There's a lesson to be learned from this experience. Maybe the cliche about the fragility of the body and the triumph of the spirit? Or, maybe, a lesson about perseverance? But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me step back.
Our hotel - Congress Plaza - was overlooking the start and finish area. I took a leisurely stroll in the morning to get to the start. It was the usual hype all around me - excited people of all shapes and colors swarming the baggage area, skipping, running, stretching. As usual, one can distinguish two types: chatters and observers. I was in the second category, standing on the side and watching people chattering endlessly to calm the excitement. Then the call came, we squeezed to our pre-assigned starting corals, the anthem was sang and the siren marked the start.
Around 16 km mark it happened without warning - my muscle snapped. You know how it usually happens in stories - there's a warning pain which the hero (that would be me) ignores, and the pain grows slowly, until all the hero can do is grind his teeth and continue with superhuman effort... well, that's all bullshit. It doesn't happen like that. One moment I was flying forward, the next there was a knife - no, a bayonet - in the back side of my thigh, the pain so sudden, so crippling that I stumbled and had to hold onto the fence to keep from falling. It all happened next to a medical tent, so in I went. The fantastically helpful first aid staff stretched me, gave me Biofreeze lotion which was supposed to freeze the area and dull the pain, and sent me on my way.
I limped a little. Then I tried to run. The pain was back in a flash, only this time the knife felt double the size. I may have whimpered, I'm certain I moaned. And stopped. And stretched. And limped to the next first aid tent a mile away.
From there, I mostly walked. The pain in the left leg was constant. Not any longer sharp stabbing of a knife, but more a ball of ember searing through the muscle. As I passed the half-way point and realized that I'm at least three hours away from the end, my heart sank. My spirit followed. I looked for the vehicle that can take me to the finish, to take my clothes, lay in bed and pull the cover over the head. I saw another medical tent - they had golf carts there for the quitters - and directed my hobbling self toward it. Then something happened.
All the fast runners were long gone, but a constant tide of slower pokes was streaming by. A man shuffled by me. Bent. Old. He could have been in his 70s. His run was barely faster than my walk - and I was really slow. On the back of his shirt was written in huge letters: "Pain is temporary, quitting is forever." I read it once. Scoffed. Then read it again. The man was so slow, it gave me enough time for the message to sink in. I looked around. There were people big and small, old and young; an amputee with a carbon-prosthetic leg, a blind man with two guides, a guy in a wheelchair. All of them slowly progressed toward the finish line. The man with a sign was almost gone by now. And I thought how nice it would be to get that finisher's medal hung around my neck. I'd like to say that the pain lessened, that a surge of energy carried me on - but that, again, happens only in stories. I, however, found much needed determination, grit my teeth and limped on.
For the rest of the race the pain stayed constant. Blessedly, it didn't worsen. As the finish gate drew close, I tried once more for a few running steps, and paid with pain so amplified I almost vomited. Again, I clung to the side fence and, after a few deep breaths, drag myself over the line. Unceremoniously, I finished Chicago marathon.
As for the lesson - it was about reaching deeper than I thought is possible and finding strength to go on.
