Setting very low expectations in my first race.
My first race was a 5K, during which I nearly strangled myself with my own scarf and tripped twice. Attempting a half marathon this month was remarkable because I shouldn’t have been able to finish it. On the other hand, the term “boxing match” was coined for the Saul “Canelo” Alvarez and Genneday “GGG” Golovkin fight, scheduled for the night before my race. Their face-off was remarkable because, as the ablest professionals of the sport in their prime, both should have been able to finish as the winner. How strange it is then, of the three of us, there was only one champ that weekend—me.
We each trained for months. I presume we all took our daily gummy vitamins. But within less than 10 hours, Canelo and GGG failed to finish the work of their careers and I ran through the tender tunnel of a Finish far, far further than 13.1 miles away from my Start.
For millions of dollars and fans, they are the dot of an exclamation point procession into the ring. Their hands are bound inside 10-ounce gloves that can only be cut off. They have no body hair. Between each round, GGG is iced and his entire face is layered with Vaseline. He breathes deeply. Canelo’s red hair gives away the impact of every jab to his face because it bounces, sometimes a lot and sometimes a little. If either fighter is knocked out, he will fall in shorts that are embroidered with advertisements intended to echo with the thud of his body for the history of the sport.
Hits square to the nose, a playful exchange of whacks behind their backs, tight sudden jabs, wide hug-looking strikes to the kidneys, five-, six-, seven-punch combinations turn these men into wild windmills. They showboat by shaking their heads denying pain when the other lands a big punch. “No. Quit.” They say this to one another for 3 minutes at a time for 12 rounds. They land power punches at the same time power punches land on their face. By the 11th round, they are plainly beating the shit out of each other. Both moving into fire, retreating, back again.
But they lost. Both of them. It was a draw by judges’ decision. It was a waste by universal opinion. Disappointment, sadness, and confusion replaced savagery in their now slightly swollen eyes. They looked like scared little boys. They reached the finish but weren’t done.
For $40, I mill about 3,000 other people who signed up to spend a Sunday morning in motion. My husband lost one of my black running socks in the last load, so I tuck my blue and pink replacements deep into my sneakers. I have an espresso and stand in line to use the Starbucks restroom for 25 minutes before the race and rush out to start.
There are no judges, no bell, no one to wipe my face for me, blow my nose, or catch my spit in a can. “No. Quit.” They say this to me for 13 miles. (This exact statement was in fact printed on the back of one group’s t-shirts.) By the 11th mile, I’ve run farther than I ever had before. I am running past diligent runners with gear that I wouldn’t know how to put on. I see others sitting on the curb waiting for the medic, holding a shoe or water. I run behind an old man with sagging shorts, then behind a young woman with a fantastic ass. I see them and I wonder how many see me doing this, coming this far, being here in this exact place by the power of my own body, how long I can pause my inability and natural limits.
But I made it. I’ve never felt accomplished from the dripping ends of each hair on my head all the way down to the stretched tips of my toes, poking up, up through my sneakers and peaking tiny bits of blue and pink through the netting. I looked like a very happy little girl. I reached the finish and I was done.
Canelo, GGG, and I went home. Our loved ones hugged us and we clinked glasses in celebration.
Their families told them that they were robbed.
“You know, Monica. I really didn’t think you could do this,” my sister told me.
“I know, Mary. Neither did I.”