I should have been running but I could not take another step. I was standing in the middle of the street, in the middle of Boston, with hundreds of people watching my misery. I was covered in sweat, water, and Gatorade as the sun and humidity continued to drain my energy.

Both of my hamstrings were like softballs on the back of my legs – completely cramped with sudden violence as dehydration had set in. Just a minute before I had been pushing myself to maintain my 5:20/mile pace, when the cramps stopped me in my tracks, four miles from the finish line.

Disappointment. Anger. Embarrassment. I felt all these emotions as runners began passing me by.

You’ve probably heard the term “hit the wall.” It is a phrase every marathon runner knows and understands. It is that moment when your body physiologically says, “Stop running”, even though you’re six miles or less from the finish line. If only a marathon was 20 miles, not 26.2 miles.

I have run a total of eighteen 26.2 mile races, and a vast majority of the time I hit the infamous “wall”. I am not proud of this fact, but it is the result of my own impatience, pushing too hard, too soon. The consequences were always disappointing.

Without a doubt, the most prestigious and historic marathon in the world is the Boston Marathon. The first Boston marathon was April 19, 1897, and featured 15 runners. Today, the race is limited to 30,000 runners and has over half a million spectators lining the course.

For many runners, qualifying for Boston is the ultimate goal. To earn a place at the starting line a runner must run a certain time for a full marathon, based on age and gender. If you make the “Boston standard”, you can submit an entry and you hope to be one of the 30,000 chosen to run.

I grew up watching Boston every year on Patriot’s Day. For me, it was like watching the Superbowl. The race often ended with dramatic sprints to the finish after over two hours of tactical surges, breakaways, and a patient game of cat and mouse.

I decided it was time to run Boston in 1999.  I had achieved the qualifying standard, but I was hoping to run as an “invited athlete”.  I mailed in my running resume and waited to hear back.

A few weeks later a letter arrived from the Boston Athletic Association. I opened it quickly and was shocked to discover that they wanted to include me as one of their elite “invited athletes”. My racing number fell from the envelope and it was #53 – a low number indicating my seeding. They also were giving me free airfare, 5-star hotel lodging, a per-diem, and the royal treatment that may be common for professional athletes but is unheard of for runners like myself.

For the next sixteen weeks, I trained harder than I had ever trained before. I ran twice a day, putting in over 100 miles each week. I lifted weights. I did long runs, tempo runs, intervals, speed work, hills, recovery runs, trails runs, circuit training, and road racing, as I prepared during the cold winter months leading up to April.

My coach, training partners, friends, and family were all excited for me. I bought Heidi an airline ticket so that she could join me, and we flew from coast to coast for this amazing opportunity.

The race headquarters were located in a ballroom at the Westin Hotel in Copley Place, where we were staying along with all the invited athletes and many members of the press.  I was given access to a hospitality suite full of goodies.  We toured the course and attended press conferences. The very best distance runners in the world were around every corner.

Race day began with a 4 a.m. wake-up call. My light breakfast including coffee, Gatorade, a Power Bar, and some fruit. Heidi kissed me goodbye as I boarded the chartered bus filled with the elite athletes. A police escort led our bus to the starting line.  A secure and private area had been set up for us to warm up at a church adjacent to the start. I nervously looked around at the men and women who were preparing for today’s race: There were world champions, Olympic medalists, and world record holders.  The Kenyans and Ethiopians were smiling, relaxed, and ready to run sub-5-minute miles for 26 consecutive miles.  There were athletes representing dozens of countries – the best of the best, chattering nervously in their native tongues.

And then there was me.  As I laced up my racing flats, I felt like an imposter who had snuck in. I wanted to take photos and get autographs from the other athletes.  But I guess I had earned my way there.  My personal best in the marathon was a modest 2:19:39, a far cry from the 2:06 that it would take to win that year.

Helicopters were buzzing overhead with live shots for television.  News crews were everywhere and ESPN had begun its international broadcast.

Shedding our sweats, we were escorted to the front of the starting line where a crowd of 30,000 runners stood shoulder to shoulder for blocks. A few minutes later the starter welcomed us and gave us final instructions. A count down began followed by a cannon blast signaling the start of the final test of our training, preparation, physical, mental, and tactical abilities. I felt the surge of adrenaline and emotion as I ran in the crowd of runners beginning our journey from Hopkinton to Boston.

In a lonely sport, it is an exhilarating and motivating thing to have someone actually cheer for you.  Most runners are lucky to have a spouse or friend clap for them at the finish of a race, but not here at Boston. The crowds would get denser the closer we came to the finish line at Copley Square.  Over 500,000 Bostonians come out to watch the race and to cheer on the runners as they pass by. It is a Boston tradition. The most raucous crowds tend to be at Wellsey College and just outside of Fenway Park.

