Zoë Runs a Marathon
We did it, Zo!
It was 5:45 a.m. when I boarded the bus that would take me to the starting line of the New York City Marathon. I was all by myself in the early morning darkness of Times Square—save for a standard-issue plastic bag packed with energy goos, ibuprofen, chafe gel, a knee brace, two protein bars, a Gatorade, and a fresh pair of socks—and I couldn’t stop laughing.
“Finishing the New York City Marathon” has been at the top of my bucket list since 2013, when I watched the race in person for the first time. I sobbed witnessing tens of thousands of people push their minds and bodies past the limits of what I ever thought was possible, and dreamt of one day challenging myself in the same way. But as someone who got cut from (no joke) every sports team she ever tried out for, I knew that if I ever did decide to do it, it would be the hardest uphill battle I’ve ever fought.
When I decided to start training for the race this past July, there was a large part of me that assumed I was never actually going to run it. 16 weeks out from Marathon Sunday—which is basically the last possible moment a novice runner can start on a training plan—my boyfriend’s best friend (who had already decided to run after crushing a half marathon earlier this year) convinced me to stop talking about it and just do it.
I told myself that if I could get through the first 6-mile “long run,” I’d commit to the entire process—and I did. As the weeks went on and I still hadn’t secured a bib, I told myself I could quit at any time and blame it on the fact that I couldn’t get into the race—but then, I got a spot on Fred’s Team, and had the opportunity to run for cancer research. I’d always known that I wanted to do this “for my dad,” and that he’d be with me every step of the way, but getting to do it while also raising money to fight the disease that stole him from us made it that much more special.
But even then, I still wasn’t sure that I’d make it to the starting line. I fainted after my 9-mile run, threw up violently after my 10, 12, and 13-milers, and seriously considered telling everyone I’d torn something so that I could quit without judgment. I also ran into an ex who told me he ran the marathon in 3 hours and “loved every minute of training,” which made me want to jump. But I kept going, and when I finished my 16 and 18 milers with a smile on my face, it was the first time I realized that maybe I’d be able to do this.
… Then, October hit. I got engaged (yay!), planned a charity sale that became a full-time job for two weeks, and got shin splits—all of which put me severely behind schedule. When I set out for my last long run, which was supposed to be 20 miles, I made it through half of them before puking in the bushes and bursting into tears somewhere so deep in Brooklyn that it cost me $102 to get home in an Uber. In the week leading up to the marathon, I beat myself up for not training harder, for never learning how to fuel properly, for letting things slip after working so hard for so long… and cried pretty much every day trying to figure out how I could possibly get out of it without disappointing myself and everyone around me.
Needless to say, when I boarded that bus on Sunday morning, I was in complete disbelief that I was actually there—that come hell or high water, I was going to run this marathon. It felt like a bit that I had let go on for way too long, but at that point, there was no turning back. Which I found absolutely hilarious.
The bus ride lasted 90 minutes, but went by in a blink. Suddenly, there I was in the runner’s village at the base of the Verazzano bridge, this little non-athlete armed with a list of pre-race stretches, specialty running socks, and 17 different types of caffeinated goo. I felt like such an underprepared poser—I was wearing all new clothes (a mistake), had stretched two times over the course of four months (an even bigger mistake), and had never tasted any of my on-hand fuel before (the biggest mistake of all)—that I couldn’t help but laugh. What, in the actual fuck, was I doing??????
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But when I hit the starting line, a wave of calm came over me. “This is just another long run,” I told myself. “And it’s going to be the most fun one you’ll ever do.”
Throughout the training process, people told me time and time again that “the race is the reward”—so that’s what I repeated to myself over and over. I didn’t care about my time (considering my fastest miles are 10+ minutes on a good day, there was really no reason to obsess about my pace), and promised myself that no matter what happened, I was going to get my cute little ass across that finish line and enjoy every step of the experience.
As “New York, New York” played over the speakers, signaling that it was time to start running, there were tears streaming down my face. This was it, and it was just as magical as everyone promised.
I sprinted the entire first, uphill mile—ignoring all of the advice I got to “avoid the temptation to go too hard on the bridge” and clocking my fastest pace ever—and flew into Brooklyn like I was trying to win. “I can’t believe I’m running a marathon!!!” I said, out loud, every few blocks with the world’s biggest smile on my face. “Only 23, 22, 21, 20… miles to go,” I said at each mile marker. I was doing the damn thing, and I felt great.
Running through crowds of people cheering my name was a high that I can’t quite put into words. The energy was electric, and seeing signs that said “The rats don’t run this city, you do!” while running by literal flattened rats on Fourth Avenue just felt so New York. Downtown Brooklyn, Williamsburg, and Greenpoint were all-out parties. I saw a woman tell her partner she was pregnant on a sign; blew kisses at fellow runners who had “FOR DAD” on the backs of their shirts, just like I did; and saw a man in his 80s powering through his 26th NYC marathon. I danced and laughed and snapped selfies and high-fived strangers and loved every single second of it all.
At mile 15—the Queensboro Bridge—I popped in my headphones for the first time and let the 10-minute version of All Too Well carry me into Manhattan (10/10 recommend). When I made it to First Avenue, I jumped into my family’s arms. 11 blocks later, I burst into tears seeing my college friends; A few blocks after that, I got to hug another group of friends; And just before mile 18, I got a boost of energy from my partner and his family.
Then, things got hard. I knew the end of the race was going to be a challenge, but I had been feeling so good for the first three hours that I (stupidly) figured that I was going to finish this thing without hitting “the wall.” Boy, was I wrong. By mile 19, my stomach was in knots and my feet were giving out; by mile 20, I was alternating between waking and running every tenth of a mile. I was holding back tears in a way that made it hard to breathe, stopping at every bathroom on the course (I’ll spare you the details, but know that I very much have porta-potty-PTSD), and willing myself to just take one more step toward the finish line. 6 miles may not sound like a lot in the grand scheme of 26.2, but when you’re fighting for every inch of it, it feels endless.
The last two miles, through Central Park, were a lesson in resilience. I wanted to quit so, so badly, but what kept me going was knowing that if I gave up, I’d have to start the entire process over again if I wanted to cross the finish line—and I really didn’t want to do that. To the total strangers who shouted, “YOU CAN DO THIS ZOE!!!!” when every single part of me was telling me that I couldn’t (and to my family and friends who were calling and texting the exact same sentiments), I am endlessly grateful. Thank you for believing in me when I didn’t have it in me to believe in myself.
After 5 hours and 22 minutes, I made it across the finish line. The joy and relief and exhaustion were unlike anything I have ever felt before—and it made it all worth it. It was hard and it was slow and it was, at times, awful, but I did it. No matter how many times I told myself I couldn’t, I fucking did it.
Now feels like the time to confess that historically, I’ve been a quitter. When things get hard or stop being fun, I have a tendency to walk away—I’m much better at saying I want to do something than I am at actually getting my shit together to get it done. But for the first time in my life, I didn’t let myself give up. For the past four months, every early morning alarm that I didn’t snooze, every fun thing that I said no to, and every mile that I ran was a moment of me choosing to bet on myself. I had endless amounts of support, but ultimately, it was up to me to keep putting one foot in front of the other all the way through the finish. And if I can do that? I can do anything.