it's me

Over the last week I have been bursting with gratitude, and joy, and pride, and vanity at my running a marathon, and with all the nuances of delight and conceit in between. I sent a note to my parents back in Europe, a bittersweet revenge to them admonishing me last year that one can run a marathon at 21 or 24, but not at 41 or 42. Yeah, I am that kind of child. I basked in the applause I have received from all of you – thank you, almost as enchanted by your praise of my race report below as I am by the race itself, since I am a writer (although not published yet), and translating experience into words lies at the core of who I am. I wore my medal and my fabulous race T-shirt to work, although there most people ask me how long a marathon is and turn away at the prospect of 26 miles.

And I repeated to myself, over and over again: I am a marathon runner. I ran a marathon. It was just an idea, and I made it real. I materialized myself as a marathon runner.

And through it all, I carried with me a lingering disbelief: I ran a marathon? I float along myself through the first magical miles, I can see myself carrying on over the long middle stretch, I remember the brutality of the last six miles. And it’s as if I am watching someone else: this girl I don’t know, who is an athlete, right? she must be; she runs a marathon.

I am her. I have to incorporate this notion into the jumbled composition of my identity. It is incomprehensible to me how I – middle-aged, clueless, the indoor-type, a smoker – could get up one day and run a marathon.