#13: Part 1. "The miracle isn't that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start."

Hello Internet world. I’m still alive.  Two months since my last race, I’m finally getting around to blogging about it…and in that time, I’ve managed to clock a 14^th half marathon that I was completely unprepared for & decided to run 12 hours before race time, which just goes to show it’s been far too long.  Sorry I suck.  I will give myself the credit of your average back-of-the-class C- student and say that I’ve had a LOT of this written already but I just never got around to finishing it and posting it until now.  While most of you probably think it’s due to a very lethargic attitude and intense procrastination (fine, it kind of is), I have this itty-bitty inkling it’s also the emotional twitch inside me whispering, “if you finish writing your last blog, it really means it’s over.”  Maybe I’m being dramatic, but the past 13 months have been remarkable. And I hate change. And I don’t really want it to be over, like a desperate girl that just got dumped in a sappy rom-com.  So here’s to the written word that will end this adventure, but will keep my memories alive in cyberspace.  I'm writing it in 2 parts: this first one will talk about my final race and part II will be what I like to call the "thank you edition". 

Because I ran and wrote about this exact race one year ago, I won’t go into the details about the flight, the expo nor the majority of this weekend.  Perhaps it’s because that since my final race, I’ve seemed to perfect the art of laziness…okay, no it’s not (I don’t consider running 10 miles tonight ‘lazy’).  Instead, it’s because I simply want to focus on the actual race itself—that proved to be powerful, emotional and completely beautiful.  And what I want on this blog goes, bitches.

I must mention that I was not alone for this final voyage; Mary Ellen made a repeat appearance and cheer section at the finish line.  I do have to make one mention of something expo and Mary Ellen related: she gave me one of the best gifts I think I’ve ever received (excluding her unconditional love, of course).  It’s a sterling silver necklace with a tiny rabbit and when you look at the chain, you notice a little turtle in front of the rabbit: it was a “Tortoise and the Hare” necklace to remind me that “slow and steady wins the race”, as the old fable goes.  The perfect keepsake to remember this race.  Mary Ellen was accompanied at that finish line with my cousin Kevin, who was incredible enough to make the stop in Jacksonville on his business trip to Orlando.

Arriving in Jacksonville

Expo

Signing the boards

My mom's signing

Ready to run at 5AM race morning in my custom tee!

My forever reminder that "slow and steady wins the race". 

It was a cold morning: 30 degrees that “felt like 21” according to my landline of a cell phone that always needs to be plugged in to stay charged but somehow predicts weather fairly accurately. This weather in Florida is what Alec Baldwin might deem Frozen Planet.  In my favorite black spandex race shorts (thoroughly documented in pictures throughout this past year) and a custom long sleeve race tee I designed so everyone I sped past would know what I’ve accomplished and obviously care, I weaved my way to my corral.  With a fresh playlist that combined a variety of recommendations from my Facebook Friends and Facebook strangers that I happen to be “friends” with, I took out the race with a modest 8:17 first mile.  I promised myself to just enjoy this race, especially after my mental turmoil in Alabama the month prior; I promised myself to run first with my head and then with my heart; and among these promises I told myself that my time didn’t matter for this one.  The sun began to rise at mile 2 and as I crossed the highway bridge nearing mile 3, with the sun kissing the ocean to my right, my eyes welled with tears.  Cue: The First Single by The Format, a tune that kindly reminds me of the summer of 2008 and my best friend Daytona that ensued a theme of thoughts surrounding pure happiness, friendship, accomplishment and memories.  I trudged on, picking up my pace ever so slightly with each mile.

