When the era of humanity ends, there won’t be a catastrophic event of fire and flood. My bet would ride on the quiet rise of bacteria, parasites, viruses. But this is not a nihilistic doomsday tale. This is a triumphant story of a 150-pound woman versus a vengeful microscopic organism.
My tenure as a “runner” (I’m told I should omit the quotations now, but I’m not there yet) started with a sweaty, gasping, red-faced slog 18 months ago. It hurt. I didn’t like it. I wasn’t good at it — but I kept doing it. I tried to convince myself I was improving while training for a 10k. I told myself I was enjoying it when I trained for a half marathon. By the time I’d foolishly signed up for the Chicago Marathon, I knew I had to be honest with myself. I’d improved from that first painful outing, but this would be a difficult endeavor that challenged all my natural abilities, or lack thereof.
For 22 weeks I lived, and regularly died, by a spreadsheet that told me when to run and how far. Never mind that it was July in the Keys and I could feel my shoes melting to the pavement. I became beholden to those ones and zeros. They told me to run, so I ran.
I logged hundreds of miles, running scorching circles around my island, before being blessed with the chance to work remotely and train in southern California. I ran along the Pacific and marveled at how days could be sunny but not steamy. I signed up for a race that let me run down the middle of the Pacific Coast Highway. I cross-trained with surfing and pilates in the sand. It was bliss, a reprieve for my humidity-saturated lungs. And then, one fateful day about two weeks before the marathon, I was feeling especially spendy. I pulled myself together enough to pass the dress code at the best raw bar in Laguna Beach, where I treated myself to oysters. They were flown in daily from western Canada and were (supposedly) the epitome of briny freshness.
A few days later, I was hit with what I assumed was a bout of food poisoning. It cleared up and I continued on my way. When the lethargy set in, it felt like a normal response to the 15+ mile runs I’d been doing regularly at that point. But when I lost my appetite, I knew something was wrong. I love food. I will happily drink a beer while running a race, then demolish a whole pizza afterward. But being a stubborn non-runner-turned-would-be-marathoner, I carried on in denial. I traveled to Chicago for the week leading up to the race. At that point the parasitic hitchhiker I’d picked up in the Hills made its intentions loud and clear. Brick wall clear. I wound up in the hospital, undergoing a litany of tests while insisting to the doctor that I had a race to run in four days. She was kind enough not to laugh in my face. Eventually, I accepted the reality that I might not be running a marathon, despite the best antibiotic carpet-bombing efforts happening in my system. Hotels and races being nonrefundable, I figured I might as well head toward the start line and run what I could, or at least cheer on the others.
Once I was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with 49,999 other runners, though, I felt an undeniable charge. Before I could process my options, I was off with the gun, running under roads and over bridges in a familiar city. I thought I could manage a 5k, so I set a new mental goal. Those 3.1 miles came and went in a blur. On any given day, my most reasonable intention can be toppled with the threat of a good time. I was in trouble here, because nobody throws a party like Chicago. I ran mile after mile past six-piece bands, drag shows, DJs, cheerleading squads, multicultural celebrations of every stripe, hilarious signs (Boystown won with gems like, “If this was easy, it’d be called your mom”), free champagne, donuts, candy and sandwiches.
I shocked myself when my parasite and I passed the half-marathon mark. New goal: If I make 20 miles, I’ll finish. Avoiding lectures from people more sensible than myself, I hadn’t let too many people know that I was still attempting the run. Those last few miles, my mom, my wife and two friends were in my ear with encouragement and funny check-ins. At mile 25, an angel disguised as a very fashionable 60-year-old woman handed me an ice cold PBR, the single greatest can of beer to ever grace my life. In the last half-mile, an athlete handed me a Special Olympics (the organization for which I was running and fundraising) flag to carry across the finish line. The tears may have started there, but I was too sweaty to tell. I searched the massive cheering crowds for my mom, kept putting one foot in front of the other and snapped through the finish line with my last jolt of adrenaline.
It was done in an instant. Six months of daily training, a change I never thought I could bring about in my body, an emotional rollercoaster — all over in a specific second captured by my timing chip for all eternity. I felt contentment and exhilaration like I’d never experienced and was reminded that, at the risk of cliché, it really is the journey. As far as objects are concerned, I’m more proud of my completed spreadsheet than of my medal. I learned I can’t take on the world, but I can defeat an oyster. Start small, fight hard, keep running. And please, heed the warnings about raw seafood.
