Miles 400-412: 10 Years Later - Chicago Half Marathon

I had grand plans to go running today to celebrate the first tinge of fall in the air but fall in North Carolina often means rain. And it is presently raining.

So instead it's a glass of tempranillo and an overdue recap of the 2011 Chicago Half Marathon.

Running this race was significant on a number of levels. As the race was on September 11, the medal we all received featured the "We Will Never Forget" slogan down the ribbon. Of course. And I can't really diminish the importance of that date in this particular post. Because where was I on September 11, 2001?

I was in Chicago.

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Specifically, I was at DePaul where I had only been, due to the quarter schedule the school follows, for two weeks. I had only been in college for two weeks and I had already worked myself a nice little schedule where I got up early, showered, and headed with the book I was presently reading to the student center for breakfast. I was in the student center, eating and reading contentedly, and I only briefly glanced at (and definitely did not process what was on) the two TVs. I didn't even notice there were only a handful of other students in the student center. It was only when I arrived at my first class - 8:10 Class of HON 104, World Religions, of all things - that I found out what was going on. My professor dismissed us, as the university was officially closed.

As I walked back to my dorm room, campus was eerily quiet. The few people I passed were all on cell phones, which is especially striking because cell phones were a novelty then (i.e. very few people I knew had them). In the dorm, everyone's doors were open and TVs were on, and the murmuring of hundreds of students blurred into a hum.

Going off to college made me feel so important, like such an adult; having an event like that occur so soon afterwards made me realize how insignificant I really am, how frighteningly the big the world is.

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To find myself on Lakeshore Drive, ten years later, watching the sun rise and spotlight the skyline of the city that shaped me irrevocably - whose arctic winds have left lingering chills in my bones, whose multicultural people have made me so much more compassionate, and whose ever-shifting landscapes makes my heart flutter - is powerful beyond words.

I was nervous coming into this race. I wanted to do Chicago proud. I wanted to make this race special, so I would never forget. I had two goals: 1) to run the entire race without stopping and 2) to break the two hour mark.

James, his mother Cathy, my mother Janet, and myself all headed to Jackson Park for the start in the wee hours of dawn on Sunday. We nervously chatted in the dark - Cathy anticipating her first half-marathon, Janet running her first race since St. Louis's Half Marathon, James and I just wanting to do well - and shifted from foot to foot, waiting for the National Anthem. We were all ready - loaded up on carbs from a pasta dinner the night before, well-rested from an early night sleep - but pre-race nerves never seem to go away.

After a beautiful harmonized a capella rendition of the anthem (most race versions are not so sweet), we made our way to our corrals. James up to B, Cathy and I to F, as Janet waited for the 5K start a little later.

At 7 o'clock sharp, the gun sounded and we bounded off, looping around Jackson Park before heading out Lakeshore Drive. Four miles in, Cathy and I was clocking even 9:15 splits, breathing easy, and enjoying the crowd support. A guy in lime-green running shorts and a cape was shouting, "Happiness is a choice! Choose to enjoy this race!"

Unfortunately by mile 6, Cathy's knee - which had been worrying her - flared up and slowed her down. After the water station at mile 8, she graciously high-fived me and sent me on my way.

Miles 8, 9, and 10 all went fast and smooth. I continued to clock 9:05-9:15 splits and felt I surely had this race at a sub-2 - FINALLY - in the bag.

Mile 11 was tough and made tougher by a guy on a bull-horn announcing that we had crossed it at least a half mile before the sign said so.

(Note to spectators/cheerleaders: non-specific encouragement is ALWAYS the best way to go. If you tell me it's the last hill before the finish, I'm going to cry when I surmount it and then realize you lied and there is another between me and the finish.)

For the first twelve miles, I never saw the 2:00 pace group, but with less than a mile to go, I started to hear the crowds hollering "All right 2 hours!" and realized they had caught up to me.

Because I had started before them, I knew that if I finished with them, I would just miss my mark. But I was so tired. So with a half a mile to go, I forgot about Goal #2, honed in on the pacer - "You guys have got this in the bag! Make your legs move faster before you let them move slower! We're closing in on the home stretch! Don't lose heart yet!" - and focused on Goal #1.

I was not going to stop running.

I almost lost it in the last third of mile 13. The cry choked my throat and I turned to the pacer and said, "Please, tell me I can do it, tell me it's just around the corner. I need to know I can do this." I don't know the words she said, but her tone was soothing and encouraging.

The finish line flags in site, the crowds six-people deep, I dug deep into that place where pain does not go, and tried moving my legs faster.

I had the fleeting thought that if I kept up this pace I was going to puke all over these nice people, who all had the same goal that I did.

So I slowed down. Tossing my cookies in the site of the finish line, in front of hundreds of people, all over other runners just did not seem worth the sub-2 hour finish.

But I did not stop running. Somehow my nearly-numb legs carried me across the mat and I stopped my watch.

2:02:22

Miles 400-412: A respectable showing for the city I love.