by the steps taken. When inspired, I will share my experience in word-to-page, not for others so much as for myself, because word-to-page, at least for me, is the "full" in "full circle."

If Running is a Metaphor for Life

Yesterday I completed the Chicago Marathon.

It was my goal for 6-months. I trained no less than 600 hours. I ran no less than 1500 miles in preparation. On the days I did not run, I biked and lifted and swam, with the hope of cross-training myself into a more worthy runner. I became the poster child for Muscle Milk, and I gained almost Ph.D.-expertise in things like electrolytes and carb burn and how the gastrointestinal system works.

In 6-months I went down 3 complete clothing sizes and grew my hair out an inch for each clothing size (longer hair pulls back better in a ponytail for running). This adds to the 3 complete clothes sizes and 3 inches of hair that had already transformed me in the three prior years.

A total of 95-pounds gone.

I went blond, or I should say that I let my blond self emerge.

There is a frumpy, darker haired, jiggly, flabby, shadow of myself running around in the world. I set her free with the condition that she never return. I gave her money for a good hair stylist and sent her on her way. It was the least I could do.

My professional peers who have not seen me in a while have no idea it is me. I consider gossiping about myself to see what others might say about me behind my back. Now and then, I should pay myself a gratuitous compliment as a third person would.

Evidently, a courtroom objection is more effective when made by a trim blond.

The other day a male prosecutor (I call him The One Who Has Never Beaten Me) is suddently my friend, when 95-pounds ago he was telling people that if Satan couldn't get them off in their case they should hire me, because I would get them off scott-free. In other words, in his head, I was worse than Satan. I guess Satan cannot be a thin blond who runs.

I still get them off scott-free. Jiggly Girl just ticked people off doing the same thing. The One Who Has Never Beaten Me didn't like the fact that he was beaten repeatedly by a Jiggly Girl. He was humiliated. But he doesn't see Jiggly Girl any more. I am not rubbing his face in his own deficiencies.

The world is different now, I guess. "So, this is the way the skinny and athletic live?" I think to myself, as I shove Lilith back into her box where she belongs. Lilith is very happy that Frumpy, Jiggly, Flabby Girl ran away from home, but Lilith needs to behave herself too. I let her out now and then to enjoy the scenery, but she wears a leash, just in case...

I have always looked at least a decade younger than I am, but at age 42, one would think that getting carded for alcohol is a by-gone experience. I got carded twice last month.

While in line for the Porty-Potty at the Chicago Marathon, before the race, I spoke to a mother-daughter combination waiting in front of me. The daughter was 22. I eventually mentioned my 14-year old daughter, and the mother interrupted and insisted that there was no way I was old enough to have a 14-year old. She was incredulous. I considered telling her that I am a loonie who waits in Porty-Potty lines and talks about make-believe children in conversations with strangers, but there was an outside chance she may have read Whose Afraid of Virginia Wolf. I might have gotten trapped in a discussion with her about make-believe children in American literature. I just wanted to pee.

None of these things impress me.

Despite the outward changes, on the inside, I am pretty much the same person who laid on a hospital gurney on November 13, 2002, fighting for my last breath, and praying to God that my children do not have to endure my loss. I suffered a massive pulmonary embolism and the clot eventually caused the lung tissue in my lower left lung to infarct. I was told in that tiny ER room, surrounded by 3 doctors, that I might die immediately, or within hours or days, depending on what the clot did. They told me that I had a deadly blood clotting disorder which may or may not respond to blood thinners, and that even if I made it through this, that my prognosis was very poor.

Some people are truly ready to die, but I was not on that day. I was 38-years-old and I had small children.

It was an ordinary day, like any other. That is how our lives end: on the most ordinary of days. When I was filled with enough morphine to forget I could not breathe, I relaxed, and I considered my life: past, present, and future.

As for the past, I asked God for forgiveness for all I had ever harmed in any way, and for forgiveness most of all for harming God, if that is even possible. As for the present, I thanked God for my very existence, and for allowing me to ask for forgiveness. As for the future, I asked only that my children be safe and happy. I could not imagine a future which included me, and if it did include me I could not comprehend how I would manage the life I previously had.

More morphine, please.

Next morning I was so high on morphine that I took the morphine drip for a walk. The nursing shift had changed and the new nurses did not put a face with the name on the chart. I walked over to a window down the hallway and watched the most beautiful sunrise of my life. It was tinted by the hues of my morphine. A nurse finally approached and we had a conversation about that sunrise. Eventually, she asked me what I was in for. I told her that I had a blood clot in my lung, at which point she called in the National Guard. I was put back in my bed and one of the doctors stomped in to inform me that if I got out of my bed again I would be tied to the bed.

It was worth the sunrise.

As I recovered those ensuing months, the thought of going life's distance was impossible to imagine. I could barely move from the recliner chair to the bathroom. I gave up all illusion of control. I spent 6 good months on heavy narcotics.

I was so ready to emerge from the fog, and when I did gradually emerge, I made the decision to change my life by living each day as though it were my last ordinary day.

