Race to the Start
Running a marathon is as much a personal journey as it is a physical one
By: Zoe Hoornbeek
The night before my first marathon, I learned that its first runner had died. The marathon came from the Greek soldier Pheidippides, who reported Greece’s victory at the Battle of Marathon by running from Marathon to Athens. He collapsed after 25 miles, not even a full marathon. As I sat on my living room floor, I couldn’t help but think, “If I didn’t train, would I die?” The long runs on Saturdays, the mid-week runs and the literal blood, sweat and tears that persisted throughout, was that all they were for?
During my training, I ran with people who had run a hundred marathons. Some had run Ironmans (which consist of biking, swimming, and a marathon’s worth of running). They were so passionate about the sport that I knew I could do it. When the running group did the long runs on Saturdays I would often find myself saying, “This is the furthest I’ve ever run.” All I had run before training were 5Ks. Last summer I trained for a half-marathon, so I figured the next progression was a full marathon.
The night before the race, I made sure I had all of my fuel and was ready to go, my clothes laid out on the floor like a flat version of myself. My mom sent me a picture of myself when I was nine, holding a medal from the Twin Cities one-mile race. I looked so angry. I used to hate running, and now here I was, about to run 26.2 miles.
The morning of the race, I put in my AirPods and listen to “Golden” by Harry Styles— a go-to—while I eat peanut butter toast and take Ibuprofen. I go through the checklist in my head, noting that Pheidippides probably didn’t have any fuel when he ran his marathon.
The car ride there flies by, and by the time I look up, U.S Bank Stadium is already towering over me. With a large crackling, a man on the speakers starts shouting, “Helloooo runners, welcome to the Twin Cities Marathon. You should be drinking enough water to stay hydrated, as there is a risk of heat stroke, but if you drink too much water your kidneys may go into kidney failure.” The medical professional continues, but by now I can’t focus. Not long after, I hear the gun go off. It is 8:00 a.m., and the race has started. My dad and I look at each other and smile, knowing we’ve finally made it. “See you at the end,” I say as I fist bump him and take off.
These streets are normally bustling with cars, but today over 4,500 people have gathered to run a race that tests their physical and mental endurance. The first few miles my adrenaline is pumping, the crowd cheering me on. One such onlooker is a man in a Dr. Seuss' costume with three different signs, one of which loudly proclaims, “This is a sign.” When I see him, I am at mile 20 and rapidly hitting a wall. Before this I felt like I could run forever.
When I finally make it to St. Thomas, an intense pain shoots down to my knee. I can feel the tears want to well up behind my eyes, but due to the dehydration, none come. Three women and a man see me struggling up this hill and call out: “If you run backwards, it helps your quads!” We all run backwards up the hill, and I wipe the imaginary tears away.
At the end of Summit Avenue, the Capital is within eyesight, the hill propelling me straight down to the finish. In front of me I see a man wearing flip flops, just like Pheidippides would have, while above the noise of the crowd I hear the “Go Zoe!” of my friends and family cheering me on. As I look for the man in flip flops, I find him barefoot, the flip flops now in his hands. My friends are now running with me towards the end.
I catch up to the man with the flip flops once I cross the finish line. I laugh out loud and he looks at me. “That is impressive.” I say, gesturing to his flip flops.
“Running a marathon is impressive,” he says.