Chapter 2

Chapter 2

My decision to run the marathon surprised me more than anyone else.  To everyone who knew me, it seemed consistent with who I was.  I was a tomboy as a child.   I played football with the boys at recess.  I often ended up being the last person out in dodge-ball.  In high school, I played all the sports: basketball, volleyball, and track.  My freshman year I won the most valuable player award (MVP) on the varsity team.   After high school, I continued to play volleyball in city leagues. I learned how to scuba dive, snow ski, wake board, para-glide, mountain climb, and repel.  So, when I decided to run a marathon, no one was really surprised except my friend April.
I didn’t like jogging, and my body had seen better days.  I had spent most of my teenage years pushing my body to its limits until it finally pushed back.  I had four knee surgeries; the first two at age nineteen from an injury in a racquetball class my first year at college. 

The racquetball class was to be taught at the local community center.  The teacher jinxed us when he proudly announced, “I’ve never had any injuries in my class.”  Once it was said, there was nothing anyone could do about it—it couldn’t be taken back.   The first week of class someone got hit in the head with a racquet leaving a nasty looking black and blue bump right in the center of his head which caused me to wince at the sight of it.  Then, a few days later a girl got smacked in the eye with a ball.  She looked like the victim of domestic violence.  A few days later it would be my turn.

After stretching as a class we paired off and went to our courts.  As usual, I paired up with my sister, Sara.  Not only was she my sister, but she was my best friend as well.   We were only 14 months apart.  I was born in April and she was born the following June—how crazy is that?  My mom said birth control was not as good back then.  I’m sure she wasn’t trying to hurt my feelings, but what exactly was she saying as I was the 6^th of 7 children? 

Sara was the 7^th.  She was the baby, and she played that part to the fullest.  In our younger years, if you even looked at her funny, she would squeal as loud and as long as needed.  Everyone just wanted her to stop, so she would get exactly what she wanted which sometimes was merely to get someone else in trouble.

Growing up, Sara and I wished we were twins.  We loved to dress the same: twin coats, twin dresses, and the same straight straggly hair style.  Even our names were like twins—Sally and Sara.  We were inseparable.  We were the best of friends and at times the worst of enemies. We fought almost as much as we played.  It drove my mother crazy—she said she was going to take up drinking.  But, the worse possible punishment mom could deal out was to separate us.

Being the youngest of seven gave us an even more special bond.  Everyone was so much bigger and stronger.  It was almost a matter of survival.  When we heard our names yelled, “Sally, Sara” we knew we were being blamed for something, and it wasn’t always our fault.  When we heard our names yelled, we would take off together and hide somewhere where we could play and pretend like we didn’t hear a thing. 

Our names were always said together like we were one person.  Even presents were addressed to Sally and Sara, but we didn’t mind.  It only perpetuated our twin fantasy.  As the years passed it became clear that we were not twins at all.  As we grew and went off to school our differences grew also. 

It wasn’t long before it seemed the only thing we had in common were our names.  At 5’11 Sara towered over me by six inches.  I was barely 5’5”  and that was stretching it. I remember standing next her getting ready for school in front of the bathroom mirror.  She had on heels which only further exaggerated our height difference.  She looked over at me, smiled, and patted me on the head.  I had to tilt my head in order to look at her.  We both laughed. 
     Our differences were more than the height though.  She had long blond wavy hair, high cheek bones and a perfect nose.  I was always envious of her striking beauty.  I, on the other hand, had dark brown eyes that matched my brunet hair.  My cheeks were chubby—probably a side effect of being born at nearly ten pounds, and my nose was a little on the large side.  Sara’s figure was straight and tall.  My figure was petite and shapely. 

Physical appearance was not the only area in which we were different.  Sara was the brainy one—always getting straight A’s and studying.  She loved school.  It just about killed her when she got her first A- in the in 9^th grade.  Her perfect record was marred.  It was just a dash behind a letter, but to her that minus sign was a sharp object pointed at her perfect A.  Sitting there like a knife stabbing her A.   She was outwardly bugged for almost a whole month, but deep inside I think it still bothers her to this day.    

