26.2 Miles OF AWESOME

I am now a marathoner! After a fun, painful (physically and mentally), amazing race, I achieved my goal and have the medal to prove it.

That’s the short version. For the longer version, please read on! Many race reports I have seen are one continuous narrative, but I have broken up my various impressions and experiences into chunks. One, because long blocks of text can make any blog reader’s eyes glaze over; and two, because there’s more to a marathon than how my body held up. I do hope you read all the way through, though. I’ll be totally shameless and say that the end is the best part…..but truly, finishing the marathon was one of the greatest accomplishments of my life, so this is all deeply important to me.

(The language contained herein can also be deeply vulgar at times. You’ve been warned!)

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Race day morning dawned far too early. I woke up at 3 AM from some wacko nightmare that I knew wasn’t real, but which still kept me unable to really fall asleep again. The alarm went off at 5 AM. I think I swore.

I put on my race day gear– pocket tank top, running skirt, socks, and the homemade shirt with “CAROLINE!” on the front and “HAPPY BIRTHDAY LARRY MULLEN JR.” on the back. (Note for the unenlightened: Larry is the drummer for U2, my favorite band ever. He turned 49 on race day, 10/31.) I looked ready, but did I feel ready? Ready as I’d ever be, but that felt like poor consolation. Staring myself down in the full length mirror, I sang under my breath some tried and true Disney motivation:

Be a man! 

We must be swift as the coursing river

Be a man!

With all the force of a great typhoon

Be a man!

With all the strength of a raging fire

Mysterious as the dark side of the moon!

I may have struck a warrior pose.

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My dad and I were running the race together. It was his second marathon, after the Albany marathon in 2008. For frame of reference: he ran his first full marathon the same weekend I did my first half…at a faster pace than I did. He participated in the Tussey Mountain ultramarathon relay race—aka, three people running 50 miles of steep trails between them– two weeks before the marathon. The man is pushing 60, had quadruple bypass heart surgery, and can still run circles around me. Damn! I’m so glad he ran it with me, though. As you will find out….I literally could not have finished if I were alone.

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I thought that I was going to be really emotional at the start. I teared up at my first century and first half-marathon, and this required even more training and dedication. This marathon was so huge for me that I actually had to ban myself from thinking about it after 11 PM, because my heart would start racing so fast that I would have trouble sleeping.

But then we had to wait around for for-EVER in the DC Metro, and then we waited for-FREAKING-ever in line for a port-a-potty, and then I had to hastily check my bag, and THEN I realized I forgot my water bottle belt (!) in my bag and had to turn back and grab it…..so that by the time we lined up, we had missed all the opening festivities. In fact, the race had already started. The good news is, there were 30,000 people running this marathon, which meant that we had a looooong time until the back-of-the-packers like us started moving.

I was pumped. I loved the energy that coursed through my veins. I loved the sunshine. I loved the lady in front of me who told me that it was her first marathon too. I even loved that they were playing that obnoxious Ke$ha song on the speakers. My nervousness had melted away, and the excitement swelled as the crowd walked to the start. We picked up to a jog just before the starting “gates.” I tried taking a picture, but apparently put my phone down too quickly:

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Of course, they played “I Gotta Feeling” as we approached the start. And my dad got it stuck in his head. Every few minutes, he would warble, “I gotta feeling! Oooo oooh! Tonight is a good night!” At mile 1, it was cute. At mile 4, it was ignorable. After more than an hour….it was another story.

“I got a—”

“DAD!”

“Oh! Sorry!”

(Three minutes pass.)

“I got a—”

*smack* “STOOOOP!”

“Yeah! Okay!”

“YOU’VE BEEN SAYING THAT FOR NINE MILES.”

For the record: he didn’t shut up until mile 10.

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The Diabetes Action Team was one of the charity teams at the Marine Corps Marathon. I chatted up their table a bit at the expo, so I knew that they were there. Nevertheless, it put a big grin on my face to come across the first team member in mile 2. With their bright yellow shirts, they’re pretty easy to pick out!

I thanked most of the members that I ran by. Just, “Hey, it’s really cool that you’re running for Team Diabetes, I have Type 1, so thanks.” A couple sort of shrugged, while a few others seemed genuinely pleased. One guy had “TEAM TUCO” written on the back of his shirt. He explained that Tuco was his mom’s dog. I should have asked if Tuco had canine diabetes. (Is that even possible? Now that I think about it, I’ve only heard of cats getting diabetes. Like this guy.)

