An innocent post on either the Tejas Trails or Hill County Trail Runners forum informed me of this inaugural race. I had heard of the Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, D.C., but hadn't heard of a similar marathon for the military branch most close to my own family. Both of my parents were in the Army and, in fact, met on Fort Hood, Texas. My Mom was stationed in Maryland, Monterrey, and Texas, picking up an inkling of French and Russian in the process. She intercepted transmissions and translated; I've yet to get her to tell me of the one classified report she had to make. My Dad was a career Army soldier. He enlisted out of high school and was stationed in Fort Hood, Texas, with various deployments to Germany and the Middle East. After flight school in Alabama, he was a helicopter pilot with deployments to Central America. He retired after over twenty years of service.
To say veterans have a special place in my heart is an understatement. The majority of the country appreciates and respects the sacrifices our armed men and women make for us on a daily basis. Unfortunately, a large portion of the country fails to truly understand the extent of that sacrifice. The sacrifice not only is required of the solider, but the responsibility also encompasses spouses, children, parents, siblings, neighbors, and friends. I will never forget the moment I broke into deliriously happy sobs when my Mom told me my Daddy was coming home from Honduras, after eons of monthly letters, packages, and momentos. The sacrifice is borne wordlessly and often is overlooked.
When I found out about the Army Marathon, I knew it was an opportunity I could not miss. It was the inaugural running, from my hometown of Killeen, Texas to the place where I said goodbye to my own hero, my Dad, in Temple. Twenty six point two miles of memories, reflection, and challenge. In short: an opportunity to honor it all. Though others ran the race for our Army heroes as a monolithic group, I ran only for Dad. I was nervous about the emotions that likely would well up during the course, but I knew it would be cathartic and therapeutic.
The week leading up to the marathon was one of the more stressful, though by no means the worst lead. Ben and I have been in the process of searching for a home. In the days before the race, our hearts twice were broken by a shady opportunity and a lost dream home. Finally, however, our luck turned and on Friday, we entered into a contract on our first home together. It was with this exciting development that I entered race weekend.
After my experience at the Austin LIVESTRONG Marathon, I have realized my anxieties differ depending on the length of the race and the course. A trail ultramarathon is less daunting these days. Of course, I continue to train and I respect the course. I plan my nutrition and hydration, and I certainly don't act foolishly. A road marathon, however, has me on edge. I train on the roads, but there is something about the infamous marathon distance that gets me. Perhaps it is the knowledge that 26.2 miles of pounding the concrete is going to feel much, much worse on Monday morning than 31 or 50 miles of the rockiest terrain Joe Prusaitis can find.
Combine the home search anxiety with the pre-road marathon anxiety and I was a bundle of sunny spirits! We somehow made it through the week and found ourselves on our way to Killeen to tuck in for the night. I had my now-ritualistic race-eve dinner at about 3:00 p.m., fired up "The Spirit of the Marathon," and cozied up to my favorite crew, Ben. Given the week prior, it was no surprise that I fell right to sleep around 8:00 or 9:00 p.m., with little by way of random awakenings over the course of the evening.
Four thirty came as it always does. I checked the temperature: low 50s. I thanked myself for packing my running pants, lightweight jacket, and gloves. After a guzzle of Diet Dr. Pepper and generous layer of deodorant, we rendezvoused with Mom and headed to the start line.
Considering the emotional base of the race for me and Mom, we found ourselves discussing Dad more than any anxieties of the race itself. It's as if we knew he would carry us through. The minutes ticked down and soon we were lining up, seeding ourselves as best we could among the less than thousand runners who had showed up for the day.
We started off down W.S. Young, a street so familiar I could tell you the significance of almost every building along the way. We started from the Killeen Convention Center, the site of many proms and school gatherings. Then there was the Killeen Mall and the J.C. Penny where my Dad had the stylist cut off my hair into an oh-so-darling crew cut. Next up, the school and our first 7-11 (Slurpee, anyone?). Soon we turned right and toward Harker Heights, home of countless tattoo shops, drive-through liquor barns, and dance halls. I was so overcome with the memories that I hardly noticed the miles ticking by. I simply was astounded at how familiar it all was, yet so different. I thought about how, had decisions been made differently, I might still live here.
