A Struggle to the Finish

HEIDI MECHAM

A Struggle to the Finish

It is just approaching four a.m. during March in the city of St. George, Utah. When the rest of the city and the sun are still asleep, a young, petite woman is setting out on her first journey of the day. Although it is still chilly in most areas of Utah, the dry warm air envelopes her lean, sculpted body. The sun is her competitor each morning. Not only is she conditioning her body for the big race, she is conditioning her mind in a race against a big, bright ball of fire that has the capacity to wear her down and stop her dead in her tracks.

She stands in her driveway, engulfed in darkness, stretching her muscles that are already aware of the task ahead. With each pull and strain, blood flows to each area, warming tissue and lubricating joints. As she starts out from her home, her strides are long and thunderous. Energy is high and adrenaline is pumping. With each breath, her lungs expand with the early morning air. When she exhales, she feels like she is expelling the stress of the previous day from her windpipe and through her pores.

Each day she goes a little faster and a little farther, building up her stamina. Her legs carry her over rugged mountain trails that rise high up into the red terrain of Southern Utah, back down into deep crevasses of river banks. Her feet slosh in the sticky mud and make suctioning sounds as she pulls them out of the deep imprints. Water molecules spray under her pounding heels and cling to her toned legs. Her glistening body resembles a coin reflecting moonlight. She climbs out of the river valley and back into civilization. Each time her foot hits the black pavement, a hollow echoing sound arises, and as quick as it comes, it disappears into the darkness, snatched by the enormous black hand of nighttime.

As daylight breaks, she returns home. The temperature has already begun to rise to the high sixties, but she conquers the sun's radiating heat today. She completes her route just as lights turn on in neighboring homes to start the day, but her day is just beginning as well. She must sit through school in hard-backed chairs with her legs cramped up under a desk when all they want to do is stretch out and relax. After school it's on to work, on her feet until late at night, running back and forth, keeping irritated customers happy. "Ma'am, can I get more soda?" "Miss, my son just spilled his drink." "I asked for medium-rare, this is well-done!" Her back aches and her feet are throbbing. Yet something inside her drives her each morning for months to get up and continue to train.

It's early October, and the day of the Marathon has finally arrived. Everything she has worked for comes down to this day. She awakens

earlier than usual because the anxiety filling her body is about to break lose like a caged animal. She puts on a pair of skimpy shorts that resemble underwear and a tank top that looks like it could fit a five-year-old. She layers each article of clothing until she is completely dressed with a light jogging jacket and a pair of lose workout pants being the outer layer. Her shoes are flecked with dry mud, and the threads that hold them together are coming unraveled, looking almost like one more step might finish them off (a nicely broke-in pair).

Her husband drives her to the starting line. When the car stops to let her out, her mind resists like a stubborn mule. Her sweating hand is clutching the handle so hard, her knuckles are white and the blue-green veins are protruding out so far, you can see the blood pulsate through them. As she climbs out, the chilly October air and the blackness of night rush into the car. As she turns to say good-bye, her husband's eyes connect with hers in fear for her physical and emotional well-being and in encouragement. She hastily slams the door before she has chance to back out. The roar of the engine and the shift of the transmission fade into the distance.

When she approaches the starting line, she is handed a paper with large black numbers across it. As she pins it to her shirt, she feels like a convicted felon with no escape. Those numbers are her identity now. She makes her way through the hundreds of people, all white paper and black numbers blurring together. The competition's lean and toned bodies resemble thoroughbreds getting ready for a horse race. Their muscles quiver and shake with nervousness and excitement. She is not trying to win first place, just come in the first one hundred. The tension is so great; these people might as well pull at reins and toss their manes. It is time to begin.

The blast from the gun rings in her ears as the stampede of thoroughbreds act more like a herd of wild mustangs, all trying to get ahead and be the leader. As she sets out, her thoughts collect and her body responds. She feels free to run and knows her training has paid off. The anxiety is gone and her mind opens up. She knows she can do this. The scenery seems to zip past her as she draws in great breaths of morning air as if she cannot get enough of it. The sweet blooms of fresh apricots and apple fill her nostrils and lift her spirits. The rising sun illuminates orange and pink above the horizon with promise of a bright end to a long run.

