On every Saturday for the past four months of my life, I’ve done the same thing. I’ve eaten the same breakfast, run the same few routes, done the same stretch routine and spent the rest of the day writing this column. But today was the last time I will type the words “rookie runner” into the title of a new Google Doc.
If you’ve been following along from the beginning, you know this ride has had plenty of lows, and it was uncertain until the very end. In the weeks before my race, when I should have been tapering and beginning to feel better, fresher and lighter, I was back in the pain cave.
I was too devastated to discuss this in my pre-race column, but 10 days out from race day, I acquired injury number three. What I hoped was just a weird, one-time pain ended up biting my ankles all the way until race day (literally, because it was an ankle injury). I tried just about everything. I bought an ankle brace, I tried wearing my old shoes, I wrapped my ankle in gauze and put two inserts in one shoe. In my crazed frustration, I even put my old shoe under the knife, sawing away at the outside edge with a steak knife until I had carved a whole inch out of it.
Two days before race day, I saw my doctor and she suggested foam shoe inserts and gel pads for my ankles. Because Heather always knows best, I blindly trusted her and set out on my shakeout run one inch taller the next day. I ran the Eugene 5K as my shakeout, and it was a blast, but I was panicking inside when after three miles things began to hurt. Common sense runner tip No. 1: don’t alter anything drastic with your footwear right before a race. But I had no other choice. The night before the marathon, I packed a backpack full of gauze, tape, pain pills and my emergency surgery shoes, and I prayed I wouldn’t need to use any of the supplies in the bag.
At 5 a.m. the next day, I was awake, staring at the empty space on my wall next to my half marathon medal. The morning was hectic despite my methodical check-list and pre-packed bags, and I didn’t even have my shoes on before I walked out the door. The weather was perfect despite a forecast of rain, and I wore shorts, a t-shirt and a hat with “rookie runner” embroidered on the front panel. I had smattered gold glitter across my cheeks and I wore a green ribbon in my hair to match the Daily Emerald logo on my hat.
I hadn’t even found my corral when the start gun went off. Luckily, I was way at the back in corral D, and my group didn’t cross the timing belt at the start line until six minutes after the clock started. The start of a marathon is really quite anticlimactic. The nerves bubble up inside of you as the announcer counts down to start time, but when the gun goes off, you realize, “Oh, now I have to run for four hours.” Like I said, anticlimactic.
The first 10 miles were a blast, which was a convenient distraction from the fact that at mile five, I was already in pain. The energy of the crowd was intoxicating and I amused myself by reading all of the signs and commenting on the ones I thought were funny to my roommate who ran beside me. At mile 10, we came across a split tunnel under a bridge, and at the base of its concrete divider were two signs — 13.1 with an arrow pointing left and 26.2 with an arrow pointing right. We said a dramatic goodbye, parting ways with a “good luck” and a “love you” as we each ran into our assigned tunnel.
I was alone again, just like I was when I started this journey four months ago. Just me, my Hokas and a whole lot of miles ahead. I felt like crying. My entire marathon training journey had been so lonely, but on race day, I never went more than a few miles without seeing my people. I saw my mom and her boyfriend at mile two and seven, collapsing into them for quick hugs each time. Next on my visitor list was my doctor, Heather, at mile 14. She smiled big when I called out to her, and she jogged into place beside me, throwing an arm over my shoulder and asking, “How do you feel?” I told her that each of my injuries had come by to visit today, but that they were coming in waves and I was managing the pain. “Alright good, you got this,” she said and yelled “good luck” as I peeled away towards Pre’s Trail.
At mile 15, I FaceTimed my sister and dad who were watching the live broadcast of the race from Colorado. It felt so casual talking to them on the phone as I ran — my dad freaked out every time I looked at the phone, worried that I was going to trip, and my sister wanted to know what I would do if I had to poop. The runner in front of me got a good laugh out of that one. I said goodbye to them as I approached Autzen stadium. They wouldn’t hear from me for the rest of the race.
When I crossed the footbridge next to Autzen, my coworker Romie from the Emerald was waiting for me on her bike, video camera in hand. She’d been filming me between miles five and nine, but we lost each other for a while. I tried not to scream out to her in excitement when I finally saw her again — I didn’t want to ruin the shot by breaking the fourth wall.
