downpours and dichotomies.

sunday's distance: 13.1 (that's not a marathon)
on the iPod: "in a little while" -- U2

It's been a little bit over 24 hours since the Oklahoma City Marathon and I still can't decide how I feel about it. This is what I know for certain: it rained. A lot.

As Cynthia Puckett, Mrs. Murie and I headed out early on Saturday morning across the state line for my second marathon, I felt a moderate amount of anxiety around the event, which is to be expected. Comfortable with how my training had gone, and despite my nervousness, I was ready to go out and have fun running 26.2 miles. We arrived in OKC without incident and went immediately to the expo to pick up our race bibs and swag bags. We also had full instructions to pick up Mrs. Pugh's accoutraments, as she was still in NWA to watch her son's middle school talent show. She gave us text message updates throughout, with the highlights being the countless Taylor Swift and Justin Bieber solos.



The expo was crowded and tight, so we bailed early and opted for lunch and a tour of the Oklahoma City National Mermorial and Museum. None of us had ever been and were taken aback by the immense beauty created out of such terror and violence some 16 years ago. Perhaps the most moving portion of the memorial were the field of empty chairs, each representing one of the 168 lives lost on that tragic morning in April.

It was so nice and calming to run into a great running friend, Deanna Duplanti, at the memorial. A marathon veteran, she has run the OKC marathon every single year since it's inception and told us she is one of about 50 runners to do so. What an inspiration. She had some really encouraging words for me and I very much appreciated visiting with her. We've run into each other at races for years now and she knows I think the world of her.

We met Mrs. Pugh and her husband Eric at the Embassy Suites in time for happy hour drinks in the hotel lobby, where a ton of other runners were staying as well. There also was a wedding scheduled in the lobby for 6:30. The atmosphere was fun and relaxed as we all laughed and visited and talked about the race. It was good.

The traditional pre-race meal for distance runs is almost always some sort of pasta dish. The idea is to load up on carbohydrates and store much-needed energy to survive the final mileage. For no specific reason, but rather just circumstance, I had never actually followed this storied regimen until we pulled into the parking lot of the finest Italian restaurant in Oklahoma City, Portofino's. That's what we thought, at least. Upon entering, we should have immediately turned around and gone to the Chili's across the street, but decided instead to stick with our guns and take in all that Portofino's had to offer. Which was alot.

The highlight of the entire meal was possibly the comically oversized fishing boat featured prominently in the middle of the dining room. Obviously a leftover from the previous tennant, we couldn't decide if it used to be a tacky seafood restaurant or the state's largest indoor putt-putt golf course. Either one would have worked. Not to be outdone, the fishing boat was accompanied by the worst (but sweet) waitstaff on the planet, an overly phallic chandeleir that would have made any trashy Vegas casino proud, Asian decorations on the wall, and a menu that contained four pages of marginal frozen Italian food from which to choose. The company at the table, however, made it a meal I won't soon forget. If I had to do it over again, I wouldn't change a thing. But I'd demand to be seated in the great big boat.

Before calling it a night, we watched the local weather talking head give his thoughts regarding what to expect for the race. Things didn't look good, as he all but guaranteed a wet event. I fell asleep with an optimistic outlook and a healthy dose of anticipation around my second marathon. Nothing could prepare me for what I would find when we left the hotel at 5:30 a.m. the next morning.

It began to sprinkle about a half-mile down the road as we made our way downtown. By the time we exited the interstate, approximately five miles and twenty minutes later, it was a full-on rain. Running a bit late because of traffic issues, Mrs. Murie and I ran from from the parking deck after getting separated in traffic from Mrs. Pugh who was in her big-ass SUV behind us. The wind and rain were formidable and within blocks we had wet feet and heads. Our hurry was for naught, however, when fellow runners huddled under business awnings told us that the start had been delayed by 30 minutes in hopes that the weather would pass. We took shelter with our new running compadres as the rain and wind and cold only got worse.

