Eighteen Miles

Its 4:30...AM. My alarm beeps, I reluctantly roll out of bed and make my way through the dark to the kitchen. I force myself to choke down a protein shake and a banana. It's much too early for food. My stomach protests. I hate bananas. I gulp down 8 oz of cold water and will my stomach to hold it all down.

I get dressed in dri-fit and spandex, pull on my running shoes and make sure the laces are tightened equally on both feet. Mike and I drive to meet the rest of the team and we ride together to the River Walk - a six mile sidewalk along the river where we will pound our feet for the next four and a half hours.

It's dark, only 6:00 now. We strap on our water bottles, say a few words of encouragement and head out.

The first mile is the toughest. I take a few steps and my muscles ache in protest. They're yelling for me to stop, to quit now before the pain gets worse. My heart rate begins to climb. My lungs struggle to take in enough oxygen. My knees and feet burn with pain. But my determination is strong. I will my feet to take each step.

At mile 2 my yelling muscles are the only thought in my brain. I can't think about anything but the pain. My determination is weakening. I want to stop.

Somewhere between mile 2 and 3 the numbness kicks in. My muscles are still protesting, I'm sure, somewhere in the back of my mind. I get into a rhythm. My brain switches to auto pilot. My feet and legs move as if they've done this forever, they know what to do. My heart rate and breathing even out. I can talk to Ruth, my team mate and running partner, in full sentences now.

Now that the yelling has subsided my mind is free, no longer held captive by pain. I can hear the traffic and the birds and the wind. I can see the sunrise. I feel the temperature begin to rise along with the humidity. I use this time of freedom to remind myself why I'm doing this. I'm doing this for a reason that is bigger than me. I'm running for water...to raise money to provide clean water for people in Africa. I think about the women and children who will walk at least six miles maybe as much as sixteen every day just to get water for their families. The water they collect will be dirty, brown, infested with disease. They will use it for drinking, cooking, washing clothes and dishes, bathing. I take a sip from my water bottle and thank God for the clean water that is so readily available to me.

I have a plan and follow it consistently. Run three walk a half, run three walk a half. The auto pilot stays in control until I reach twelve miles. I'm two thirds of the way to my goal and the numbness starts to wear off. The ache in my muscles is still dull but it's been replaced by a sharper, more distinct pain in my joints. My knees and hips and the bottom of my feet begin to protest. I have to adjust my plan. Run two walk a half. Run two walk a half. Run one and a half.

I manage for a while. Then...

I reach the fourteen mile mark. Fourteen miles is the farthest I've ever ran before. I know my body can handle fourteen. I don't know if it can go farther. The excitement from the unknown and from running farther than ever before give me a sense of elation. I feel good. The pain isn't so bad. Only four miles to go.

This lasts for about half a mile. It's surprising how quickly I can go from feeling pretty good to excruciating pain. The yelling is back. Only, now it's more like screaming. My body from the waist down is screaming for me to stop. My mind once again is incapable of any thought but pain. I feel only pain. I hear only screaming from my legs and feet. I see only the concrete below my feet but barely even register it's existence.

Sixteen miles. Only two to go. Every ounce of determination is gone. My will has failed. At this point I'm incapable of keeping one foot moving in front of the other. My entire being wants me to stop, walk, sit, collapse. In this moment the pain seems worse than any I've ever felt.

The reminder of why I'm doing this is less than a distant memory. That motivation no longer exists. Incapable of any thought but pain, the only thing that keeps me going is my team. Running with me or waiting at the finish - I know they feel the same pain. They want to quit. Their legs are screaming in pain, begging them to stop. But they don't. They keep running. So will I.

I must look ridiculous, moving at a pace that a walking toddler could easily match yet in a running position. I feel the acid building up in my muscles and it burns. To walk would be even more painful, allowing more acid to build up. So I hobble along, wincing with every step.

Only half a mile to go. The knowledge of the approaching finish propels me forward. Faster now. Just wanting to be done with this.

I cross the finish. I command my body to keep moving. Don't collapse, you won't be able to get back up. I force my legs to straighten and stretch. The screaming has stopped but not the pain. Only now the elation is back. I did it. Eighteen miles.

My team mates are here. We congratulate each other. In the car we share "war stories". What miles were toughest. What muscle aches the most. We pull off our shoes and socks to release our aching feet from their leather prisons.

We talk about fund raising. We talk about the reason behind all of this madness. We know that no matter how tough the training is for us we will always have clean water to drink, to cook with and to give our children. The pain that we feel is temporary. And, when the marathon is over we never have to feel it again.

Those we are running for are not as fortunate. Their pain is permanent. Their water will remain dirty and diseased until someone helps them. And this is why we will do it again and again and again.

We pull into Chick-fil-A, order chicken minis and sweet tea - the breakfast of champion marathoners everywhere.

My legs will hurt for the rest of the day. When I go to church on Sunday morning I will be limping. My feet will hurt until Tuesday, maybe longer. And next Saturday...

I will run twenty.

Chrystal Murphy