"Alright, feelin good," I tell myself as I sync into a smooth rhythm, my dirtying white-and-pink Nikes sinking into pavement and my breath matching my flow. It's mile 12 of 26.2 and I'm about to run farther than I have ever run before. And I'm not completely freaked out.
Mile 14...15...16..17...they all pass by, breezy as pie and pretty soon I'm at 20 thinking, "This is kinda easy."
I hit a small wall at 21. My hips hurt, I've already taken more than enough ibuprofen and the thought of more Gatorade makes me nauseaous. But I keep going, one foot in front of the other, because I could scoot by my fan club at any minute and would hate to dissapoint them with a waddling, wandering, walking Teri.
I jog past my fan club, grab an envelope of French Vanilla Latte energy gel and keep going until they're out of sight. My hips burn and stab with every step and I need a break. "Just to that stoplight, I promise."
I toddle to the stoplight, take a deep breath and ugh. It's like I'm the Tinman and need some oil. A few staggered steps later, I'm back into the groove - rightleft rightleft inout inout - and I'm cruisin to Mile 22. Only 4 more left. I can do 4 more. Ain't no thang.
But 4 more miles are the longest 4 miles of my life. I keep going. Push through it. Mile 25 and an Asian drumming group is pounding away. I involuntarily speed up my rhythm to match their "pum pum pum", round a corner and can see the finish. It's farther than I'd like, but I'll make it.
Mile 26. Turn on the jet packs and go.
I finish my first marathon. With hardly any training at all. 5:33:30 baby. Oh yeah.
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