Soon, the urban scene began to peter off as we neared the Killeen Airport. This was around mile five. As I turned the corner on a small "lollipop" portion of the course, I was confronted with the PHI Air Killeen Base. This was the first of my meetings with Dad for the morning. Dad flew for PHI, though not out of Killeen. I choked back some strong tears, kissed my fingers, and pointed up to the sky. "I feel you, Daddy. Let's do this."
I rounded out mile six and kept moving through the miles. As I came into the double digits, the scenery was decidedly pastoral. I was struck with the beauty of the area. I'd never appreciated it when I was younger, simply hating the culture and wanting to flee the scene as soon as I arrived. In taking in the views along the course, I was disappointed this was the first time my eyes had been open to the beauty.
Mile thirteen met me with my first spectators! An old friend (another inherited from Mom), Vanessa, and her husband, Tony, were waiting with camera at the ready. I barely noticed them there, only seeing Tony waving at the last minute, giving me enough time to pose for Vanessa's camera. It was a wonderful and unexpected pep at the midway point!
At this point, I started becoming curious when I'd see my favorite orange slices. The race materials said there would be no gels at the water stations. "Understandable," I thought, "but surely they'll have oranges!" I saw some being handed out at 13.3, but didn't pick any up. I don't like refueling until around mile 15, sometimes even mile 20 or 21. If they had oranges at the midway point, I was certain they'd have them later down the line. I kept running.
I don't remember much about the miles between thirteen and twenty one. I continued to take in the scenery, noticed a slight twinge in my left hip, and kept thinking about what I was out there for. At times, I felt like crying from sadness and anger at losing my Dad before I was even twenty five years old, before I could even call him an old man and he really be an old man. Where was the justice in what had happened? Why had it happened? Why him? Why us? Of course, there are no answers to these questions. No amount of miles in the world will ever answer those questions. I kept running.
I was excited for mile 20 because then I could do a few things. First, I could tick off the remaining miles (6 left...5 left...4 left...et cetera) without much arithmetic required (though my brain failed still; apparently mile 23 leaves me with eight miles to go in your standard marathon). Second, I could harken back to my finish at Austin and track how much better I was doing. Third, I could allow myself to start thinking in how much time I had left (e.g., at the 10K mark, it was a simple weekly run and I could be done in about an hour).
Unfortunately, it wasn't as smooth sailing as I had imagined at the middle miles. There were no oranges. The sun was beginning to be bothersome. I could feel the blood blister getting bigger on my right foot.
Complaints. Simply complaints. I reminded myself what I was out here for: I was running for a man who no longer can run. I was running for a man who had devoted his life to serving others without complaint. I was running to honor him and everything he stood for. "Keep going, girl!," an older man shouted at me. The tone and tenor of his voice was spot on for my Dad's. I had to convince myself it wasn't him and, quite frankly, restrain myself from running to him for a hug, I was so convinced it was Dad cheering me on. I kept running.
The miles began to drag, no longer ticking away as effortlessly as earlier. I figured I must have started out much faster than I should have, though, because despite the slow pace, I was right on time for a sub-four hour finish. I kept running.
Sweat began to sting my eyes and salt began to crumble off my face. I guzzled water at each of the aid stations left on the course, one each mile, save for the last one. I could see the final turn and didn't want to know what would happen if I stopped running, even if only for a moment, at this point. I kept running.
The smiles and the cheer of the spectators was incredible. Their genuineness was overwhelming and kept me buoyed as I felt myself slogging to the finish line. I made the final turn, anxious to see the finish line. I didn't see it as I'd hoped. I kept running.
I knew I had just a few minutes left, a few more minutes of pain, discomfort, and unwieldy emotions. I kept running.
I came around a slight curve and there it was. By no account was this a large race, but the finisher chute was lined with people sporting posters, noise makers, and encouragement. I was so overcome I couldn't look them in the eye. I kept running.
I crossed the finish line in under four hours. The expected sobbing didn't materialize, though I surmise it may be because it was a race of vindication for Dad, rather than of vindication for me. Perhaps his joy and pride came through as the timing mat registered my finish. Who knows? For now, I'll just keep running.
