I don’t cry.
I could read “Where the Red Fern Grows” while simultaneously watching Titanic and my cheeks would stay dry.
At mile 24.2 of the Chicago Marathon on Oct. 9, a man with a microphone encouraged runners with mini pep talks. "Two miles left let's go, you got this, run hard" he would say.
The world's finest romantic comedies and children's dramas don't leave me emotional, but that man, throwing out runner's clichés faster than a middle school cross country star's mom, did.
I audibly sobbed at mile 24.2 of the Chicago Marathon, one short burst of emotion in between gasps of breath. It was not because I was sick of running or too tired to even sit down.
I sobbed because I knew this was coming.
800 meters left
The Chicago skyline wasn't a mirage anymore. For the past five miles I had been able to see the buildings through the haze, but they never grew any bigger. Now, I had to crane my neck to see the tops.
400 meters left:
I turned off my iPod. I didn't need my music to motivate me forward anymore. I could hear music and a voice over a microphone behind cowbells and the crowd cheering us on.
200 meters left:
I could see it: etched in white letters accross a red background, the word "Finish" pulled into view after I crossed the bridge into Grant Park.
150 Meters left:
The past 26 miles contradicted time itself. During, they were the longest stretch I’d ever known. When I look back, I can’t seem to place anything between the time I ran through the start banner until these last few steps.
I remember the marathon in flashes, like a cheesy montage in a movie. I remember the sign at mile ten that read “16.2 miles until free beer.” Or the sign at mile 18: “I put laxatives in your water.”
100 meters left:
I remember high-fiving the kids behind the metal barriers until mile 21 when I was too tired for the effort. I remember sympathizing with the runner who was passed out on the sidewalk at mile 23. I remember the heat.
50 meters left:
The pain of four months of training, 5:30 a.m. alarms, broken water bottles, disgusting gels, and even nipple chafing: all of the struggle was worth it for this final push of adrenaline and sweat.
Finish:
It took me four hours and seven minutes to complete 26.2 miles. Let me rephrase that: it took four months, four hours and seven minutes to complete 26.2 miles.
I cried at mile 24.2 because, during four months of training, that was the first time I knew--without a sliver of doubt--that a finisher's medal would be placed around my neck. But as I crossed the line, I didn't cry.
Instead, I wiped the sweat of my brow and raised my hands in the air. I needed to look good for the photographers on the scaffolding behind the red finish sign. I was due for a new Facebook profile picture.