(Part I and Part II.)

I do not mean to suggest that I ran the last six miles of the marathon. I didn’t.

Prior to the race, I had debated whether to put my name on my shirt. On the one hand, providing spectators with a name would help us connect. Any support I could collect during the race would only help, right?

On the other hand, did I really want random strangers shouting my name for 26 miles?

In the end, I elected to put my name in large block letters on my shirt. I do not regret this decision. For the entire duration of the race, someone would call my name and offer encouragement at least every five minutes. In certain sections of the race, people were literally cheering my name every thirty seconds or so. Little children squealed. Young women screamed. Older men hollered.

I enjoyed it.

There did come a point, though, when all the shouting did become grating. No surprise—this happened on First Avenue in Manhattan.

As The Sick Sensation receded, I resumed running, though at a significantly slower pace. I crossed the bridge back into Manhattan and the energetic crowd in Harlem greeted us warmly. Salt-n-Pepa’s “Push It” was blaring out of a pair of large speakers and people on the curb were dancing to the music.

Though The Sick Sensation had started to rise again, I couldn’t help but smile.

Harlem played some of the best music on the marathon course. Maybe it’s just my inclination to naturally follow the rhythm of (and potentially start dancing to) any music I hear, but the music in Harlem was upbeat enough to help me settle into a comfortable pace. Some of the live bands in Brooklyn were also fantastic. Prior to the marathon, I didn’t think that I would have an opinion about music on the course, though I can now say that the music was undoubtedly helpful in propelling me towards the finish line.

As I plodded my way around Marcus Garvey Park, I realized that ignoring The Sick Sensation would not make it go away. The only way to make it stop—oh please just stop already—was to stop running.

I remembered that Nobody quits today and finally arrived at a compromise: I would only walk at the fluid stations. That way, at least I’d squeeze in a single mile in between. And there were only a few left.

At this point, several of my friends had seen me. Though they enthusiastically cheered me on at the time, they all later told me that I looked unwell. To one friend, I mouthed the words, “I feel like I’m dying.” She looked at me sympathetically and weakly cheered, “Keep going!”

In retrospect, I’m not entirely sure what my logic was—I mean, what logic is there in choosing to run 26.2 miles?—but at each fluid station between miles 21 and 25, I began to mix the water and Gatorade in varying proportions with hopes of… something. If I only drank water, my body did not feel refreshed. If I only drank Gatorade, I felt like I was drinking salty syrup. Thus, I began taking one cup of each at each mile marker and tried different combinations:

1. One sip of Gatorade, followed by one sip of water. No good.
2. One small pour of Gatorade into one full cup of water. Still tasted too salty.
3. One gulp of water, followed by one sip of Gatorade. Still too salty.

Frankly, I was also stalling. The longer I tried these various fluid experiments, the more time I would have to walk and rest my weary body.

But! People knew my name. And they used it.

The people handing out the cups of fluid cheered me on: “Come on, Maria, you’re lookin’ awesome!” (Really, I wasn’t.)

The people watching me mix the drinks coaxed me to push forward: “You’re amazing, Maria! You’re going to do this!” (I’m not amazing. I’m tired.)

The people who saw me still walking after I had disposed of both cups didn’t need to shout at me. They simply spoke to me as I walked past:

• “Go, Maria, go.”
• “You’re going to make it, Maria.”
• “Let’s go, Maria.”

It was not the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. But it was enough.

I must admit that part of me felt embarrassed to be receiving this attention while I was walking. Of course none of the people would remember who I was; there were thousands of runners passing by. But they had chosen to say my name, to pick me out, to offer encouragement. And they knew that I, Maria, was walking.

So what was I supposed to do? Start running again, that’s what.

During my long training runs, I would often start feeling angry for the last four to six miles. The underlying emotion was actually frustration due to impatience, though it manifested itself as anger (”why the @#$% am I doing this? why is this taking so @#$%ing long?” etc.).

To my surprise, I felt no anger during the last few miles of the marathon. I felt curiously calm as I put one foot in front of the other.

It’s okay if this is a 13-minute mile. You’re still moving.

I had faith that the miles would pass, that I would actually get to the finish line, that this experience would not last forever.

The Sick Sensation was right there with me: My legs burned, my arms ached, my neck was stiff, my stomach roiled, my lips were chapped, my feet were hot.

I accepted all of it. And, though I was admittedly moving slowly, I felt myself floating. My movements were simultaneously effortless and taxing. (Though, really, my mind was so garbled at this point that one should not assume that I could be a faithful narrator.)

It’s okay if the next mile is a 14-minute mile. You’ll get there.

I passed by the sign that read “1 Mile Left”. The tears began to well in my eyes and I felt my face scrunch up. My shoulders began to rise towards my ears and my hands tightened into fists.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I reopened my eyes, I purposely tucked my chin down and my shoulders back.

The crowd continued to roar.