I was fourteen-years-old and volunteering at Mile 11 of the Chicago Marathon. Thousands of runners flashed by me, and hundreds of hands reached out to take the cups of water I held. They were super humans.
The most I ever ran before that day was ten miles. Those ten miles were a physical suicide for me. Watching people run one mile beyond that blew my mind.
I wanted their secret.
I wanted the marathon. I wanted to fly amongst the strongest people I ever saw.
How were they at Mile 11 and not falling to their hands and knees, gasping for air, cursing the gods and themselves for forcing themselves through hours of arduous pain?
I didn’t get it.
I didn’t understand why anyone would want to run until his toenails fell off, but I was amazed. I admired every mile they ran. I just wanted to know how they finished.
On the sideline, runners grabbed the water from my hands.
There was one runner. He was middle-aged and he ran towards me and took the cup from my frozen fingers.
“Thank you so much for doing this, it means so much to us, “ he said. “We couldn’t do this without you,” and on he ran, tackling the 15 miles that awaited him.
I wanted to yell back, “What do you mean? Of course you could do this without me!”
I was just one person holding a cup of water. I wanted to thank him. I wanted him to know how much he inspired me. I wanted to know how he kept going.
I didn’t get it.
Eight years later, I was twenty-two-years-old and standing seconds from the starting line of the Chicago Marathon.
I was in pain. I accepted the gruesome reality that, with my injured leg, I would not finish. That thought ripped my insides, but I dragged my left leg just to reach the starting line.
How in the hell was I going to run 26 miles like this?
My years of running, my months of training, and my lifelong dream were dissipating into a world of defeat.
I had no magical burst of strength. No wicked magic. I was not a superhuman.
I swallowed five ibuprofen and walked closer to the line. My running mates were beside me, and I could see the start banner frame the Chicago skyline. Upbeat music blared out the speakers, and the MC joked about the chances of us winning the race were severely reduced due to the fact that we were so far back in line.
Man, it was a beautiful day.
The starting line ruled the street a few feet away. I witnessed as it turned every ordinary person into a marathon runner. We shuffled closer.
I already saw the line divide my world. On one side, I was a naïve girl, succumbing to weakness. On the other side, I envisioned my feet over the finish line. Pure euphoria.
Our feet landed on the line and we took our first steps into the other world. I was actually going to run the marathon.
But reality wouldn’t let me go. A few milliseconds after takeoff, my leg screeched agony to my brain. My brain told me I couldn’t do this. I was stupid for trying.
The logical part of me told me I could always run another marathon. Reason told me I would make it eight miles at best and that I should slap myself for my stupidity and the damage I could do to my leg.
I don’t really like the logical voice in my head sometimes. I’m very good at doing stupid things.
I ignored all feeds of coherent intelligence and followed the footsteps of a thousand others. My leg screamed, are you serious?
Any time you feeling like working, ibuprofen, any time now.
But I couldn’t stop.
There were the people.
They stood alongside the marathon and the roads came alive. They were everywhere and they were cheering and yelling out people’s names and holding up signs and telling us not to give up and clapping and whistling.
Every step produced another person. They didn’t give up, and neither could I.
My body felt weightless. Mile 3 came and went, and I cried with joy when I saw my friend on the sideline of Mile 4. And then there was Mile 7 and my friend holding up a sign with my name on it, and then there was Mile 11 where I limped over to my parents to give them a hug, and I think I saw a tear on my mom’s face. And there was Mile 13, and we were halfway done, and I thought to myself… this isn’t that bad (take that logical brain). Mile 15 stuck out of the road, and I realized that any step past that mile marker would be the farthest I’ve ever run.
So, of course, I had to keep going.
And the people kept coming. I lived and breathed for the volunteers holding water and Gatorade cups. I loved the people giving us pretzel sticks and chopped bananas and holding out their hands while saying, “Free high-fives!”
I laughed at the signs that said we could poop in our pants if we needed to, and felt inspired by the mottos that read: Pain is temporary; pride is forever.
And the runner that placed a hand on my shoulder and said, “Keep going, you’re doing an awesome job.”
Empowerment electrified my body, but it wasn’t because every step brought me closer to the line. It was the realization that someone other than me supported my every step.
The secret.
I was physically incapable of running 26.2 miles alone, and I knew that. But that didn’t matter.
I wasn’t running alone. I was running with friends. I was running with 50,000 other runners. And out there were 1.2 million people cheering us on.
The marathon is a test of human endurance and strength, they say. Do I feel any stronger by completing it? Not really. In fact, I don’t feel much different at all.
But what I do feel is the power of hope, and the community of the human spirit. The compassion of humanity and its ability to stand and cheer together for a single cause. To support each other and to yell out each other’s names and to have faith in a dream that is real.
Hugs and high fives bring us together. That is what got me over that line.
Running the marathon may not have made the world a better place. But it made the world a better place for me.
I couldn’t have done it without you.
–Michelle Hand
(Mid-hug squeeze to my madre. Action shot!)
Murmurations Magazine 