I was not built to run.

I am strong and broad shouldered — more of a natural swimmer or cyclist than a runner — so pounding the pavement was never my cardio of choice.

But when my father was dying of cancer in 2001-2002 and I traveled frequently to Massachusetts from New York, running for hours — especially in sleet and snow — became my escape and my therapy. I decided earlier this year that I had to run at least one marathon.

I had planned on doing it in my beloved New York. But then a friend (who was built to run) invited me to join her at the Nike Women's Marathon in San Francisco.

Knowing this race would be a challenge for me, I started pretraining hard — logging weekly mileage that many don't reach even weeks out from the big day. I was making strides toward what I considered a respectable long distance pace for my disadvantaged form.

Little did I know that my natural form would be the least of my problems, and that this marathon would have to be my last.

___

It was during the pretraining — which included my regular weight training, Pilates, yoga and cross-training — that I went to see a knee specialist for what I suspected was a patella tendon overuse injury.

My self diagnosis was accurate, but I also learned I had scoliosis and that my spine had degenerated in all but one disk. Bike and swim, but don't run, was the doctor's order.

But I am stubborn. Eventually, the doctor said I could train the minimal amount to finish.

Then on my way to work one morning about two weeks into official training, a woman got on the subway lugging a backpack on wheels. She stood next to me, let go of the canvas backpack strap and it slammed down onto my foot.

As I sat through my work shift, the second-from-the-pinky toe on my left foot grew more fat and more purple. To grin through the throbbing pain, I nicknamed the wounded piggy "Barney" and called the podiatrist who fitted me for sports orthodics.

The toe was broken, the doctor said that evening, and he advised me to take off a few days from running before resuming a lighter pace — and stop if the pain got worse. I took to the stationary bikes and elliptical trainers for nearly three days before hopping back on the treadmill.

When I resumed running, I pushed too hard, scared that I would lose my training gains.

Then things took a turn for the worse. As the toe began to heal — albeit slower than the doctor had hoped — I suffered a second injury when a produce stocker at the market accidentally whacked a carriage into the same damaged digit.

At that point, a foot surgeon said I was not to run — at all. (He said I could resume brisk walking, if the pain wasn't severe.)

___

Ha! Who was he kidding? I break for nobody, and walking briskly for miles a day is my transportation, not exercise! (I shunned the Subway completely a month before the race.)

There was slowing — but no stopping — me from my goal. I would take a break from running, but I would somehow get back on track in time to make it to the marathon.

I had few supporters at this point. Most were worried about my physical health. I understood that, but could not indulge their concerns. I had a mission.

My trainer and my back therapist where among the few who articulated faith that I had the cardio conditioning to pull through even without running long distances at the most critical time before the race.

Two weeks out, just as I should have begun tapering, I ran 22 miles in the morning before going to work that Sunday at noon.

The pain was troublesome, but the relief was reassuring. If I could run 22 miles in the early morning a day after running 12 miles without planning or recovery, I could certainly run 26.2.

___

But at this point, I was doing this alone. The "friend" who invited me to join her in this race decided weeks before that we were not as compatible as she had thought and wrote me out of her life. She walked past me several times (for no apparent reason) on the plane ride there and back, but never uttered a word.

Ultimately, the pangs of our lost friendship faded along with the mile markers, as I would mark a milestone on my own.

There were three points in the race when the pain was excruciating, and I thought the doctors were right: I should not be running. But I never doubted I would finish, it was just a matter of time. My mantra was "Pain, what pain?" and I pushed through it only to discover the greatest high of my life.

The euphoria reached epic levels when I was met by spectators clad in New York City subway shirts. "Woo hoo! New York!" I cheered back, smiling and flailing my fists. And about a half-mile from the finish, a woman lunged from the crowd to single me out and insist: "YOU can run faster!" (I hope she's reading this story.)

I finished in 4 hours, 36 minutes and 59 seconds, ranking 168 among 649 finishers in my highly competitive division. (I took guilty pleasure in knowing that had I been able to vie against younger women, I would have ranked higher.) I was 918 among the 4,212 male and female finishers.

My time wasn't close to my goal when I started pretraining, but finishing was an achievement. The marathon sold out at 15,000 participants, but only 3,960 women (I was the 823rd) and 252 men made it to the finish.

I crossed the finish line with full glory.

I have no regrets. Only laments that this was my swan song. Imagine how I could have done without the injuries?

___

asap contributor Natasha Gural is an Associated Press writer based in New York.

Only registered users can write comments.
Please login or register.