Every runner is part of a collective community competing not against one another, but against the personal challenge of completing 26.2 miles, and hopefully, completing it well.

As the miles ticked by, I wasn’t feeling as strong as I had hoped.  Maybe it was the heat.  Maybe it was my nerves.  Maybe it just wasn’t my day.  The little things become big things over the course of 26 miles.  Halfway through the race, I was on pace to meet my goal. 1 hour and ten minutes showed on the large clock at 13.1 miles. I was running with a group who all aimed to run sub 2:20.

At that time, the women’s world record for the marathon was 2:21. This fact meant that I would likely be running with the best women runners in the world. For the misogynistic male ego, this might be a blow, but I regarded these female athletes with deep respect and awe.

At mile 15, the three lead women passed me, surrounded by police motorcycles and a press truck.  The women’s race is broadcast live across the world as well, and for my friends back home, there I was, live on ESPN, being passed by the women. The sportscaster even announced my name.

By then, I was struggling with the heat.  Heartbreak Hill was approaching. This is an infamous part of the course that runners go through around mile 20.  For the elite athletes, this is where the competition really begins.

Heartbreak Hill is perfectly aligned with “The Wall”; the invisible physiological barrier that many marathon runners “hit” when their body stops cooperating with their will.  When this occurs, a runner might go from running five-minute miles, to walking, within just a half a mile.  If a runner “hits the wall”, the racing ends, and the goal becomes getting to the finish line.  After hitting the wall, one’s mind plays tricks on the athlete, convincing them that they are going MUCH slower than they really are.

Midway through “Heartbreak Hill” my right hamstring suddenly cramped into a torturous knot.  I know people say that running is mostly a mental battle and you just have to power through the times of pain, but when your hamstring is fully cramped, you cannot run.  You will likely cry out in pain.  You might jump up in the air and stop in your tracks, trying to get the muscle to relax.  I was now experiencing this very thing in front of thousands of people lining one of the densest crowds on the course.

I stretched, walked, and began to jog.  I stopped at the next aid station and began pounding down fluids, knowing that this was a symptom of dehydration.  The problem with knowing this is that by that time, it was too late to “fix” the problem.

A half-mile later it happened again, but this time it wasn’t merely my right hamstring.  It was both my right and my left at the same time.  There was no ability to limp or to walk.  I stood there, in excruciating pain.  The crowd lining the street became hushed as they witnessed my struggle.

A medical volunteer ran out of the crowd and asked me if I was OK.  I explained to her that both of my hamstrings were cramped.  She looked at me helplessly before grabbing my elbow and asking me if I wanted to continue.  Someone from the crowd shouted, “You can do it!” My hamstrings relaxed and I was able to take a step.  The crowd began to clap, and I took a second step and a third step. Cheers began to spread through the crowd, and I started to jog.  Suddenly hundreds of people began to applaud, and it surprised me. I smiled through my tears as I regained my stride.  I had never before had so many people cheer for me over my ability to jog (I was a runner not a jogger).  I was touched by the support of these absolute strangers who were clapping and yelling encouragement to me.  I started running for them!

Drawing from the encouragement of the crowd of witnesses, I was not only able to start running, but I was also able to continue running. Steps added up to miles. Passing by Fenway Park I made my way to the long stretch down Boylston Avenue to the finish. The applause was constant, and although I wasn’t running fast, I was still going to make it! Seeing the finish line in the distance I began to sprint. Crossing the line exhausted, officials came to help me, and a medal was placed around my neck. Even though I was disappointed with my race, no one at the finish was looking down on me. I had placed 72nd with a time of 2:33:22. It was the encouragement of others that carried me to the finish line.

How often in life have you felt like giving up? Pain, discomfort, and weariness make quitting a tempting option. It happens in marriage. It happens in jobs. It happens in churches. It happens in recovery. It happens in school. It happens in therapy. We hit the wall.

When you think you are finished, and you cannot keep going, find strength outside yourself.  There is a crowd cheering you on, even if you don’t see them. There is a Savior who has joined you. Take a step. Then another. Rehydrate. Start to jog and keep on going.

Hebrews 12:1-3

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, 2 fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. 3 Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.

  • When have you hit the limit of your ability to continue going on in an area of life (a job, a relationship, recovery, schooling, an illness, etc.)?
  • According to Hebrews 12:1-3, what can you do to continue moving forward?
  • Who needs your encouragement right now?