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Runners’ shirts often designated whom they were running for, be it for a charity, a soldier, or a loved one. I wanted to talk to so many more people about them. Who were they? What was the story behind it? I felt a pang every time I saw an “In Memory Of” shirt, but didn’t know how to express that to runners. Two women wore shirts commemorating a soldier who was born in 1988. That shocked me enough—he was two years younger than me—but then I saw the death date. He had died three weeks before the marathon.

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I had checked out the course elevation before the race, taking note that the biggest hill was around mile 8. Even worse, the hill was part of an out-and-back loop in the course. For some reason, I detest out-and-back courses. There’s something depressing about seeing all the same scenery without being able to measure your progress, as you can on a loop. Plus, you see all the faster runners coming back just as you’re heading out, which makes you feel like Pokey. And by “you,” I mean “me, coming off Key Bridge at mile 5 and seeing all the faster people who were already at mile 9, damn them.”

So when the ground under my feet started to rise, I dug out my iPod for a little power (thanks to my “Kick Ass and Keep Going” playlist). My church choir crooned, Guide me feet, while I run this race/For I don’t want to run this race in vain… A few spectators cheered. My pulse rose. And then, the ground leveled out. Just like that.

“That was the big hill?” Dad asked.

“Uh…..I guess so,” I replied, tucking my iPod away. We both looked at each other and shrugged.

I love it when hills are way less scary than they appear.

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Some of my favorite spectator

–The first crowd of people who shouted my name. I knew it was a fun idea to put my name on my shirt, but I had no idea how much it would lift my spirits. Hearing complete strangers holler, “GO CAROLINE!” put the biggest, goofiest grin on my face. And you know what? Throughout the race, it always made me smile. I think I’m going to wear a name shirt for every marathon I do now.

–Speaking of which, one girl around mile 8 saw me and sang out, “Sweeeet Caroline!” I turned around, ran backwards, and pumped my fist as we both shouted, “BUM BUM BUM!”

–Cute frat boys high-fiving and cheering for me at mile 11? Yes please.

–A little kid somewhere around mile 19 had a megaphone. She shrieked “YEAH CAROLINE!!!” with such eardrum-shattering conviction that I had to laugh.

–Some sign said, “Pain is Temporary, Success is Forever.” Or, in the words of another sign, “Chafe Now, Brag Forever.” I can get down with that. So can my thunder thighs.

–Another fun sign: “Toenails Are For Sissies.”

–And this one, which made me smile for my aching feet: “Your Feet Hurt Because You’re Kicking So Much Ass!”

–Finally, the costumes. I saw a kid dressed as Luigi at 3 separate points throughout the course. There were a lot of superheroes, both among the runners and spectators. On the course I saw multiple Waldos, a cat with a tail, and Spongebob. But the best? A dude on the sidelines dressed as a SHAKE WEIGHT.

Unfavorite: the WOEFUL lack of U2 fans. Nobody said anything about my “Happy Birthday Larry Mullen Jr.” shirt!

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My favorite spectators of all, of course, were my mom and stepdad, who drove down from Pennsylvania to cheer me on. You can imagine how delighted I felt when I searched through the crowd at mile 11 and finally lit my eyes on Mom and Phil, cheering and waving a sign that appealed to the Bruce Springsteen fan in me:

I felt okay the first time I saw them, so I just high-fived them both and yelled, “See you at mile 16!” With the wonders of technology and walk breaks, Phil texted me their second location, which was more like mile 17. I had started the slow slide into fatigue at mile 12, so by the time I saw them, I was wiped out.

“How are you feeling?” Mom asked, wrapping me up in a hug.

“Tired,” I whimpered.

Of course, at that exact moment a throng of Marines in combat gear and 60-pound packs ran past us.

Tired and WIMPY, I thought.

 “You can do it!” Mom chirped, pushing me on my way. “Less than ten miles to go!”

 A dude ran by, pointed to the sign, and belted out atrociously, “Yeah! Tramps like us, baby we were BORN TO RUUUUUUJN! Whooooo!” Were he not running a marathon, I would have thought he was drunk. Born to run, I thought, forcing a grin to Mom and Phil as Dad and I waved goodbye and continued on. Bruce is right, Caroline. So is Mom. So is that guy!