I was the athletic one.  I just wanted to be going and doing.  Studying was just not my thing.  I hated sitting still, and I didn’t care about grades.  Sports, most all sports excited me.  I spent hours practicing before and after school.  I was extremely shy and timid.  I never spoke up in class and felt uncomfortable to look people in the eye, but when I went onto the court with a ball in my hand, something changed.  I was aggressive and driven.  I came alive.  Sometimes it was hard to control the adrenalin that rand through my teenage body.  One time I got thrown out of a game for throwing a punch at the guard on the other team.  Everyone was shocked—even me.      

Once I started school, Sara and I grew apart.  She had her friends and I had mine.  It wasn’t until our family moved to a new town that Sara and I found some common ground once again.  It was like we were little kids again.  It was my junior year and Sara’s sophomore year when we moved to Spanish Fork, Utah.  After Sara and I had signed up for our classes, she went with me to ask about tryouts for the school basketball team. Without any compassion the coach said in a matter-of-fact tone, “The team has already been picked.”  The coach paused and put down her pencil as she looked up at Sara and commented, “But,” she hesitated, “if you bring your sister with you, you can come to the tryouts.”  I was stunned as I turned and looked up at Sara’s confused expression.   Sara couldn’t play; she wasn’t even interested, but I knew exactly why the coach wanted her—the height; the one thing I couldn’t do anything about.  The coach already had plenty of good short players.   Sara was not prepared.  She had never even considered it before.    She looked at me in disbelief.  I didn’t say a word, but my eyes pleaded, “You have to.”  Sports were everything to me.  A little hesitantly she agreed. 

Sara and I both made the basketball team, and to her surprise, she really enjoyed playing, and I really enjoyed playing with her.  We liked to joke around and tease each other.  One time Sara snuck up behind me during basketball practice and attempted to de-pant me, but I caught her just as she grabbed the bottom of my shorts.  Sara on the other hand was not so lucky.    Later when we were practicing free throws, I quietly crept up behind her and grabbed her shorts and pulled down just as she was jumping up.  Her shorts went completely to the floor and she almost jumped out of them.  The other girls erupted in laughter as Sara scrambled to regain her decency. 

Sara decided to play volleyball too.  Her height and my drive made a good combination.  She was awkward at first, but with practice, she became one of the star players.  In basketball, I was the guard and she was the center.  She had a killer hook shot.  In volleyball, I was the setter and she was the hitter. I was jealous of how hard she could spike the ball hard.  At 5’11, she didn’t have to jump very high to get above the net.    

Sara and I spent more time together and eventually her love for school inspired me to get my first and only 4.0.  I graduated from high school with honors and went on to college.  Sara, being the brain that she was, graduated early from high school with high honors and joined me at college.  We hung with the same crowd, and she was my best friend.   Even though we found common ground, education was still her passion and sports were mine.         

Now, we were at college in the same racquetball class, and the one thing we always had in common was our competitive nature.  It was just part of our genetic make-up—all my siblings were like that as well.  Even though my older brother and I were the only ones that played high school sports, all my siblings hated to lose at anything. We didn't play games together because it never ended well. 

 Sara closed the door and after a little chit chat we began to play.  I took a healthy lead in the beginning, but Sara was playing well.  I don’t know how she did it, but she took a slight lead which she gloated over.  “How could I let this happen?” I thought, “I’d better get a little more serious.”  I gave her a wry smile so she would think I wasn’t worried, but I was panicked.   I just couldn’t lose to her.  If she were to beat me, it would just mess everything up.  Who would I be if I wasn’t the athletic one?     

 I was up to serve.  My serve was almost perfect.  After hitting the front wall, the ball hit low on the side wall and crossed to the other side of the court where it hit the floor just before hitting the other side wall.  This was a shot we had learned about in class.   The ball shot out sideways instead of backwards just like it was supposed to making it almost impossible to return.  “Short,” she quickly called out.   The ball hit just centimeters in front of the short line.  I knew it was short, but I wasn’t going to admit it that easily.  Arguing about it was my way of hanging on to, and savoring, the near perfect shot.   

