... And Memphis Makes Four

These eyes found a moment of glory, and in response they could only moisten. I will never again criticize athletes driven to tears after hoisting a championship trophy or breaking a career milestone.

In Memphis, when they handed me a medal and a thermal wrap, it took all I had to keeping from balling. There was no trophy in Memphis, not even close. The best full marathoners beat my 2-hour, 35-minute time. Another 10,000 people walked away with the same finisher medal I received, most of them before I approached AutoZone Park.

But for the fourth time this year, I went the distance. The combination of a coming down that hill, then hitting the mark for which I felt so woefully prepared, got my emotions boiling. Having Where the Streets Have No Name come up on the Mike Brown-donated iPod set the mood perfectly.

They heated up between Miles 4 and 5, which ran through the St. Jude Children's Research Hospital campus, where a sobering number of patients watched us while bundled up in blankets and breath masks. Not to knock the other spectators, but people here seemed to cheer louder than elsewhere. It wasn't all about cheering; too many times to count, I spotted racers with photos of lost loved ones pinned to their backs.

That moment fed into the thirteenth mile. Luckily, nothing overflowed, as tempted as I was in a stadium peppered with strangers and my only friends in Memphis still on the course. Somehow, I held it together. These tears of joy snuck out during the next ten minutes as I milled around the concourse, and largely faded with the euphoric sensations as I watched the other racers finish.

Just two years ago, I finished 26 races in 2007, mostly 5Ks. The last for 2009 doesn’t challenge it, but distance matters. The thought of finishing four half-marathons seemed impossible back in January.

Nashville. Murfreesboro. Columbus. Memphis. The first three make sense, being close to home or former homes. Finishing the Country Music and maybe the Murfreesboro Middle Half felt feasible. Just two weeks after Murfreesboro, unfinished business in Columbus drove the third.

Memphis was an anomaly. I didn’t know anyone, but it came recommended by Krista, who became a friend during months of evening SPIN sessions she taught. She is a Hasher, runners with the genius to combine their love of distances with a love of beer (Seriously, how did not know of this gang before?). They’re a fun, friendly bunch who loves a party and a dirty joke or twenty. Plus, a code word at Mile 7 got me a beer, always a nice proposition at that point in a race.

But I was still a stranger in Memphis. I visited once on a family vacation through the South 11 years ago. The race course skips Graceland due to the neighborhood around Elvis' mansion. However, the stretch between Sun Studios and Downtown Memphis has greatly improved. Overton Park would have been beautiful without all the rolling hills included on Miles 8 and 9. AutoZone Park made for the best conclusion of any race - separate lines for full and half marathoners on the outfield warning track, a pavilion for racers to get their food, and plenty of open space to meet family and friends.

In perspective, 52.4 miles is hardly the distance of champions. Some ultra marathoners double that in one excursion. But I only know what I can do with the body given to me. It’s why organized sports never worked for me, and having coaches laugh at my stance chased me from the football field after eighth grade. My head was the in the gutter for too long, and finding that I too could run at age 29 has driven me further. After that first 5K, I would have laughed at the idea of a half marathon, just as I now laugh at the idea of running a full (a debate for another day, pressuring peers). Methinks you'll hear more about them in the future.

This was the fourth half marathon I finished in 2009, the third in nine weeks, a surefire sign that the lazy Bill Melville of old, the invertebrate content with the sidelines, finally fell to the mat, and would not be saved by the bell.

More than anything, I want to hold onto is the resolve with which I gutted out the last few miles, where I began silently praying for the end and where better training would have prevented the pain.

I only know I finished my course for the year, even if it was largely unplanned, which is usually the case with the best routes.