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What didn’t help that slow slide into fatigue at mile 12: the BATHROOM. Spotting an actual restroom instead of a row of Port-a-Potties, I skipped over and told Dad I’d be right back. Only….there was a line. Practicality would dictate that we just go over to the men’s room, but noooooooo. I just HAD to play by the rules. And wait in line for seven long minutes. Only to discover that there was no toilet paper.

You’d think I would have gone over to the dark side then, but no. I had already stood in line so long that it seemed silly to cut out now. Some generous women dressed in leopard print running skirts broke out the Kleenex pack and handed individual tissues to women in line. Fine. Cool. But then I finally got to my stall and discovered…..the lock doesn’t work. And the door kept swinging wide open.

Let me tell you, because I really hope you don’t have to experience it personally in your lifetime: it takes some REALLY interesting acrobatics to bend over a public toilet, do your business, not get any germs or body fluids on your clothes, hold the stall door shut from below, AND guard your precious scrap of TP, all the while attempting to make sure your legs don’t seize because you have been running for two and a half hours and still have 14 miles to go after you…go.

And then, they were out of soap.

I should have stuck with the Port-a Potties.

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So after that little misadventure– which tacked a whopping 10-11 minutes on our finish time– my legs were none too pleased with starting to run again. I felt pretty blah from miles 12-17, minus the marching band playing “The Final Countdown” as we passed. Seeing my mom recharged me, though. So did running down the wide, flat road along the National Mall. So did my arsenal of mental tricks! I had minor pains that built up—left foot, right hamstring—but I assiduously avoided focusing on the pain. When I felt tired, I started giving myself the reality check that I often used at the end of long runs: A little pain and fatigue is good, Caroline. It’s supposed to be hard. It’s a FUCKING MARATHON. At the beginning of the race, I told myself to dwell only on chunks of 10: the first ten miles, the second ten miles, and the last 10K. As the end drew closer, I took comfort in the fact that, eventually, this was going to be over and I would stop running. It sounds ridiculous, but just knowing that you’re going to be done eventually is powerful motivation.

But I think the thing that best kept me going was all of the support I received along the way. Best friends, complete strangers, family members, friends of friends– all offered me encouragement, advice, and love. They told me I was amazing. Incredible. Awe-inspiring. That I motivated them to exercise. That I showed a good example. That I inspired them. I kept all of this in a mental treasure chest, pulling out baubles of beautiful words when I needed it. Powerful stuff like that makes you go far. Thinking about all the fantastic people in my life who freely share their love and positivity like that never failed to buoy me…even if only for a little bit before my feet started hurting again.

So thank you. From the bottom of my heart and the soles of my shoes, thank you thank you THANK YOU.

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I didn’t have one best moment of the marathon, one time when I felt the most fabulous…..but if I had to pick, it would be miles 19-20. I was running strong and feeling good. Dad had struggled with IT band problems throughout training, but except for tight calves he felt okay. We were taking far fewer walk breaks than I did during training runs, and it wasn’t coming back to bite me in the ass like I worried it would. Around mile 19, I did a little arithmetic as we cruised down the National Mall and realized that we could probably make it under 5:30. (As much as my goal was “just finish and don’t die,” there was a secret part of me that wanted to finish by 5:30.)

Best of all, my blood sugars were great. I started off the race a smidge high, clocking in at 178. It rose slightly to 195 at my first test around miles 4-5. Knowing that on my past couple training runs I went a little high and handled corrections okay, I upped my bolus for the Fig Newtons I had. An hour and change later, at mile 11, it was 150. Cool. Somewhere around mile 16, it was down to 81—a reading that wasn’t cause to worry but still needed an attack, so I took my Gu without any insulin to bring it back up. And then at mile 20, it was 104. I was a marathon-running meter commercial. BADASS.

(Ahem. For the non-diabetics who aren’t in on the joke:)

It’s a VAST CONSPIRACY!We reached the bridge at mile 20 well ahead of the “Beat the Bridge” cutoff, aka the point when the trucks come in and pick you up because you’re a slow schlub and the race organizers curtly suggest that runners do not accept a finisher’s medal at the end of the race, according to the emails they sent out. Because THAT’S not dismal or anything. The blood sugar, the time, the sunshine, the comparatively-minor aches and pains—I felt awesome. “Baby we were born to fucking run!” I crowed on Twitter, and run we did.