From the service box, I looked back at her.  She was in the ready position with her long legs slightly bent and her racquet firmly gripped ready to swing. Her eyes twinkled and a slight giggle escaped her mouth.  She knew she couldn’t have returned that last serve.  She hadn’t even moved which was why it being short had pleased her so much.  I took the ball and served again hoping to reproduce the same serve: just not short.  However, the second serve was probably the worst serve I’d ever hit.  It hit the front wall just off center and bounced about waist high—right to her forehand.   She hit the ball hard and low to the other side of the court.  I was worried I wouldn’t be able to make it, but I was determined to give it all I had, like I always did.  I wasn’t about to let my little sister beat me.  

I sprinted as fast as I could and stretched farther than I thought possible.  To my surprise, my racquet made contact with the ball, but my satisfaction was only a split second as my knee twisted and I fell to the floor.  I was dizzy and disoriented. The walls seemed to be closing in on me.  I didn’t even know if the ball made it to the wall nor did I care.  The room began to spin and I suddenly felt cold and clammy.  Sara thought I was teasing at first, but when I did not move from my curled up position on the floor, she knew something was wrong.  She ran and got the teacher.  After several minutes, I was able to sit up.   It was then that I heard Sara say, “Does that mean I win?”  Her quick wit eased my pain for a split second. 

After three days of not being able to walk, I went to the doctor.  He determined that some cartilage was torn and probably stuck in my knee joint.   A few days later, the doctor performed a laparoscopic surgery to remove the torn cartilage through a small incision in my knee.  When I awoke, he gave me the bad news.  I had partially torn my posterior ligament and completely severed my anterior cruciate ligament.  It was a common sports injuries often referred to as an ACL injury.  I would need another surgery.  The doctor said that I could function OK without the surgery, but I would not be able to be as active.  I considered that a death sentence—surely, life would not be worth living.  

The surgery required to fix my knee was an ACL reconstruction.  They would use one of my own tendons to replace the torn ACL which runs through the knee to give it stability.  Two incisions would be made:  a six inch incision on the out side of my right knee and a three inch incision on the inside.  The tendon that ran along the outside of my thigh would be removed by cutting the off the pieces of the bones where the tendon is attached.  Once removed, the tendon would be rerouted through the middle of my knee and reattached with screws.  The doctor had explained that bone will attach to bone.

 I was tired and didn’t want to wake up, but someone kept patting my hand and gently tapping my cheek.  “Sally, Sally, it’s time to wake up,” I heard the gentle voice repeat over and over, but I couldn’t get my eyes to open.  After several attempts, I groggily opened my eyes and saw the nurse standing by the bed.  The anesthesia was hard on my stomach and I felt nauseous.  I threw up in the tray the nurse had placed beneath my mouth.  I dry heaved several more times before my stomach calmed downed. 

The first night in the hospital the nurse woke me every hour to take my vital signs.  My wrists and ankles were sore from the restraints put on during surgery.   My knee throbbed every time I rustled in my bed.  The nurse could only administer pain medications through the IV every four hours.  Sometimes it was enough and sometimes it wasn’t.   There was a large Velcro cast from my ankle to the top of my thigh.  The cast had large metal hinges on each side of my knee about two feet long.  The hinges were set so that my leg could not bend.   Beneath the cast was my swollen and bloody knee wrapped in an ace bandage.  The first time I saw it I almost gasped.  It looked like something from a horror movie. 

The doctor told me that as soon as I could walk to the end of the hall and back I could go home.   By walking, he meant using crutches with no weight on my injured knee.  The first time I attempted to get up I almost lost consciousness getting from the bed to the wheel chair.  By the time nurse wheeled me to the door of my room, I was in need of the throw-up tray.  I sat in the doorway breathing heavy, and feeling cold, clammy, and nauseous.  The nurse offered to wheel me to the end of the hall and back. 

The next day I mustered through the pain and made it up on the crutches.  The nurse followed me up the hall with the throw-up tray and the wheel chair.  Halfway there, she slid the chair behind me when she noticed my face turning pale and I slowly slumped back into the chair.  She wheeled me the end of the hall and back to my room.  The third day I made it to the end of the hall before needing the chair.  The fourth day was going to be the day. I just knew it.  I don’t know why, but I wanted to go home.  I wanted to be in my own place with my own pajamas on.  I made it to the end of the hall and was almost back to my room when I felt a cool sweat all over my body.  My knee was throbbing.  The nurse looked at me wondering if she should rescue me.  I just kept going and she nodded her head in encouragement.  She followed closely.  By the time I reached the room, she slid the chair behind me and handed me the throw-up tray which I needed.        

