Way back in 2003, before there were babies, I ran my first marathon. I tackled New York City with limited training, and I was fearless. Although I wasn’t a great runner, I trusted my mind to get me through it and I trusted my body to put one foot in front of the other. My faith was not misplaced and I finished without any major incident.
Most of my preparation was verbal. I talked to anyone willing to listen about my excitement and my anxieties. The experienced runners warned me of “the wall” that takes place around mile 20 or mile 21, usually in the Bronx, right before the race heads back into Manhattan for the final few miles.
During the first 13 miles of the race, the crowd got me through. I had run this distance easily before and the excitement of the day made the first 13 miles seem effortless. Of course this means that I went out a little too fast and that there would be hell to pay later.
Upon exiting Queens and heading up for the first stretch in Manhattan, the crowds become denser and although fatigue may start to set in, pride keeps you going strong. That is until you hit Spanish Harlem, knowing that the Bronx has only a handful of spectators and industrial scenery.
The Bronx is where I began to feel remorse for not properly training. Stopping for a quick bathroom break, I did not feel like I would be able to straighten my legs enough to run the next 6 or 7 miles. If it weren’t for my family patiently awaiting me with snacks and a camera I would not have gotten through it.
Then there was the final leg into Manhattan – down through Harlem on Fifth Avenue, across Central Park South, and back into the park to the finish line at Tavern on the Green. The whole time I felt like I was running through quicksand. A couple of women motivated me with chants of “you go girl” and those fellow women empowered me, although by that time I was visibly wounded.
Crossing the finish line was a blur. The marathon was all about the journey, and less about the actual moment. Not to say that crossing that line wasn’t spectacular. Of course I shed a few tears and my heart filled with pride, but the moment was just a part of an extraordinary experience.
As we start 2010 I am now 35 weeks along in my pregnancy and I feel that this pregnancy was very much like my first marathon. Those first 13 weeks flew by…I have done this before and I knew what to expect. After those 13 weeks came the crowd – the time when everyone became aware of what I was going through and showered me with their support.
Second trimester came on a little like Spanish Harlem, with the thinning crowds and the realization that a long road lay ahead. Fatigue never left me and I spent the entire trimester waiting to hit the wall. And hit the wall I did – at 30 weeks. The feeling that I could not go on and that the end was too far away prevailed.
Now in the final leg, 35 weeks and beyond, the crowds are back. Words of support from friends and family are pushing me through the rest of the race even though my body is feeble. Particularly the women in my life, many of whom are mothers, are reminding me that the finish line is not far ahead.
In four weeks or less I will cross that finish line. That moment is not a moment detached from the rest of my experiences. The difficulty of being a childless mother over the past two years has built my determination, and the pregnancy marathon has taught me things about my body and spirit that I never thought possible.
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