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Then again, maybe miles 22-23 would give 19-20 a run for their money (erm, no pun intended). Crossing the bridge was a little tough—Dad’s calves were threatening to lock up, so we stopped to stretch. I busted out my beloved iPod again. Some people object to mp3 players during races. Safety concerns aside, they argue that you should be paying attention to the scenery, not tuning everything out. I agree….mostly. Races are unique experiences, and should absolutely be savored. But in training by myself, my music was a frequent running companion. There were plenty of tough runs that I doubt I’d have gotten through without pumping “Beautiful Day” or “No Surrender.” It’s a little like diabetes: since I had trained so often with music, I didn’t want to drastically alter my routine on race day.

So I cranked up a little Kanye as we ran through Crystal City, my determination bolstered by hearing That-th-that don’t kill me/can only make me stronger… We swung a corner and entered the final crowd of spectators. They were going nuts. I kicked in a little harder, spurred by the spectator energy.

“Slow down,” Dad muttered behind me.

“You okay?”

“My calves aren’t cramping yet,” he said, “but they’re about to. Other than that, I’m okay.”

“I feel good,” I told him, “so I want to finish strong. We only have a few miles left!”

We ran by a crowd of dudes holding cups of beer at that point. Dad and I looked at each other and simultaneously agreed: “YUCK.”

But besides the nauseating aroma of Coors Lite after running 22 miles, I felt incredible. It thrilled me to think, just a few miles left. That was a training run! That was a nothing run! When I started running, I walked on cloud nine for a week after first running “a few miles,” and now– I was doing it after 22 miles and feeling swell! I felt like I had this marathon in the bag. I wanted to wring out all my energy in those last few miles, to work as hard as I could. Muse was playing on my iPod– a driving, passionate track called “Time is Running Out” that I thrashed around to in concert the week before. I sped up, almost unconsciously. Dad had to tap me on the shoulder to wave me back.

I worried that, for the first time in my running life, I would be finishing stronger and faster than Dad. But he just said, “Let’s compromise. At mile 24, we’ll push until the end.”

“Sounds good,” I told him. Plenty of time to kick it into higher gear. As crazy as it sounds, I wanted to make it hurt at the end. Something about extra challenge makes the finish extra sweet, you know? Ever since signing up for the marathon back in April, I had envisioned that moment: legs pumping, muscles burning, the crowd cheering as I poured every ounce of power into sprinting strong across the finish line and claiming victory, once and for all.

A few minutes later, we passed Mom and Phil for the last time. I gave my mom one last hug, told her I felt great, and then she said the words that sent a frisson down my back: “See you at the finish line!”

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A brief aside: Everyone says how great it is to run by all the monuments at the Marine Corps Marathon.

“Did you like seeing the Lincoln Memorial?” Mom asked, after the race.

I frowned. “Um….when did we go by the Lincoln Memorial?”

Shows you how much THIS girl paid attention to the scenery.

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Mile 24. This was where we were supposed to speed up, to push it. I saw the mile marker pass and turned up the volume a little bit, readying myself for the final rally. This would be my last chance to work hard, to run well, to put in a hard effort and feel good at the finish line. But….it didn’t feel like I was going any harder. I could feel my breathing grow more labored, bit by bit.

This kinda sucks, I thought. I thought I would be pushing harder, but I’m going the same speed and gasping for breath. I assumed it was just fatigue, and kept telling myself to run, to not feel tired, it was almost over, etc. etc. etc. The course returned to the starting point, the place where I had been standing nervously hours before, unsure of the journey ahead. One spectator jovially shouted, “Five miles and 200 pushups to go!” Five miles, I thought, in an effort to trick myself into accepting the much shorter distance left. It worked. For three minutes. Then, the negative thoughts began to stalk me once more: I’m so tired. I’m telling myself I don’t feel tired, but…I can’t believe I have two more miles. I suck. Why am I so tired?I’m sure other PWDs reading will concur– sometimes, you have very strong physical symptoms of hypoglycemia and you know right away that you’re low. You see your hands shaking, you feel the sweat roll down your back, or spots flash in front of your eyes. But sometimes, it is nothing more than a hunch, an intuition that something just doesn’t feel quite right. And so it was at mile 25. “Let’s walk,” I said hoarsely. “I feel kinda…..funny.”

We slowed. “Do you want to test?” Dad asked.

“How much farther to the finish line?”

Dad checked his GPS. “About….eight-tenths of a mile.”

