It was a week ago today. It was early October, a somewhat brisk morning. Not even the leaves on the ground wanted to move. Slightly overcast, the sun poked its head up from the east as if to say it was there to help. October 11 marks race day in Chicago, particularly for those ambitious and unstable enough to call themselves, “marathoners.” The hours leading up to this charade were spent entirely worrying. Will I cross the finish line? What if I collapse? What will I feel like after the race? Am I doing more harm than good? These were questions I fixated on up until my running partner showed up. The apollo to my creed, Oscar Diaz.
I walked down my back stairway and out into the alley. The very same alley which marks the beginning to all my running excursions. Yet it felt different that morning. There was obviously more pressure, but there was a sense of accomplishment by even committing to show up to the “starting line.” Before I go further, I would like to clarify that the Chicago Marathon was cancelled this year due to COVID-19. Oscar and I decided to still run 26.2 miles. Our first marathon, no formalities, no medals, no crowd, just pavement.
Oscar wielded a CamelBak. The contents included our phones, wallets, water and energy gels. As we stretched in the alley, the sun continued to shine, now almost over our heads. I could not help but notice the clothing fiasco that was clinging to Oscar. Tank top, short shorts, taped up knees and ankles. He looked borderline barbaric, but you have to dress for the occasion.
After a few minutes of mediocre stretching, we took off. Two guys headed Eastbound towards the lakefront path, who could’ve easily been mistaken for Cheech and Chong. With 26.2 miles in mind, there was a reiteration of going slow. I would speed up, “Slow down Jack,” Oscar said.
Upon reaching the lakefront path, we headed north from North Avenue beach (apologies to those unfamiliar with the geography of Chicago). By this time, we had reached a mile. We started to see other runners on the path, some with bibs, others with waistbands of water bottles. Some looked run down, some looked fresh. We found ourselves fully present in this moment. We had no music playing, just the sound of our feet hitting the ground and, an occasional conversation.
“Let’s go baby.”
“Stay dangerous, stay disciplined, stay hard.”
This was the crux of conversation throughout. We coined, “stay hard,” from David Goggins, we learned to, “stay dangerous,” from YG and, we, “stay disciplined,” by some distant voice in my head, telling me that sounded nice. We ascended north and so did our spirits. People lined the side of the path with signs, my personal favorite being, “Your ex-girlfriend was right, you are crazy,” followed by the hashtag 26.2. People set up water stations and nutrition stations. This was about 9:00AM on a Sunday. These people were out to support. I told Oscar time and time again, you cannot beat the people of Chicago. It is incapable of doing. Whether it is a global pandemic, political chaos, cold temperatures, you name it, we will beat it.
It was the people of Chicago that got me through this race.
Before we knew it, we were in Evanston. I seldom go beyond Fullerton Avenue, so this was new to me. We were on Sheridan road with a healthy dosage of 13 miles. Without music, there was no other choice but to listen to our bodies. What they needed and when. I felt dizzy and I knew that if I stopped moving, I would inevitably enter a state of shut down. Oscars roommate played the role of the moving nutritionist. He met us at about mile fourteen, toting Gatorade and bananas, both of which we inhaled.
I felt rejuvenated. There was something so raw and unmitigated about this process of running for hours. You have no other choice but to face yourself, both mentally and physiologically. I realized this race had so little to do with running.
We descended south towards North Avenue beach, strategically consuming energy gels. Oscars roommate met us one last time at mile 20, right off of Fullerton Avenue. It was now cloudy, the wind had picked up. The sweat that accumulated on our backs was now dry. It was busy, the streets covered with people enjoying their Sundays. Laughing, walking and talking.
For us, there was only six more miles to a feeling unknown. We pushed forward, this time down Clark Street towards the loop. The clouds parted, the sun letting itself be known to us yet again. Six miles. The race finally felt feasible, I no longer had any doubts or worries.
Miles 24 to 26 felt long. We planned to finish in Grant Park, but by mile 24 we had reached Michigan Avenue. It was a matter of curating an improvised route.
So we did.
We hopped on Columbus Drive. 25 miles. We ran up the steps of Buckingham Fountain, which in turn created this feeling of Rocky Balboa climbing the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. 26.2 miles came to fruition in Millennium Park. Here we were, shirtless, sweaty, taped up, among a body of people who were out for their Sunday stroll. There was no finish line, no cheering, no medal. There was curious gaze and confusion, none of which we cared about.
The marathon was finished. Naturally we took a picture or two, as any rational minded marathoner does. Not in a condescending way, but in a way to provide our minds with sense, because neither Oscar nor myself ever thought it possible. We knew we wanted to do it. It was just the execution of it all that seemed unreachable. I would be lying if I said that there was some sort of self-actualization that came out of moving for 26 miles. I would also be lying if I said that everyone should try it. In fact, I do not recommend ever doing something like this unless you feel very deeply about exploring your body and brain. I mentioned earlier that a marathon is not so much about running, because it is not. After a few miles I had forgotten that running was even taking place. The focus is reaching 26 miles, by then, you just realize your legs were moving.