Great yellow balloons mark each mile with big bold numbers notifying runners of their progress. These balloons pass by quickly as her powerful legs push on. At this rate, she can go on forever although she is only eleven miles into the race. Her legs feel like springs as her long, even strides spread farther. Her feet hit the hard dusty-red pavement with repeating thuds while small clouds of crimson dust surround her and linger even after she passes, like the road-runner outsmarting the coyote once

again. The bright colors of people's clothing around her keep her alert and focused. The yellows and florescent greens oft-shirts darting ahead make her feel like an overly energetic dog running after tennis balls. The cool breeze blowing through her hair and against her face feels like tiny massaging fingers and the early rising sun kisses her face with its warm radiance. She can taste the salt in her sweat, and she feels triumphant in knowing that her body is doing its job and running properly.

The atmosphere is so easy-going and carefree; she is able to hold conversations with fellow runners that are nearby. Many people have come from all over the country and some display t-shirts of lost loved ones. They say that is their driving force that keeps them going each mile. They even stop and urinate in front of one another. There is no shame and no judgment passed as they expose the flesh of their backsides; they are all in this together. Everyone's footsteps echo in her ears and force her to keep pace. The energy is so high, she has to be careful to not her mind get competitive and waste her physical strength. The crowd lining the fence is cheering every runner on. These unfamiliar faces knew nothing about her and did not judge. They praise her by yelling out how great she is doing, how marvelous she looks, and urge her to keep going. This encouragement from complete strangers somehow means more to her than if it came from someone she knows. Her body seems to find an extra burst of energy and she pushes harder to show them that their cheers of faith in her are correct.

Many miles pass and boredom is setting in. The yellow lines of the median in the road are becoming so mundane; reflective yellow lines about three feet in length and five inches wide as far as the eye can see ahead and behind. Her excitement arouses when it becomes a double yellow line for a little change of scenery. Even when she closes her eyes, the lines are still there and will remain there like a winding, yellow snake for the remaining ten miles. The runners have spread out and are no longer near one another. Even if they were, they are not in moods to visit any longer. The crowd's cheers have long since faded. Her pounding feet and her labored breathing are the only sounds she can hear now. She can feel the dull throb of her blood pumping through her body.

However, the boredom becomes welcome after the pain sets in during mile twenty. Her exhausted muscles begin to quiver and her labored breathing comes in short, abrupt gasps as her trembling lungs fill with the dry, scorching St. George air. As she inhales, the stench of her own body makes her sick enough that she bends to the right and vomits. Now, not only does she have the smell of herself to contend with, but the bitter taste of stomach acid is on her lips and burning her tongue. She has sweat all she can and now she is so dehydrated that she can literally rub the salt from her evaporated sweat off her face. If she were home, she could sprinkle it on her dinner.

The belt holding her water bottle is rubbing a gaping wound into her side and blood is flowing freely as it takes over the whiteness of her shirt. Her thighs are chaffing from rubbing together and every stride stings like a thousand bees. The searing pain in her feet shoots up through her body making every step agony. She later finds that pain to be that her toenails had literally fallen off, and the toes are swelling up to twice the size of normal. The blood and pus soaks through her shoes, which are so worn and tattered that the fabric has detached from the sole making them look like gaping mouths with five little, swollen tongues sticking out in jest. The bright colors of clothing now hurt her eyes and give her a headache that pounds at her temples. The breeze that once made her feel free and sure of herself is now the enemy. It pulls at her shaking body and pushes against her with such force, she feels like she is running in place. The sun that warmed her earlier is now a death ray, beating down on her with a temperature of well over one hundred degrees. She can see the waves of heat rising from the pavement like ocean waves rising from a tsunami. Her lungs burn in her chest, pleading with her to stop.

Finally, the numbness sets in. Suddenly, feeling as if she cannot take another step, the pain is gone. She knows it is not her body in control, but the driving force that she had started with. The crowd appears and the cheers begin again. The man at her side is shaking violently and collapses. The competitiveness that once plagued her turns into love and determination that they are too far to quit now. She stops, pulls him to his feet, and pushes him along for the remaining quarter mile.

The grand finish line with colorful balloons swaying in the hot breeze is looming ahead, enticing her with its scarlet arch. The fluorescent orange numbers flash placements, but that does not matter to her anymore. Completing the race is what counts now, even if she has to crawl to do it. The big, bright yellow letters of FINSIH blur in her tears of triumph, pain and exhaustion. She exhales in relief as her feet bound across the line, leaving the archway like an astonished mouth. After 26.2 miles and four hours, sixteen minutes and thirty-two seconds later, she finally stops. The pain seeps back into her swaying body, starting with the feet and going to that headache she has never really gotten rid of. The feeling of accomplishment is worth every ounce of pain, sweat and tears.