I shook my head emphatically at first. Less than a mile. Only about ten minutes to go, not even. My blood sugar had been perfect before. Perfect! It had to be fatigue, I reasoned. I can push through for one more mile and check after. I can do that. I have to do it! I have to finish strong. But then– that sense, that vague feeling that something wasn’t right. After a few moments of deliberation, I said, “Okay, I’ll check.”

Took out my meter, handed it to Dad, stuck myself, touched the blood to the test strip. We stopped and waited, tense, staring at the screen. 5…4…3…2…1…67.

I know my dad swore, but I couldn’t even hear him because I was bellowing, “Fuck! Fuck!”

“Do you want to sit down?” my dad asked.

“NO,” I barked. I fumbled for a gel and realized that, yes, my hands were indeed less steady. Dad handed me one of his, which I swallowed in one gulp.

I can’t even describe how disappointed I was at that moment. It felt like the very worst thing that could have happened, minus having to drop out of the race. I WANTED to push. I WANTED to dig deep, to make the hard work of those closing miles representative of the hard work I had done in the hundreds of miles leading up to them. I had daydreamed about that moment for months. Less than a mile to go and THIS is what you do to me, diabetes?! I thought. I’m supposed to be flying right now! But you– you’re stealing my power from me? After all this training and sweat and effort and blood and tears, you’re taking away my triumphant finish?! I HATE you, diabetes! I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU!

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit?” asked Dad.

I shook my head resolutely. I had to keep moving. I could no longer gallop exultantly across the finish line, but I’d be damned if I stopped completely. I tried marching forward—and immediately staggered sideways, realizing with a gulp just how lightheaded and low I was. “Can you—“ I said, but Dad was already there, with an arm around my shoulders to hold me up.

“It’s okay if you need to sit down,” he said.

“I’ll tell you if I need to sit,” I replied, through gritted teeth.

I watched forlornly as people ran past us. My muscles definitely appreciated the break, but my brain was in overdrive. As it is with lows—and especially lows when you were already fatigued—it took enormous concentration just to put one foot in front of the other. Just keep moving. Just keep moving, I thought. I would not, could not stop and sit. The Marines who ran by in full combat gear weren’t stopping. The amputees that I heard were racing didn’t stop– in fact, they had already finished. Everyone around me was bravely carrying on. And ultimately, stopping would have felt like admitting defeat. Here, diabetes, you win. You have brought me to my knees, as much as I’ve tried to tame you. I refused to yield further, whether for pride, perseverance, or sheer stupid determination. I will not let diabetes get me down, I thought. I was forced to accept the swift and unexpected plummet from perfect to terrible blood sugars, the dizzy emptiness that clouded my brain, and the loss of the amazing finish, but:

I will not let diabetes get me down.

I will not let diabetes get me down!

I WILL NOT LET DIABETES GET ME DOWN!

Repeating it to myself gave me an internal beat. My steps became stronger as I moved to the cadence and the glucose kicked in. Over and over again, it became my mantra. Dad stayed quiet and kept his arm around my shoulders, holding me up, while I poured every iota of concentration into walking steady and repeating, I will not let diabetes get me down.

A spectator cried out, “The white pole ahead is 26 miles! You’ve got it in the bag!”

I looked up. Arlington Cemetery was on the left, runners and walkers were streaming past on the right, and straight ahead was the aforementioned mile marker. (A nice bit of imagery there, now that I think about it—death to my left, vitality to my right.) Two-tenths of a mile remained.

“Okay,” I told Dad. “We’ll walk to the pole, and then run to the finish.”

A gaggle of Wizard of Oz characters ran by. I started working up the cojones to run again. I still felt a bit woozy, but as I kept telling myself, I will not let diabetes get me down. We passed the pole. I took a deep breath, muttered “I can do this,” and started to jog.

AAAAAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE!shrieked every muscle in my lower body. Why are you making us do this again?!?!Meanwhile, my inner ear did not take too kindly to running either. The only way I was going to be able to finish was if someone was holding me up. I flailed. Dad reached out and grasped my hand tightly.

We began the final, masochistic climb to the end. I watched the spectators in the bleachers cheering wildly. It’s a lot easier to forget that you’re low when hordes of people are clapping, high-fiving you, and shouting your name. (Can I give every diabetic their own personal cheering section??) I kept reminding myself to smile, stay steady, look up—and when I did, there was the end.