Making our way to the start corral in pouring rain and biting winds, I was terrified at what was ahead of me. Running 26.2 miles was an incredibly daunting task that I had only completed once before, and I couldn't imagine doing it again in these conditions. Not at all. I was incredibly scared and overwhelmed at thinking about having to do it again. My heart sank and I was overcome with fear. How could I back out at this moment? I simply couldn't. Mrs. Murie, with her grace and amazing attitude toward life, was as encouraging as she could be. We shivered in the crowd of 25,000 runners and waited for the gun to go off. We hadn't even crossed the starting line and we were already soaked. The skies above showed no signs of letting up.

Even worse, we were separated from Mrs. Pugh and had no way of knowing if she was in front or behind us. I already missed my friend and was worried about her. As the rains increased and the minutes ticked down to the start, we decided to take it one mile at a time and give it our best shot. Without telling Mrs. Murie, I decided in that moment that I wouldn't be running my second marathon that day, but I would do everything I could to go as far as possible. I was deeply ashamed and disappointed, but couldn't fathom how I would muster the strength, energy, and will to go the distance. I couldn't.

The start provided a brief surge of excitement, albeit a rain-soaked one. We settled in to steady downpours, heavy winds from the north, and temperatures in the low 40's. Our layers of water-proof gear were drenched and our feet were sopping wet. To say that we were running with discomfort would be an understatement. But somehow we found ourselves pushing forward as the rain increased. The miles were difficult and miserable, but we didn't give up.

I slowly became comfortable with my decision to forgo the full marathon and, somewhere around mile five, told Mrs. Murie that i'd be running the half with her instead. She rationalized my decision, telling me that it was okay, being supportive and encouraging immediately. Verbalizing this was bittersweet for me, as i'd made up my mind hours ago, but saying it out loud made it feel more concrete. It also, on some levels, lifted a weight off my shoulders. The truth is that I was very scared to think about having to run second half alone, without my friends there with me. That terrifying thought was now gone. But the weather was a different story. It continued to rain.

We rounded a corner between miles seven and eight and it hit me like a ton of bricks. The turnoff for marathoners was about 50 yards ahead of me and I wasn't prepared to face the dilemna again. Second guessing my will power and determination, I followed the half-marathoners back toward downtown, but not without tears falling and of shame and sorrow overwhelming my thoughts. It simply wasn't my day.

The rain only increased as we finished the final miles of the half-marathon. Mrs. Murie and I running together, making the best of our frozen hands, drenched clothes, and soaked feet. I slowly became comfortable with my decision again, even mildly enjoying the final miles and managing to remember and recognizing all that I love about running. We never stopped looking for Mrs. Pugh, but fate would have us cross the finish line without her on this race day.

Patiently waiting for us, Cynthia Puckett had a look of relief on her face when she saw us in the final stretch. I felt compassion for her as I thought about the hours she had spent standing in the elements and waiting for us to finish. I was so thankful to see her and hug her and say thank you for supporting me. We wasted no time heading back to the parking deck and getting away from the race as soon as possible. Shivering and feeling miserable, we piled in the car and rehashed the calamity of the morning on the short ride back to the hotel. Cringes of guilt and disappointment came and went, but ultimately I had to accept the outcome. Back at the hotel, having showered and changed into dry clothes, I watched the unforgiving rain continue to fall. It began to hail dime-sized ice balls and all I could think about was the fact that I would have been somewhere around mile 19 had I not made the decision.

Life is unpredictable, I suppose, and rarely turns out the way one expects, or wants, it to. I had experienced that very instance only a few days before, and was left feeling empty and rejected inside. I went to bed that night incredibly hurt, and woke up the next morning with the same emotions, only then they were even more real. The trick is to be able to accept the dissapointments, not linger in blame, and know that regardless of what happens, tomorrow is a new day and the sun will rise again. Looking at it from that perspective, the weather was meant to be, as it helped me realize that things will always be okay, no matter how dark the skies seem to be.

There will be more races to run and more storms to endure. While I didn't finish my second marathon in Oklahoma City, I had an experience that will make me stronger for having endured it. That's the takeaway: life is short and you've got to make the most of every single moment. I'm going to do just that.

We headed home shortly after noon, a half-marathon medal in tow, and dry shoes on our feet. The drive back was quiet and reflective. After dinner with my family, whom I love so incredibly much, I went to bed early and was asleep almost instantaneously, lulled by the sounds of drops hitting my window and thunder in the distance.

It never stopped raining.