The first six weeks at home I was instructed to not put any weight on my knee.  Since my room was upstairs, the couch would be my room.  I watched TV for hours and became addicted to soap operas.  Would Laura finally marry Luke on General Hospital?   My mom and my sister cooked for me and brought me clean clothes from my room.  I didn't like that my mom had to help me go to the bathroom.  She had to lower me to the toilet, and then I would call for her to help me back up.   It was rough on all of us.  I hated always asking for help.  Sara got so tired of it she lost it.  One day she brought me down a pair of shorts I had already worn.   When I asked for a different pair, she threw the shorts at me and said, “You’re going to wear these and you’re going to like it.” 

At the end of the six weeks my knee had atrophied a whole inch.   Now it was time to begin therapy.  I was allowed only partial weight bearing for the next six weeks.  Therapy was three times a week.  My mom dropped me off at the therapy office where I would stay for a whole hour of torture.  At first I was barely able to lift my leg off the table.  The routine was about the same each time.  I started out with some type of ultrasound on my knee.  Next, electrodes were hooked on my knee to stimulate the muscles.  It was interesting watching my muscles contract and release on their own.   Then the therapist would give me my workout instructions for the day.  I rode bikes, and did leg lifts. As I progressed, I would do lunges and squats.    Towards the end of each session, the therapist would try to bend my knee as far as he could.  This was followed by ice on my knee. 

     By the end of three months, I was finally able to walk without crutches.  It would take another three months before I could do any activities without pain.  It took close to a whole year before I felt like I was “better than before” as my doctor put it when he told me about the surgery.   I had never really appreciated the simple act of walking:  how effortless it was.  I developed a real appreciation towards the elderly as they walked with canes and a limp.  

The removal of the cartilage and ACL repair were the first two knee surgeries at age 19, but unfortunately it wasn’t my last.  I injured my right knee again at age 36 while playing in a city league softball game.  I was rounding third base at full speed when I stepped into a small hole and twisted my knee.  I lost control and was flung into the cement dugout wall.  The excruciating pain in my knee was all too familiar, and I knew right away what happened.  A visit to the orthopedic surgeon confirmed what I already knew.  My right ACL needed to be repaired again.  I asked the doctor to look at my left knee which had been bothering me for some time.

 I explained to him how I used to jog with my neighbor, and then one day I went to go jogging and I couldn’t even jog one block without severe pain in my left knee.  It came on suddenly without any warning.   It was the strangest thing.  I could snow ski, go up and down the stairs, bike, and play volleyball, but I couldn’t jog.  I never really liked jogging anyway, so I simply stopped doing it.  I only mentioned it to the doctor now because I was there and figured he may as well look at both knees.   Upon hearing my explanation and examining my knee, the doctor said my knee cap had shifted to the right and was hitting bone when I jogged.  A procedure called a lateral release would fix the problem.   The doctor suggested I have both knees fixed at the same time.  He believed that even though it would be difficult, I might as well get it over with.  It would be “like killing two birds with one stone,” he commented. But it didn’t kill any birds at all—just me. 

ACL reconstructions had changed a lot in the last 17 years since I had the first one done.   The surgery was performed in an out-patient surgical center meaning I came home the same day of surgery.  The surgery was also able to be done through a laparoscope.   It would be considerably less invasive and for most people the scars would be insignificant.  They went through my old scars, and this time they used the tendon of a cadaver.  The doctor instructed me to start walking on my knee one day after surgery.  I didn’t want to get out of bed let alone walk.  I was only able to walk a few steps before I felt light headed.   The doctor also wanted me to start therapy days after the surgery. 

