The Finish Line

“When your legs scream stop and your lungs are bursting. That’s when it starts. That’s the hurt locker. Winners love it in there.”

Accomplishment. What does that word mean to you? For me, it means a lot different than it did a year ago. I always thought of it as getting the best grades, moving forward on the pathway of life, going to college, getting married, having kids, getting the title that you wanted in your job. Accomplishment has always been about what I was supposed to do, check the box and move towards the next goal.

So why has it changed now?

The last 12 months of my life has been driven towards one goal and one goal only: finish the Ragnar Zion Trail Race. It sounds so stupid when you think about it. Run 15.5 miles over the course of 24 hours with an amazing team of friends and fellow athletes. I run 15 miles every week and sometimes in a weekend. It was supposed to be easy peasy, it was supposed to be a fun time with friends, hanging out and putting some miles on my shoes. Covid changed all of that, the last 12 months of my life changed all of that. You see, 12 months ago I lost a mother figure to breast cancer. 11 months ago, I lost my grandma in-law, a central figure in my extended family, 10 months ago I lost my only remaining grandparent and a powerhouse of a woman influence in my life. And 9 months ago, I got in my bike accident. 8 months ago I was told I wasn't going to walk. 7 months ago, I started rehab (ironically the same time as my dog) and physical therapy with one goal in mind – finish this damn race if it was going to kill me or not. Now, I wasn’t doing it to have a fun time with my friends. Now it became personal – prove to these woman, who gave their lives to make mine better, that nothing was ever going to stand in my way and I was going to beat the odds no matter how slim of a chance I was given. I was going to prove my doctor’s wrong, my therapists wrong and some whom I considered friends wrong. So for 7 months, all I pictured was that finish line. I dreamt about it, I physically drew it, I stared at pictures of it. So many times I wanted to give up – it was too hard, progress was too slow, I was too tired. So many times I wanted to scream because the pain was unbearable. So many times my mind went to the “What ifs?” Every day it got closer, every day I would wake up, picture that finish line, think about those 3 women who I was now fighting for and make progress. 15 weeks ago, I had a plan. It was ambitious to say the least, but I knew if I stuck with the training regiment, I would cross that line and that was the only thing that consumed me. For 15 weeks, I have never been so focused in my entire life. I didn’t even know I could mentally go there, but I did. For 15 excruciating and painful weeks, I push the limits on what the doctors wanted me to do and what I thought I was capable of.

May 14th – Race Day and boy did it feel good. I came out of the gate hot, running the fastest I had ever run in my life. Sure, it was pure adrenaline, but it felt great. After my second leg, my foot began to cause issues. I knew that I only had one more 4-miler to go and everything, I mean everything, that I had been working towards would be over. I knew it wasn’t time to give up. I wrapped my foot tight, I took pain killers, covered it with BioFreeze and went out there. After an hour, I crossed the finish line. (a huge thank you to Scott) I dipped my bandana in the freezing ice water, splashed it on my face and told the next runners good luck and finish strong, that we would be there cheering them in. That was it. It was over. After the team finished the race, the girls went sight-seeing and the boys hung out at the campfire. I went to take a shower. In the shower, my knees buckled and I sat there and cried. Cried for funerals I didn’t have. Cried while I said goodbye to those loved ones that left me. Cried at how proud I was of my team and of myself. Cried in pain because I pushed my foot harder than I probably should have. And I cried for the accomplishment I had just done.

It was over. I had done it.