Miles 5 and 6 cued the next symphony of tears.  I’d tell you to close your eyes and picture what I’m about to write, but then you wouldn’t be able to read it…and I think poor HK (my girl Helen Keller) passed before she could whip up some brail computer screens.  Come on Apple, get on it.  My feet resisted the damp sand below my feet as I entered the two-mile stretch on the beach.  The breeze was frigid but the ocean just yards to my right was soothing and breathtaking under the morning sun.  The beach was lined with supporters and just as last year, the large boards runners signed at the expo in memory and honor of those who have fought, survived, are fighting and lost their lives to breast cancer.  I couldn’t resist the tears, it was worse than watching George Clooney crying in a Honda Civic.  It was worse than baby penguins in need of sweaters from an oil spill (it’s real, Google that shit).  It was entirely beautiful and a flash of time I’ll treasure until I get old and senile.  With the tears filling up my eyes, I was actually crying.  Not just tearing up, crying.  And let me tell you, crying and running is hard.  I suggest choosing between the two, and I’d 90% of the time go for the latter.  Though I do enjoy a good cry.  The spectators probably thought I was bat-shit crazy: 1. For crying and 2. For being one of the few morons in shorts.

Miles 7 and 8 were strong for me, clocking sub 7:30 paces even with the cold wind fighting me.  I’m always the weirdo smiling while I run—I swear it actually helps.  So as I passed the beach houses, my eyes dried and I was bobbing my head to some super ghetto jams.  As I approached mile 10, I could already anticipate the incline.  I had spent the entire race avoiding the dread of the uphill stretch.  The wind was brutal; it continually smacked me in the face to the point that I couldn’t even feel if I was still smiling or not.  The mile 10 highway ramp started the incline as it wrapped around higher and higher to the same bridge where I watched the sun rise.  And then the real battle commenced: mile 11.  I can’t say it was a battle of blood, sweat and tears; but it WAS a battle of wind, tightening muscles, sweat and tears simply from the wind’s power and my contact lenses drying.  It took everything in me to push as hard as I could as I watched 95% of the runners give-into the battling winds and walk up the hill.  But all I could think was: This is it, Jenna. This is your last race. Finish it knowing you gave all you got.

Mile 12 relaxes in a slight downhill fashion, allowing for a speedy finish.  I rounded the corner to see the finish line and got goosebumps (1. Because I was freezing and 2. Because everything I had worked for the past 13 months was coming to an end).  The wind continued to resist my stride.  I ran and sprinted, as hard as I possibly could.  I darted my eyes around the crowds in search of my mom and cousin, who were out-of-sight.  And with my last strides, and every ounce of strength left in my body, I pulled myself across the finish line.  And puked (per usual).  And as I was puking, my heart welled with joy, pride, accomplishment and every overwhelming emotion possible, leading to tears (go figure).  I think I cried more that morning than an entire theater watching Rose let go of Jack in 3D.    I felt like Luol Deng shooting a 3-pointer; I felt like that dog in The Artist claiming its Oscar; but I was just an average 24 year old from Elmhurst, IL, finishing what I said I would do with everything I had in me and that’s all that really mattered.  Next thing I realized, the race volunteers were asking if I was okay and trying to get me into the medical tent.  I looked at them baffled, thinking “uh yeah why wouldn’t I be okay?” and then I remembered, when most people are puking and crying it means something’s wrong.  They didn’t realize that’s just normal behavior for me.

In an ideal world, I would have run my fastest time at my last race; in an ideal world, it would have been a perfect 55 degrees with a light breeze at my back; in an ideal world, my knees wouldn’t bear the pain of pounding on pavement for the past 400 days; in an ideal world, my eyes wouldn’t burn from the sweat my brows failed to catch; in an ideal world, I would've raised enough money to find the cure for breast cancer.  But that's not how things work and I can't say I'd ask for it any other way (minus the curing BC); I ended up clocking my third fastest time 1:42:22, which I couldn't be happier about knowing I gave it my all.  I surpassed my goal of $2,620 and raised $3,505.60 for breast cancer research through the Mayo Clinic thanks to the many fine people in my life.  So after all is said and done, that sounds pretty ideal to me.

I gathered my medal and in an instant spotted my mom and cousin bundled in their winter gear.  I was waving and smiling, trying to get their attention and they finally spotted me.  They threw their arms in the air waving and immediately started snapping pictures; I tried to smile but couldn’t- my face was literally frozen.  My cousin Kevin said he could tell I was trying to smile but just couldn’t manage as my cheeks were stained white with pink circles in the middle from being so cold and wind- burned.  I can still picture my mom, doing her “I’m so proud of you stance” that goes something like this: She’s smiling so wide you think it’s for a camera, she has a little shuffle in her feet as she bounces slightly from side-to-side, she has her arms up and out, bent at the elbow, as if she’s about to shake the shit out of some maracas, and just yells “WOOOO JENNA LYNN! YOU DID IT, (starts shaking her arms up and down, getting’ those imaginable maracas moving) YOU DID IT! I’M SO PROUD OF YOU” and pulls you in with her mini Mexican drum-poised arms for a big hug.  It’s the best.