The recovery time was quicker than it had been the first time, but it was just as painful especially because I had both knees done.  This time was different in other ways too.  This time I had a three year old to take care of and a husband who wasn’t quite as patient and available as my mom.  I vowed that if I was ever unfortunate enough to injure my knee again, I would opt for an electric wheel chair and take up chess, but as time went by and the painful memory faded, I denounced the concept of the electric wheel chair and chess.  That just wasn’t me. 

After a long recovery, I finally started to feel like my old self again with one exception.  Now not only did I dislike jogging; I saw it as evil.  My knees ached just looking at people jogging.  Whenever I saw someone jogging, I was tempted to roll down my window and yell, “What the heck are you thinking?”  I would have laughed at anyone who told me that someday I would run a marathon. 

Chapter 1 Everest

Everest

Once it had been determined that Mt. Everest was the highest mountain in the world, it was only a matter of time before someone would undoubtedly attempt to reach its summit.  Why?  Could it simply be “Because it is there,” as stated by George Mallory, who was among the first expedition in 1921 to attempt this seemingly insurmountable feat?  Mallory, who became obsessed with Everest, risked everything, even death, for the experience of a lifetime.  He pushed himself to the limit in an attempt to do something no one had ever done before.   It was a goal he would never obtain and which ultimately cost him his life.  In 1924 Mallory died on his third attempt to reach the top of Mount Everest.     

Once Mallory had set the whole crazy idea to summit the tallest mountain in the world in motion, someone would have to do it.  Everest had to be conquered; it just had to be—human nature, I suppose, to see the impossible and to make it possible.  So, the world would watch in eager anticipation to see who would be the first person to stand on top of the world.  Although this quest was scoffed at by some, many got caught up in the adventure, passion, and sheer determination of those who attempted to achieve this goal.  It wasn’t until Twenty nine years after Mallory’s death that Everest was finally conquered by Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay in 1953.  It was an amazing feat that left the world astounded—in an era before the modern high-tech tools of today.  

 Everest has always intrigued me.  I was captivated by the book “Into Thin Air,” the true story of 8 climbers who were killed and many others were seriously injured attempting to summit Mt. Everest.   It was amazing to me that seemingly normal people would risk their lives to stand on top of some mountain.  Sure, it would be incredible and a small part of me vicariously felt the exhilaration and excitement of their accomplishment; however, the more levelheaded side of me saw the images of death and extreme frost bite; black rotting skin, loss of fingers, toes, and noses which reaffirmed my notion that the whole idea was irrational and lacking of good judgment. Yet, people still do it.  Why?  They don’t do it for love, or money, or science, or any logical reason.  It’s bizarre.  Still, I could not dismiss that deep inside a part of me was a little envious of their tenacity, drive, and especially for their total disregard of common sense.

Not only did Mallory go down in history for his attempt to conquer Everest, but for me, he answered the great question of all questions--why?  People were looking for Mallory to explain the madness that possessed him and others, who put their lives at stake, to attempt something so irrational.   People wanted a concrete logical explanation, “Why?”  Mallory’s answer was ingenious.  His short simple comment said so much without saying anything at all.  His famous answer came when a reporter on national TV asked, “why?” His simple response, “Because it was there.”  Surely, Mallory did not really intend to risk his life and limb to climb Everest just “because it was there”.  He must have known that no explanation, no matter how in depth, could satisfy the rational mind.  It was neither logical nor practical. It was something much more, something that bystanders could only catch a glimpse. 

Mallory’s comment became the perfect answer for me when I had set a goal to run the St. George Marathon--“Because it was there.” No lengthy soul searching comment, no clever or humorous remark.   Besides, I really wasn’t sure why myself, and it was the best explanation I could come up with when I ran into my first cynic, Cheryl.

Until then, everyone I told about my new found goal was impressed or at least pretended to be impressed and responded positively and encouragingly, so I was caught off guard by the first brutally honest response.