Dad, I love you. I thank you for the sacrifice you made for me, for Kyle, and for our family. I pray that you are safe, that you are happy, and that you are whole.
Army Marathon: We Run with Heroes
Killeen, Texas to Temple, Texas
3:56:15
Nineteenth female overall
Fourth female in age group, 25-29
91st overall (of 601 finishers)
To say veterans have a special place in my heart is an understatement. The majority of the country appreciates and respects the sacrifices our armed men and women make for us on a daily basis. Unfortunately, a large portion of the country fails to truly understand the extent of that sacrifice. The sacrifice not only is required of the solider, but the responsibility also encompasses spouses, children, parents, siblings, neighbors, and friends. I will never forget the moment I broke into deliriously happy sobs when my Mom told me my Daddy was coming home from Honduras, after eons of monthly letters, packages, and momentos. The sacrifice is borne wordlessly and often is overlooked.
When I found out about the Army Marathon, I knew it was an opportunity I could not miss. It was the inaugural running, from my hometown of Killeen, Texas to the place where I said goodbye to my own hero, my Dad, in Temple. Twenty six point two miles of memories, reflection, and challenge. In short: an opportunity to honor it all. Though others ran the race for our Army heroes as a monolithic group, I ran only for Dad. I was nervous about the emotions that likely would well up during the course, but I knew it would be cathartic and therapeutic.
The week leading up to the marathon was one of the more stressful, though by no means the worst lead. Ben and I have been in the process of searching for a home. In the days before the race, our hearts twice were broken by a shady opportunity and a lost dream home. Finally, however, our luck turned and on Friday, we entered into a contract on our first home together. It was with this exciting development that I entered race weekend.
After my experience at the Austin LIVESTRONG Marathon, I have realized my anxieties differ depending on the length of the race and the course. A trail ultramarathon is less daunting these days. Of course, I continue to train and I respect the course. I plan my nutrition and hydration, and I certainly don't act foolishly. A road marathon, however, has me on edge. I train on the roads, but there is something about the infamous marathon distance that gets me. Perhaps it is the knowledge that 26.2 miles of pounding the concrete is going to feel much, much worse on Monday morning than 31 or 50 miles of the rockiest terrain Joe Prusaitis can find.
Combine the home search anxiety with the pre-road marathon anxiety and I was a bundle of sunny spirits! We somehow made it through the week and found ourselves on our way to Killeen to tuck in for the night. I had my now-ritualistic race-eve dinner at about 3:00 p.m., fired up "The Spirit of the Marathon," and cozied up to my favorite crew, Ben. Given the week prior, it was no surprise that I fell right to sleep around 8:00 or 9:00 p.m., with little by way of random awakenings over the course of the evening.
Four thirty came as it always does. I checked the temperature: low 50s. I thanked myself for packing my running pants, lightweight jacket, and gloves. After a guzzle of Diet Dr. Pepper and generous layer of deodorant, we rendezvoused with Mom and headed to the start line.
Considering the emotional base of the race for me and Mom, we found ourselves discussing Dad more than any anxieties of the race itself. It's as if we knew he would carry us through. The minutes ticked down and soon we were lining up, seeding ourselves as best we could among the less than thousand runners who had showed up for the day.
We started off down W.S. Young, a street so familiar I could tell you the significance of almost every building along the way. We started from the Killeen Convention Center, the site of many proms and school gatherings. Then there was the Killeen Mall and the J.C. Penny where my Dad had the stylist cut off my hair into an oh-so-darling crew cut. Next up, the school and our first 7-11 (Slurpee, anyone?). Soon we turned right and toward Harker Heights, home of countless tattoo shops, drive-through liquor barns, and dance halls. I was so overcome with the memories that I hardly noticed the miles ticking by. I simply was astounded at how familiar it all was, yet so different. I thought about how, had decisions been made differently, I might still live here.
Soon, the urban scene began to peter off as we neared the Killeen Airport. This was around mile five. As I turned the corner on a small "lollipop" portion of the course, I was confronted with the PHI Air Killeen Base. This was the first of my meetings with Dad for the morning. Dad flew for PHI, though not out of Killeen. I choked back some strong tears, kissed my fingers, and pointed up to the sky. "I feel you, Daddy. Let's do this."
