The marathon mindset

Nine years ago I ran a marathon. The previous year I had gone through an intensely painful break-up, and even though I had never been a runner, I accepted the invitation of a friend to do a half-marathon with her. It would be a good distraction, I figured, to try something new. Five months later we ran the Disney half-marathon, and I really enjoyed it, so I decided to try a marathon. So five months after running the half, I ran a marathon in Anchorage, Alaska. The morning of the race, I remember waking up and thinking, "I am about to undertake the hardest physical task I've ever done in my life." I wasn't wrong.

Even though it was a long time ago, I still vividly remember what it felt like to run the race. The first 10 miles were great. I felt fine, the weather was good, and I was comfortable and feeling light and breezy. Miles 10 through 17 were a slog, mostly because I got bored. I'd already run a long way, but I still a long, long way to go, and I was kind of over it. Plus we were on a section of the race that was very rocky and difficult, running through wooded trails, so I was constantly afraid of catching a bad step and turning my ankle or something. But then at around mile 18, we came out of the woods and started descending back into town, and I got a second wind. Miles 18 to 22 were awesome -- I felt like I could run forever.

And then the last 4 miles felt like 50. I have never had to summon as much willpower as I did those last 4 miles, just to continue putting one foot in front of the other. The thoughts in my head were of the "what the hell am I doing? why am I torturing myself like this" variety. But I kept going, and I finished. And in doing so, I realized that I can suffer through just about anything, as long as I will myself to keep going.

That realization has gotten me through everything from triathlons to recovering from back surgery (brought on, no doubt, by the marathon -- the disc had herniated by the time I ran the Alaska race) to childbirth. And yesterday, it got me through the most miserable plane ride of my life.

The past week has been, to say the least, difficult. It was great to see my family, but the airplane air and shitty New England weather and time changes were rough on both Zeke and me, and we ended up getting sick. Nice, rich, phlegmy hacking coughs, fever, stuffiness, you name it. I dosed him up with Tylenol and Advil and downed as much DayQuil as I could get my hands on, but it didn't really help much. Plus, he was sleeping in the bed with me, so every time he moved, I woke up. And there were a couple of nights when he would wake up feverish and screaming, and I would walk the floor with him for hours, putting cold washcloths on his forehead and trying to calm him down.

I would say that on average, I got about 3 hours of sleep each night we were gone, and only about an hour the night before we flew back to Honolulu. So I was exhausted, and still coughing up a lung every five minutes. The coughs were painful and made my windpipe sore. And did I mention that in all of this, I somehow managed to contract a yeast infection? Yeah, it was sure to be a banner day.

The 2 1/2 hour flight from Boston to Minneapolis was OK -- Zeke slept most of the way and wasn't fussy. The flight attendants adored him, and would take him and hold him for a couple of minutes at a time when I need to go to the bathroom. The layover in Minneapolis was fine. I put a blanket on the floor and he played with his feet and gurgled to himself.

The 8 hour flight to Minneapolis to Honolulu was a nightmare. First, they had the AC cranked way up on the plane, so it was freezing in addition to being very dry. I could feel the air drying out the back of my throat, so it not only hurt to cough, it hurt to breathe. Zeke's nose was running non-stop, and he's drooling like a madman, so his face was constantly soaked and freezing and becoming chapped. He managed to sleep for a few hours at the beginning of the flight, but the last 4 hours he was completely over it. He was uncomfortable, he was in pain, and he was bored, so whenever we were sitting in our seats, he cried. The only thing that worked was to pick him up and walk up and down the aisles with him. Which was OK, except that he's getting heavy, and I was tired and still coughing and feeling like dogshit.

With about 2 hours left to go, I was at the end of my rope. My throat was killing me, I had a blinding headache, and I was starting to feel nauseated from the lack of sleep. I was holding Zeke and walking with him and I started to cry. We were in a little alleyway behind one of the galleys that was kind of narrow and hidden, so I just leaned against the wall and cried. I couldn't do it anymore, I had nothing left, I was done.

But of course, I was on a plane, 5 miles above the Pacific Ocean, so what the fuck were my alternatives?

I calmed myself down, calmed Zeke down, and went back to my seat. The seat next to me was empty, so I set it up with a couple of pillows and put the baby down and gave him some toys to play with. I had the flight attendants bring me a steady stream of hot tea to drink. Zeke had a couple more episodes of fussiness before we landed, but we dealt with it and by the time we landed he was happy and chattering.

I still don't love Hawaii, but getting off the plane and feeling the warm air and knowing that I could sleep in my own bed -- without my baby next to me -- was a little slice of heaven.