At mile 17, I finally saw my mom again. She held a sign artfully drawn in her boyfriend’s perfect handwriting that read “Rockstar Runner.” Sandwiched between the bold letters, he had crossed out the word rookie. My title had been relinquished. I stopped to take a photo of the sign, and since my hamstrings were screaming, I stayed an extra minute to talk to her and collect my third good luck hug.
“We’ll see you at mile 23,” my mom called out to me as I ran away from them reluctantly. I had Romie by my side for the next five miles, but I was struggling to smile for the camera. She later told me she worried she was bugging me by filming, but if she hadn’t been biking past me every few minutes, I don’t know if I would have made it.
At Owosso Bridge, the turn-around spot right before mile 21, I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. At mile 22, Romie called out to me, “This is the farthest you’ve ever run!” and at mile 23, I was hugging my mom again. She allowed me to stay and talk for a bit longer this time, saying, “Honestly Jess, you look great. Some of the other people I’ve seen really look like they’re dying.” When I took off running again, I felt like I was dying. My legs were like concrete.
At mile 24, I hit the wall. Two miles had never seemed so far. Everyone around me was walking, but I was afraid if I stopped running, it would hurt too much to start again. When I hit mile 25, I was sure I wouldn’t make it, and at mile 26, I was gasping, “Holy shit. Holy shit,” as a man on the sidelines smiled at me and yelled, “You did it!”
The final quarter mile came at me too quickly, and I thought to myself, “I’m not ready,” as the fences began to funnel me into Hayward Field. I turned a corner and I could see the track. My legs began to tingle and my whole body went numb as my feet picked up the pace below me. The cheers from the sidelines were deafening, and I was nearly past the crowd when I realized they were cheering for me — all of my closest friends were standing there, screaming my name. I have never smiled bigger in my entire life.
When my feet hit the track, I was staring down the homestretch, suddenly nauseous with nerves and adrenaline. The last 100 meters felt like a mile, and the finish line looked farther away than it had 26.2 miles before. I slowed my pace, searching for my mom desperately in the crowd. I wasn’t going to do this unless I was sure she was watching. There she was, in the bleachers, jumping up and down, cheering and holding a big shiny sign that read, “proud mama.” “I did it!” I yelled up to her. I was grinning so hard I could barely breathe. When I crossed the finish line, I was pumping my arms in the air and screaming. Nothing in my entire life has ever felt so good.
Editor’s note (it’s me, I’m the editor): This column has been the joy of my life for the last four months. I’m so grateful to those who have read and enjoyed it, and I’m sad to let it go, but I can’t be a rookie runner forever. Let’s roll the credits.
First, I am so thankful for my co-editor and boss Evan Huntington, without whom this column would not have been possible. Thank you for editing all my stories and supporting me along the way. You’ve become one of my best friends, and I’m so lucky I get to work with you.
Second, thank you to my family. Mom, you’re my champion, and I would have never made it through training without your unwavering love and support. You always say, “I’m probably saying the wrong thing,” but you’ve never failed to make everything better.
Dad, you were the first person to believe in me, and you made me believe in myself. I told you last summer that I was thinking about running a half marathon and you said, “You could run a full marathon.” You were the only person who completely understood why I wanted to do this, and you have no idea how much that meant to me.
Emma, the little kid in me will always be trying to impress you. I am so lucky to have a sister who supports me no matter what, even from 1,000 miles away. The video you sent of you and Dad watching me finish on the broadcast made me cry, and I will cherish it forever. Also, thank you for checking up on me when my column got too neurotic…what would I do without your teasing to keep me in line?
Third, thank you to my doctor, Heather. I came to you with a new injury every few weeks, but you never suggested I should give up. You only ever provided solutions, and for that I am so grateful. Seeing you on the course was one of the most special moments of my day, and I’m sure it wasn’t the last time we’ll cross paths (I still have to get through triathlon training after all).
Lastly, thank you to all my readers and friends who sent me such kind messages and came to support me on race day. I hope I didn’t drive you too crazy with my relentless obsessing.
Yours truly, rookie runner.