I rounded out mile six and kept moving through the miles. As I came into the double digits, the scenery was decidedly pastoral. I was struck with the beauty of the area. I'd never appreciated it when I was younger, simply hating the culture and wanting to flee the scene as soon as I arrived. In taking in the views along the course, I was disappointed this was the first time my eyes had been open to the beauty.
Mile thirteen met me with my first spectators! An old friend (another inherited from Mom), Vanessa, and her husband, Tony, were waiting with camera at the ready. I barely noticed them there, only seeing Tony waving at the last minute, giving me enough time to pose for Vanessa's camera. It was a wonderful and unexpected pep at the midway point!
At this point, I started becoming curious when I'd see my favorite orange slices. The race materials said there would be no gels at the water stations. "Understandable," I thought, "but surely they'll have oranges!" I saw some being handed out at 13.3, but didn't pick any up. I don't like refueling until around mile 15, sometimes even mile 20 or 21. If they had oranges at the midway point, I was certain they'd have them later down the line. I kept running.
I don't remember much about the miles between thirteen and twenty one. I continued to take in the scenery, noticed a slight twinge in my left hip, and kept thinking about what I was out there for. At times, I felt like crying from sadness and anger at losing my Dad before I was even twenty five years old, before I could even call him an old man and he really be an old man. Where was the justice in what had happened? Why had it happened? Why him? Why us? Of course, there are no answers to these questions. No amount of miles in the world will ever answer those questions. I kept running.
I was excited for mile 20 because then I could do a few things. First, I could tick off the remaining miles (6 left...5 left...4 left...et cetera) without much arithmetic required (though my brain failed still; apparently mile 23 leaves me with eight miles to go in your standard marathon). Second, I could harken back to my finish at Austin and track how much better I was doing. Third, I could allow myself to start thinking in how much time I had left (e.g., at the 10K mark, it was a simple weekly run and I could be done in about an hour).
Unfortunately, it wasn't as smooth sailing as I had imagined at the middle miles. There were no oranges. The sun was beginning to be bothersome. I could feel the blood blister getting bigger on my right foot.
Complaints. Simply complaints. I reminded myself what I was out here for: I was running for a man who no longer can run. I was running for a man who had devoted his life to serving others without complaint. I was running to honor him and everything he stood for. "Keep going, girl!," an older man shouted at me. The tone and tenor of his voice was spot on for my Dad's. I had to convince myself it wasn't him and, quite frankly, restrain myself from running to him for a hug, I was so convinced it was Dad cheering me on. I kept running.
The miles began to drag, no longer ticking away as effortlessly as earlier. I figured I must have started out much faster than I should have, though, because despite the slow pace, I was right on time for a sub-four hour finish. I kept running.
Sweat began to sting my eyes and salt began to crumble off my face. I guzzled water at each of the aid stations left on the course, one each mile, save for the last one. I could see the final turn and didn't want to know what would happen if I stopped running, even if only for a moment, at this point. I kept running.
The smiles and the cheer of the spectators was incredible. Their genuineness was overwhelming and kept me buoyed as I felt myself slogging to the finish line. I made the final turn, anxious to see the finish line. I didn't see it as I'd hoped. I kept running.
I knew I had just a few minutes left, a few more minutes of pain, discomfort, and unwieldy emotions. I kept running.
I came around a slight curve and there it was. By no account was this a large race, but the finisher chute was lined with people sporting posters, noise makers, and encouragement. I was so overcome I couldn't look them in the eye. I kept running.
I crossed the finish line in under four hours. The expected sobbing didn't materialize, though I surmise it may be because it was a race of vindication for Dad, rather than of vindication for me. Perhaps his joy and pride came through as the timing mat registered my finish. Who knows? For now, I'll just keep running.
Dad, I love you. I thank you for the sacrifice you made for me, for Kyle, and for our family. I pray that you are safe, that you are happy, and that you are whole.
Army Marathon: We Run with Heroes
Killeen, Texas to Temple, Texas
3:56:15
Nineteenth female overall
Fourth female in age group, 25-29
91st overall (of 601 finishers)