I DID IT!

Best cousin for being there! 

There she is, good ol' Mary E.

Words can't describe how much I appreciate you both being there for me.

13 months. 13 medals.

Trying to make an excited face but it was still too frozen. 

After moments of hugging and letting my face thaw, we agreed to meet up after I finished winding through the runner-area.  After parting with them, the excitement and emotions subsided.  I continued to try to take it all in, but in reality, my continued feelings were a bit anti-climatic and it no longer felt like I had just finished my 13^th half marathon in 13 months.  I reengaged with my mom and cousin under a finishers’ tent, where I bundled on my post-race apparel and celebrated with them quietly.  Kevin and my mom took turns taking pictures of me, with me and asking strangers to take ones of our trio.  The 26.2 with Donna race to finish breast cancer does a great job of offering post-race amenities and entertainment (this year was a Sister Hazel concert.  Looks like they haven’t been doing much since they peaked when I was in middle school.) However, “All for you” and free bananas wasn’t nearly as tempting as a hot shower and warm clothes as we stood in 35 degree weather, so we headed to the hotel shortly after.

We finished the afternoon with a celebratory lunch and beers.  Mind you, finding an open, normal restaurant for lunch in Jacksonville, FL when you have no idea where anything is, is actually rather tricky.  Our first attempt at the café my mom and I celebrated after last year didn’t open for another hour so the three of us proceeded to see all that the hood of Jacksonville has to offer.  We passed the ghetto, we passed strip clubs, we passed adult superstores, we passed abandoned restaurants with fucked up names, we passed more strip clubs until we finally found a road that lead to civilization and normal eateries.  At this point, our definition of a normal restaurant was anything that looked open and had cars in the parking lot.  When we spotted a Capital Grille, we realized any restaurant around there would do so we opted for a brewery with a full parking lot.  We dined, parted from my cousin Kevin, and headed to the Jacksonville airport for our trip home.

When I started this journey last year, I was just bored and wanted to do something crazy.  I was recently heart-broken, living with my parents (nothing upsetting about that, just a matter-of-fact), and thinking this was a really fun idea without fully thinking it through and understanding the commitment it would take (financially, physically, and timely) or how hard it would be to stay motivated…and on my body.  As I reflect on all the experiences I’ve had throughout this crazy adventure, I realize how different of a person I am- for holding myself accountable, with no true reward besides 13 generic medals, a sense of pride and being able to say I accomplished something that not many will in their lifetime.  I’ve become so much more self-motivated, disciplined and as a result have so much more respect for myself.  Though it may seem boastful, it’s the honest truth.  I’ve also strengthened many of my relationships and friendships- from getting to visit/see my friends across the country to getting to see who actually supports me.  I’ve gotten to see cities and parts of the country I may have never gotten to see had it not been for this experience (honestly, why the hell else would I EVER go to Mobile, AL?)  I laugh at the times I thought I was stressed or had “so much going on” before I had to commit hours of my weeks to training and traveling for this;  I laugh at things I used to consider “hard”; I laugh at my weak self from a year ago who postponed training for this journey a week to cry over my shithead ex-boyfriend; I laugh at the brat I used to be towards my parents (okay, sometimes I still am) who were by far my biggest lifeline through this.    I think what I’ve come to realize is that when you set a goal that’s really big—and is bigger than you, as a single being—and has a bigger meaning for others that can benefit from it, you grow a little and you live a whole lot.  And I am happy to say I have done just that.

All 13 race bibs

"Wouldn't you say my collection's complete?" 

Thanks for reading, supporting, believing and putting up with my long-windedness.  It’s been real.  Stay tuned for part-two: you may be thanked if you're important enough.