I was so proud when I announced to Cheryl that I was going to run the Marathon.  She and I were part of the 20 percent of returning college students at Dixie State College over the age of thirty; however, we were much older than that.  I had just turned 40 and she was nearing 50.  The politically correct term was non-traditional student.  It did sound better than, "the Old lady in my class".  We were instantly drawn to each other in a sea of very young and very smart classmates.  Returning to college was extremely hard on my self-confidence.  Students would ask me if I was the professor when I walked into class.  "No," I would say as I took my seat next to someone who could have been my kid.  I felt so out of place as a 40 year old freshman taking classes like math 900 which some students, including me, referred to as dummy math.   In Biology, I struggled with even the simplest concepts.  I’m not sure if DNA was even discovered when I was in high school, and if it was, I certainly wouldn’t remember—that was over 20 years ago.  I had to start from scratch where some of these kids had been taking college classes in high school.  And if that wasn’t hard enough, I was new to the area—new town, new people, new experiences.  Shortly after moving to St. George, Utah, I enrolled in college.  I was very much out of my comfort zone and feeling very insecure. 

 Cheryl and I met in American History 1700 (freshman history). I noticed her right off on the first day of class.  We were the oldest in the class except the teacher who only had us by a few years.  Cheryl’s warm friendly smile assured me that I was not alone in my plight.  She motioned to the seat next to her which I happily slid into and set my books gently on the desk.  Her bleached blond hair hung gently on her shoulders.  Unlike mine, her appearance was always polished.  She was the kind of person who looked sophisticated even in a pair of jeans.  I, on the other hand, I didn’t stress much about things like that.  Comfort and function were my top priorities.  I would wear my pajamas if I thought I could.       

My professor, Cheryl, and I often stayed after class to philosophize about different subjects—politics, religion, history, small towns, or whatever peeked our interest.  I normally found our conversations enjoyable and rewarding, but this time was quite different. The topic turned to my decision to run the marathon.  I guess I expected them to be excited for me but instead Cheryl’s forehead wrinkled and her face became distorted. “Why would you do that?” she replied incredulously. She didn’t even attempt to cover up the disgust in her voice.  It was as if I had just told her I was considering torturing myself in some masochistic way—which, I suppose I was.  My college professor added in a matter of fact tone, “That’s crazy. I just don’t understand why people do that.  It makes no sense what so ever.” 

 I stood there trying to explain myself searching for something smart or profound to say, but I just stammered and rattled off a few half hearted reasons about getting in shape and losing a few pounds.  They didn’t hesitate to let me know how foolish that was, and quickly pointed out that there were far better ways to accomplish those things.  Of course, I knew that before I even spoke, but I didn’t know what else to say. 

I began to question myself, and I wasn’t coming up with anything.  Really, what had gotten into me? Had I lost all my marbles?   I felt about three feet tall.  The thought of running a marathon had excited me. I had felt exhilarated ever since I decided to run the marathon, and each time I expressed my feelings about it something inside me swelled, but now I just felt stupid. 

I hid my emotions until I was out of the building and on my way to my car which was parked 300 yards across campus.  My normal posture slumped and my heart sank as I walked.  I looked only at my feet and didn’t notice the beautiful sunny day.  A tear escaped from the corner of my eye and I pushed it away.  What was I trying to prove anyway?  What was wrong with me?  I wasn't smart enough for college, and I was too old for a marathon.  A walked in silence with my head down until something broke me from the grips of the darkness I felt inside.   I had felt this dark feeling way too often in my life.  Anger was coming to the rescue as it often did.   

 With each step the anger grew.   I was angry at how they had made me feel—like an idiot.  I couldn’t explain my desire to run a marathon to myself and certainly not to a stifled old professor who relied on facts and logic, and a lady who preferred talking about life rather than living it.   The anger felt good and empowering as it pushed aside the hurt.   “Who are they anyway?” I thought as I clenched my teeth, “They’re just a couple of pompous arrogant know-it-alls who don’t really know anything at all,”  I yelled in my mind.    I didn’t need to explain myself to them or anyone else—“because it’s there!”   I mumbled a few obscenities under my breath to console myself. 

Halfway to my emotions began to settle.  With each step, the anger and hurt began to slowly disperse.  I stopped momentarily and closed my eyes.   I took a deep breath.  The cool crisp autumn air filled my lungs. I held it as long as I could and then released it as I opened my eyes.  It was like consuming something incredible.  It was like breathing in energy and peace at the same time.  There is just something about autumn.  I began walking again.  I felt the sun on my face.  I noticed the tall mature trees on campus and how the green leaves rustled in the gentle breeze.  In St. George, the leaves wouldn’t turn the brilliant fall colors until November.  