I would love to tell you that crossing the finish line was epically climactic, even after the low. That as soon as we crossed, I got down on my knees and praised God or did something madly emotional like that. But all that happened was that we raised our arms and smiled as we crossed the line, and I simply thought, …Wow.

“We did it, Caroline!” exclaimed my dad, throwing his arm around me.

“Wow…” I repeated. It felt both completely natural and impossible to believe. I just finished the marathon. I leaned away from Dad and started to hobble towards the space blankets, feeling like I just needed to let it sink in.

“Just think!” he said. “If we were doing the Tussey Mountain ultra, we’d turn around and do it all over again!”

If I’d had any energy left, I would have punched him.

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The ever-helpful Marines handed us space blankets and food right away. I have never been so thrilled to eat a banana in my LIFE. We limped, hurting but happy, towards Iwo Jima and the medal corridors. A cute Marine placed mine around my neck and said solemnly, “Congratulations.”

Of course, the only thing I could say at first was “Wow.” Dad took a picture. Tentative, I asked the Marine, “Can I give you a hug?”

He smiled and reached out to me. And, completely and instantly overcome by emotion, I swept him up in a bear hug and held him there as I exclaimed, “Oh my God! I did it! Oh my God!!” I planted a big kiss on his cheek as we left, too.

I wonder if they get that a lot. I wonder if he told his buddies after the race wrapped up. I wonder if I completely disgusted him with sweaty grossness after nearly six hours of exercise. Dear Mr. Marine, wherever you are out there: thank you for sharing my moment of sweaty, gross emoting. You seriously are cute. Call me sometime…..maybe we can do a whole different kind of marathon. WINK!

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People who can stand around, drink beer, and party for hours after running a marathon amaze me. I was incapable of walking normally. The post-race festival was sprawling– I guess it has to be, with 30K runners– and I limped my way from the food stations to the medals to the baggage pickup to the family link-up area.

“I WENT LOOOOOOOOW,” I howled to my mom when I finally saw her in the family meetup place.

“But you finished,” Mom said, hugging me fiercely. “I am so, so, so proud of you!”

“And glad you’re done,” my stepdad Phil added. “Everybody has been calling us and asking if you finished yet!”

“Rosemary [our friend] said she thought she saw you on the live feed of the finish line,” said Mom. “At least, she thought she saw your dad’s yellow shirt and legs that looked like yours.”

“I’m famous,” I croaked. “I will also be dead unless I sit down somewhere soon.”

Lucky us, we circumvented at least two hours of waiting by skipping the subway and driving back with Mom and Phil. This was nice as well, because we had plenty of opportunities for photos…..both serious and goofy.

Hindsight is 20/20, so I think I figured out what happened with the low. I couldn’t prepare for it because I had never run that long or that hard before. My training runs went okay, BG-wise….but they also peaked at 21 miles. I think that my muscles started doing the delayed glycogen-suck like I talked about in my last post (read it here: http://www.act1diabetes.org/2010/10/27/diabetes-on-the-run/). So, I ate the right amount of carbs and gave the right amount of insulin, according to past experience– but because my muscles were using even more energy, I came crashing down. At least, that’s what I assume happened.

It must have kept happening, too. I ate half a bagel and drank a bottle of Powerade without bolusing, and my blood sugar afterwards was only 181. For frame of reference: that’s about 60 grams of carbohydrate. If I hadn’t been running a marathon, I would have bolused 5 units of insulin for it….or if I had gone without bolusing, my BG would have been 350-400, aka nasty-ass high. Kind of scary, when you think about it.

I remained very defensive for lows for 36 hours after. I had horrible visions of going to bed, having another delayed low, dropping to the point of no return, and dying in my sleep at the height of my glory. Lucky for this diabetic who runs Halloween marathons, we had lots of candy on hand. SKITTLES!

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People ask me if I felt “the runner’s high.” Well, not exactly. I understand the runner’s high to be the kick of endorphins, the second wind that floods you in order to ward off pain when you’re working hard. I didn’t feel euphoric, superhuman, or pain-free during the race…..and I DEFINITELY didn’t feel that way afterwards, hobbling around like a centenarian turtle.

But then, I think back to right after the race. Even though I was exhausted and sore and probably still hypoglycemic….I think this message I sent out to the Twitter world sums it up pretty well.

I did it. I am a marathon runner. With or without diabetes…..what an amazing thing to finally say!