It was a year later, on November 11, 2003, that I suffered a second pulmonary embolism, this time in my other lung.

Buying time was not an option. Bargaining with God was out of the question.

Finding my path was now an urgent matter, because I had always felt that my entire purpose in this life was to ready myself for God, and I had some major, major work to complete in a short time.

Not long after that 2003 embolism I plopped myself down for the first time on the couch of a trusted priest. It was hit and miss for 2 entire years, partially due to my inability to connect in any meaningful way to any person who might harm me later. Of course, this priest would not harm me, but I did not know that. I was operating from experience. I was an injured animal and any human being who attempted real contact would frighten me. Like an injured animal, I scrambled away quickly, but I kept a clear eye on the one who caused me to scramble in case he left food out for me to get later.

Thankfully, treating wounded and scared animals was in the nature of this priest. I'll call him St. Francis of Central Ave, though I am not sure he would like that moniker. St. Francis of Assisi was a bit of a lunatic and my priest-friend is no lunatic. He is, rather, a very ordinary man with a simple gift. He found an emotional retard (this is a term of art) in the woods.

After 2 years, I am still an emotional retard at times, but I no longer live alone in the woods, and my emotional retardation is no longer as apparent to others. I like to think I have graduated to an assisted living facility for emotional retards. I check in now and then to maintain some level of accountability to the community, which dislikes having emotional retards roaming about freely without supervision.

Even the emotionally retarded are children of God. It is not their fault they are emotionally retarded. They can't help it. They are harmless people. You just have to get used to them, and with some patience, they can shed their emotional retardation completely. I think a couple of them have even been elected President of the United States. Don't be scared. They won't hurt you. They are more scared of you than you are of them.

Preparation for God, to me, is not a sanctimonious or even holy-appearing journey. It is dirty and messy and full of detours. I imagine the crack addict, in his or her addiction, misery, despair, and loneliness, may be closer to God than I can ever hope to be. This is because the crack addict has lost everything and has nowhere to turn except to God.

There is a bare nakedness in it all.

And so it is that running, for me, is a metaphor for all of life. I realized something in yesterday's marathon. It was not until after I was broken down by the heat and the pain of running for 20-miles, and faced with the the fact that I had trained for 6-months for the race to be canceled due to the heat before I could finish, that I experienced the bare nakedness of life through the longest run of my life.

It was 88 percent humidity when I crossed the start line. St. Francis of Central Avenue, a former marathoner himself, left me an encouraging message as my feet were crossing the start line. I wondered to myself how he timed it that perfectly, since it took me 10 minutes and 13 seconds to cross the start line. I saw it was him but, of course, I could not answer. I already knew what his message said anyway.

My moment was upon me. I ran like Forest Gump. I had placed myself in the 4:15 pace group, even though I more realistically should have been pacing with the 4:30 group.

I felt the 4:15'ers really needed an emotional retard among them. They looked so together. I could learn from them, and they from me. But first I had to deal with the double sock issue. I always wear double socks on long runs but I have never run on hard surface for so many miles, and my feet began to swell.

This could have also been caused by my eating an entire bag of potato chips at the encouragement of my sister-in-law, who is a 2-time Boston marathoner. I will do anything she says when it comes to running. She told me the carbs and the salt were good for my run. I never eat chips but I sat there gobbling chips on the hotel bed, chatting with her about our bowel movements and how to hydrate pre-race to prevent having to use a Porty-Potty during the race.

So I stopped at mile 4 and sat on the steps of an Orthodox church. I removed my shoes while a young, handsome Orthodox priest sat over me, with his long black beard, long hair, and long black cassock. He looked like a rock star or an undercover DEA agent. I was dripping wet all over his steps.

He said to me, "You know, its OK to quit."

I didn't have time or inclination to respond. I tossed my new black baloga running socks his way and told him they would match his outfit, as I ran back into the race. I wasted at least 12 minutes.

It is no surprise that a man of God tried to persuade me to accept myself as I was at that moment...to not rejoin the race, because I had nothing to prove to anyone. Problem is, he didn't understand my motivations. I hope he uses my socks and gets a desire from them to at least run down the block. Only then will he understand.

I headed into mile-6 behind two men wearing matching royal blue tank tops and black shorts. One had "Gay" written on the back of his shirt, and the other had "Gayer" written on his. There was a park near mile 6 where I noticed about a dozen runners leave the road and head over to publicly urinate on the trees. These were the men. There were a few female runners who were squatting at the tree trunk with their pants down.

"Unbelievable," I thought to myself. I had never seen a female do such a thing, let alone several unrelated females do it at one time. This only proves that women were quite capable of combat situations. They can shit in the woods just like a man, and in front of thousands of people.

I continued to pace well, until some do-gooder spectator sprayed me with a garden hose. My right foot was sopped. I forgot to tighten my laces after removing the layer of socks on the first stop and the water in my shoe caused my right foot to slip around. This would cause blisters in no time and so I had to stop again to tighten my laces all the way up.

