Marathon #3

Last week was pretty rough.

Not finishing the marathon and being sent to the hospital in an ambulance from Mile 25 left me physically and emotionally shaken. Why had my body failed me? Why I had failed my body? How could I have put my parents through the nearly two hours of panic, wondering where I was and borrowing cell phones and searching for me, only to get a call saying I was at the hospital?

Not to mention, why is race day always record-setting hot and humid?

The outpouring of love that comes after disappointment from family and friends helped heal my pride, and grieve for the loss of something I'd dreamed about for months. Getting the test results that confirmed that I hadn't done permanent damage to my body also helped.

It wasn't until Friday that I started feeling physically like myself again, and I headed to the post-marathon run club party excited see everyone and congratulate them on their race, especially the first-time marathoners that I'd proudly watch gain confidence and skill. I was enveloped by hugs, martinis, and plans for continued running and future races, and as we danced tipsily around the table, passionately singing along to We Are the Champions, I had this moment of sublime peace and happiness when I realized that I was equally a part of the celebration... that I didn't have to feel bad about what had happened... that I really was a champion.

Then the congo line started. And someone's boob was grabbed. And Husband wiped out on the front walk while spinning someone around.