GREEN JOLLY RANCHER AND A TURKISH MAN

Eleven days ago, on a morning slathered in rain and fog, I ran along Superior in my blue Brooks, following the shores from Two Harbors to Canal Park; 26.2 miles. Chariots of Fire's theme song played from speakers at the gunshot--what a rush of energy that surged through the horde of spandex and neon clad runners, too bad that surge was short-lived.

Around the 13 mile marker, mind pleaded with body to throw in the towel and quit the race altogether, but I looked to the sea and begged God to give the endurance: God, I don't care about my time, just help me finish this, your strength, your glory. Help me finish something for once. I was desperate for a distraction for my empty head and from my pounding feet, and that's when I was given a green apple jolly rancher and a friend; a Turkish man about my height, in his late 50's, who was running his 23rd marathon (his first was in 1983--"before you were born," he explained). The next six miles sped by (literally. Har har.) as he told me about his three ex-wives and only daughter, who was a year older than I and had been an exchange student in France. 

I had such a climaxing runner's high from miles 16-23, my pace spurred steadily by his, and I enjoyed the racer's laughing along with us as we chatted between strides and breaths. We talked about a handful of ridiculous things from the history of Greek yogurt to healthcare, and our accents clashed frequently so that we needed to repeat ourselves. After sharing some of my honey candies (shout out to Jen for being a great support and running out to give me a hug and sugar!), he asked, "What is your name?" 
"Moriah, and yours?" 
"Mehmet." 
"Mow-met?" 
"Mehmet, like the Dr. Oz." 
"Well, I am glad to have met you, Mehmet." 
"Likewise, Myrriah." 

When we reached town, the crowds enveloped us and put a beat back into my dying soul. I had an 'errk' moment when a man shouted at Mehmet from behind a tree, "I see you found your lady friend again." The crowd's energy was contagious as they cheered and waved signs that said things like, 'Smile if you aren't wearing underwear,' 'No one made you do this,' 'Chafe now, beer later,' 'Worst parade ever,' 'If it was easy, I would do it,' 'May the course be with you,' and 'You're going the wrong way.' Pretty clever stuff that unfortunately, they probably all googled. 

Under a tarp beside London Road, a group of old folks strummed cellos and banjos, and sang into loud mics their own rendition of Leanard Cohen's "Hallelujah." I laughed as Mehmet lifted and swayed his arms and belted along with the chorus. When a group of half-drunk men were spotted with a sign that read, 'High fives or free beer,' Mehmet ran off for a beer break. Didn't see him again, understandably. 

Two good friends surprised me on the sidelines with my family--their ecstatic shouts and smiles were another surge, I was overjoyed. Apparently, they had stayed up until wee hours making a sign and then had trekked up north in the wee hours so they could cheer me on. 

Near the end, my body was so weak, I couldn't spit straight, but I didn't slow down, I stretched my strides, passing people, pulling myself forward with arms and abs; legs nearly useless. Crossing that finish line was one of the best moments of my life, I was done. Done. It was finished. It was a glorious two seconds, until I realized how sick and weak I was. I leaned over the gate and looked up at my family and pleaded, "I know there will be a day when I will say I want to run another marathon. Please, remind my future self of this moment, how much pain I am in, how stupid I would be to do it again--please don't let me!" I panicked, knowing myself too well, and they laughed.  

Wrapped in a foil blanket, medal around my neck, body feeling nauseous and frigid, I collapsed on the boulevard, when a first aid lady strode toward me and spoke concernedly, "I noticed you from over there," she pointed behind her, "and you didn't look good, are you okay, would you like some medical assistance?" I opened my eyes widely as if that would assure her of my physical state and sanity, replying, "O, I'm just an overly dramatic person. But thanks, really." I walked like a eighty-seven year old man for the rest of the day and half of the tomorrow. Probably the real reason it's called the Grandma's. On the shuttle ride to the car, at each bump on the road, the passengers would moan with aching from their sore bodies. It was hysterical, I moaned too. 

So, one more thing to check off my bucket list: running a marathon. What's next? Training for a bike tour across the U.S. with some big-hearted gals with a cause. Stay tuned, I'll need your help. We'll need your help!