Now that I had gotten a hold of my emotions, I began to realize something.  I used to feel the exact same way about marathons as my professor and my friend which is probably why it hit me so hard.  I had never even remotely considered running a marathon before now.  It was just four years ago when I was the one on the other end of a conversation about marathons.  That seemed like a lifetime ago.  I was the cynic then.  I remember talking to my friend April, whom I had known for nearly twelve years.  I recall the phone conversation I had with her all those years ago when she suggested I run the St. George Marathon with her.   In trying to convince me she said, “Oh, come on Sal; it will be fun!”  “Fun!?” I remember thinking, “Sounded more like torture to me.   Camping, hiking, and mountain biking were fun, reading a good book on a sandy beach was fun, but running 26.2 miles was just wrong.” I had always exercised and enjoyed new experiences, but a marathon used to seem well, I hate to say it—but just stupid, but so much had happened in the past four years.  For the most part I was the same person, but something had changed.  I was no longer the person I used to be.   

I suppose my negative attitude towards marathons back then was fueled in part by my extremely rational personality, and running a marathon was near the top of my list of ridiculous things to do.  The notion of paying an entry fee to run a grueling race which I had no chance of winning or even finishing in the top 50 percent made no sense whatsoever.  Not only would it be painful, but it seemed like such a waste of precious time, energy, and money.  My response to anyone who even hinted that I should run a marathon was a firm, “No way!”  No hesitation, no second thought, not even an ounce of desire. I could not understand why any sane person would do such a  thing, and now I was that insane person!  And, that was how I answered April four years ago.  It was a short but firm, “No.” It was nothing like the “no” she was accustomed to hearing me say—the one that starts out slowly with a slight bit of hesitation.   April heard that one plenty of times from me.  She could usually convince me to change my mind about almost anything especially if it involved being active and being outdoors.  However, this time she knew by the tone of my voice that there was no use in pursuing any further tactics.  I felt then the way my professor and Cheryl felt now: a marathon was just a bit extreme for me, and for April as well, I had thought.   

  At the time, I was the one wondering what possessed her.  She was just as sensible as I was.   She graduated from Utah State University with a bachelor’s degree in accounting and worked for a local CPA firm.  Her name even fit her—April because she was born in April.  How practical is that? We had been friends for so long and had so much in common we seemed almost like sisters.  I found it hard to believe she was really serious about a marathon. So, what had gotten into her?  And now, what had gotten into me? 

It was not rational, but perhaps it was something more—something neither of us could explain.  Each year as October neared there was excitement in the air.  The marathon was always the first Saturday in October, and each year, thousands of people from all over the world descended on St. George to fulfill a dream of accomplishing a monumental goal. The front page of the local paper was dominated by it, conversations turned to it, the trickle of early morning joggers increased with each passing month. And, each year more and more people from St. George made it their dream.  I wondered if April felt the anticipation and enthusiasm that surrounded her, and now that the notion had entered her mind did it touch something inside her which she wouldn’t be able to put aside?  She didn’t run the marathon that year nor the next or the next.   

Now that I was in St. George, I could feel it. I wondered if April's goal to run the marathon would always be there nagging at her like a gentle breeze that would whisper relentlessly to her soul.  Would she always feel the longing?  Would it be hidden deep inside and sometimes surface with burning regret?  I knew there would be only one way to satisfy the yearning, but for now she would just push it aside. She would use all her logical reasoning to sooth the disappointment in her heart for giving up on her goal; she would tell herself she was just postponing it, so she wouldn’t lose a part of herself.

  I wondered about April because that is what I had been doing for most of my life—pushing my aspirations aside.  But this time was different; I could not dismiss it. I had done that too many times.  From the moment I determined to run the marathon I knew that there was no turning back.  It was more than a gentle whisper; it was loud and clear and burned in my heart, and there was no ignoring it.   I had set a goal and nothing was going to stop me from achieving it.  I knew if I didn’t do it, I would be letting go of my dream, and I just couldn’t bear that, especially not now. I had already lost so much of myself by giving in and giving up that I barely knew who I was anymore.