2 minutes and 18 seconds.

Last weekend I almost ran a marathon in less than 4 hours. But at that aid station at mile 25, I was in the worst state of misery I have ever been in. I wondered to myself, What is the point in all of this nonsense? And for the last day and a half I was beating myself up over my time: 4:02:18.

I ran this race with one of my cousins for the first time. She's considerably younger than me (25) and this was to be her third marathon. She planted the seed in my head that we should try to run this marathon in 4 hours. Hey, let's find a pace group and just stick to them. Sounded like a good plan, or so I told her, even though in the back of my mind I really didn't know if I could run that fast for 26.2 miles. Ten miles, yes (and even faster). A half marathon, probably. But 26.2? Hmm. I had already run two marathons previous to this one, the last one just 5 weeks ago, finishing at 4:14, a huge improvement from Chicago's 4:38 last fall.

We were ahead of schedule for most of the race. We even built a 2+minute buffer, running ahead of the pace group for a few miles. So I made a new goal for myself: finish in less than 4. C'mon, you can definitely do it! In fact, at around mile 22 I turned to my cousin and told her if we just stay on pace, a sub-four marathon will be in the basket. But that was before a series of hills and twists and turns, and at mile 25 I was in total misery. My cousin made it with just 30 seconds to spare. I shuffled in two minutes later.

To be honest, I was secretly beating myself up for the last day and a half over those last 2 minutes and 18 seconds. Nothing cramped up, nothing broke. So why did I totally wimp out like that?

But after finally getting a good night's rest in my own bed, I realized this morning that I was being totally ridiculous. The last 5k of this race was a real bear. I hated that after running a straight course along the beautiful coast of Lake Superior, they had us running up and down hills and around corners to the finish line right smack in the middle of a very quaint downtown Duluth. But despite feeling totally depleted at mile 25 while walking through the final aid station chugging the electrolytes, I told myself to keep going. Pick up those feet, swing those arms, and keep that pace up to the end. I kept my eye on my watch and started counting my steps to keep my focus on anything but the pain and the worry that I might not see the end.

Now THAT was a real race. The first thought that came across my mind as I crossed the finish line was this was possibly the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life. But I did it. In almost under four hours. A new PR and big plans for Chicago this coming October. Even though my head is still in a fog and my legs could barely get me from point A to point B, I can't wait to jump right back into training.