Chicago

The crowds lined our curbs and medians, hung over balconies and bridges. In places the cheering, music, and drums were deafening. City sounds blocked the slap of our feet on the pavement and drowned the rhythm of our breathing. For five miles Carol and I were locked in step with the hundreds of runners alongside us, boxed in to an artificially slow rhythm but afraid to deviate from our straight path as we had already seen one man fall hard, stepping just the wrong way on a manhole cover or on someone else’s shoe.

Smells of Chicago’s innards wafted up through the vents, a hot musty smell that curled our stomachs, rapidly followed by the scents of bacon and eggs in a North Side restaurant that would have been enticing at any other time. Sunlight blazed off the tall buildings and caught the mustard yellow and red highlights of the fall foliage along tree-lined streets. As the heat started to mount the cheering became even more important. I had written LAURA in black sharpie marker along my white tank top and the crowd responded: “Go, Laura!” on repeated corners and at water stops. One man with a bullhorn yelled, “I SEE you Laura! Let’s GO!” I smiled, waved, and gave thumbs up.

We saw ourselves on big TV screens and waved, and laughed at some of the clever or inspirational signs. “GO total stranger!” “Do Epic Sh**” “It’s long and it’s hard, and that’s why I’m standing here.” As we passed through Carol and John’s old neighborhoods she pointed out the location of their first date, their first apartment and church. We dodged blue sponges and walkers and passed our first pace group, on track to recover from our slow start and finish near 4:30 . . .until my knees inexorably tightened and my stomach gave ominous warnings near mile 21. The toilet signs at that aid station were a small miracle, and I waved Carol on, sad to lose her but solid in the knowledge that I could not keep our pace.

The last five miles humbled me. I shuffled, walked, tried to run. The heat mounted and we lost the crowds for a few miles in the ‘less nice’ part of town. I tried to pray, visualize, rationalize, but for a while nothing worked. Then the crowds built back up, I drank a lot of water, and I heard the booming voice of a large man running with his struggling friend, shouting to motivate him and everyone else: “It’s a BEAUTIFUL DAY in Chicago! Just out for a LITTLE jog! You WILL NOT BE DENIED today!” So I followed him as best I could through the emotional last two miles, hanging on his exhortations and willing my burning feet and legs to move. When we hit the straightaway on Michigan Avenue and saw the gorgeous skyline again, I started to cry. I saw my Mom outside Old St. Mary’ school – more emotion – then struggled through the last 1.2 miles, barely dragging my feet over the slight uphill on the bridge to the finish line. The Finish line was red-white-blue: gorgeous, amazing, wonderful. Copying the runners around me, I raised my arms to cross. Humbled, slow, sore, but gloriously happy.