There went another 5 minutes.

I paced again quite well, until the arch support insert in my right foot began to slip forward due to the water.

Damned do-gooders.

I stopped a third time to remove my right shoe and to fix the arch support. I sat next to a very feminine young man. I think my sweat grossed him out royally. He tried to be polite, but I could read his bubble...

There went another 6 minutes.

My split at the 13.1 marker was 2:40:05. Take out the 3 shoe stops, and my split would have been 2:17. That would put me in the ball park of finishing in 4:30, which is respectable for an emotional retard on her first full marathon.

I felt terrific going into the second half, except the environment was beginning to take a psychological toll on me. It was by then 90 degrees and still very humid. The asphalt was burning my feet. My shoulders felt on fire from the sun.

Runners were collapsing all over the place. All of the aid tents were full and there were bodies everywhere. I saw one young woman in her 20's fall over right in front of me and she hit her head on the street. A spectator jumped to her aid. As I looked back he was pulling up her eyelids and feeling her neck for a pulse. Young men were falling as well.

It never occurred to me that I might also fall.

I felt great and I had my fuel belt. I had a hydration plan. Maybe the potato chips saved my life. There were bananas ahead, or so we were told.

No bananas materialized, at least ones I would eat. I must have asked 10 people if they knew where the bananas were. I even asked a First Responder who was carrying a stretcher. He looked at me like I was mad woman, which was possibly the case at that very moment.

My fixation on bananas helped me ignore what was happening around me. The banana obsession got me through several miles.

What led to my banana fixation was that in mile 19 the water station was void of water or Gatorade. I thought to myself, "Houston, we have a problem." I had 2 bottles in my belt which got me through to the next water station.

I filled up all of my bottles and drank as much water as I thought I needed.

Sometime during mile 20 or 21, a heavy-set police officer stepped in my path and began waiving his arms. I could not hear him because I was wearing my iPod in violation of the rules.

I read his lips. He said, "THE RACE IS OVER. YOU NEED TO WALK."

I side-stepped him and ran faster, only to be confronted by more police who were carrying bullhorns telling us to walk because the race was canceled.

I did walk but I trotted any time I felt no authority was looking my direction. It is part of my emotional retardation.

Within a couple of miles there were helicopters overhead and firetrucks and ambulances at every turn. I felt as though there had been a terrorist attack and I was walking off of Manhattan Island.

There were bodies everywhere I looked. The squad cars started driving down the middle of the road announcing on their speakers that we were all to walk.

It was beyond surreal. I was honestly traumatized by the experience.

It was then that I cried. I am not proud of this, but I cried like a little baby as I walked. I cried because it was not fair that I had trained so hard. I cried because I was stranded out in this heat and I couldn't find a familiar face, even though I looked all those miles for my sister-in-law's friends who were wearing orange and who had an orange wig and an orange flag. I was an orphan out there and I couldn't take another cop screaming in my ear with a bullhorn or another runner keeling over from the heat. I wanted a banana.

I couldn't run if I wanted to because the walkers were blocking my way.

Then I remembered that it was not about the marathon. I talked to myself for a couple of miles about the journey of it all. This was just a part of the journey.

I considered all of the obstacles which were thrown my way in this race, just as in life, and I was determined to complete the race with dignity.

So I dried off my tears and called my husband to tell him to ignore the split times being text messaged to him.

I thought about listening to St. Francis' voice message, but that would be too depressing for me at that time. It would have brought me back to the start line, where optimism ruled the day.

It was then that I remembered those on my journey: Jewish Mother, West Point Runner, Thinking Runner, Javelin Man, Jerry Garcia & Co, Helmet Man, Hemingway, Unicycle Man, St. Francis, and the many others who have graced me on the path, including my family.

I had a duty to them to finish with dignity.

My longest run was completed in 5:39:58, a full hour and 10 minutes longer than I imagined.

Before crossing the finish line, I spotted a familiar face and handed off my Batman Belt. I ran 100 yards to the finish line and raised my arms in victory.

It was a victory over my own weaknesses, and nothing more.

Tonight I researched what other marathon I might complete in the next 6 weeks. I must overcome the trauma of the Chicago Marathon experience, and I must better my time.

I have too many other weaknesses to surrender on the path to draw the finish line at this point in the journey.

I will therefore continue to run my longest run with perseverance and dignity until I am called to that finish line that I cannot draw for myself in the sand, but towards which I can run, in the hope that one day I will be draped by the Path Maker with His Finisher's Medal.

Life is a marathon. There is one difference, and that is that Life's Marathon cannot be repeated for a better time. The clock is ticking and, unlike the Chicago Marathon, I cannot find myself another marathon down the road.

There are no do-overs. Sometimes the path is clear and direct, and sometimes, like in Chicago, the path is treacherous and scary.

For me, I will stay the course. I am certain to encounter others on the path who might teach me a better way, or at least entertain me in the process.

When I am alone on the path, I will give thanks.

The end of the path will present itself in due time. Until then, I will run the good run.