My First Marathon

December 8, 2024

My first marathon. A whole 1.5 years after having my third child. Now, I know there are those super moms out there who run marathons while pregnant or bounce back and crush 26.2 miles mere months postpartum. I am not one of those moms. I don’t pretend to be one of those moms. I’m just over here celebrating that I made it to the start line in one piece.

To be honest, just getting there felt like a victory. I didn’t train like I wanted to (shock), I was wildly optimistic about my baby’s sleep schedule (rookie mistake), and I really underestimated how many times my kids would get me sick during training. Then there was the tiny issue of time—something I had much more of before having three kids. A few weekends in a row, our babysitter came up to help, and my neighbors took turns watching the kids so I could squeeze in an hour-long run. Even then, it wasn’t enough. So, I focused on a lot of core and strength to make up for my lack of road miles and hoped for the best.

Still, I was determined. I had set this goal, and I was going to finish it. When I stepped off the bus at the start line, I was greeted by the longest line of porta-potties I have ever seen in my life. (Yes, I’m still talking about it, and yes, it’s been four months.) As I walked toward the start, it hit me—I was about to run the furthest I had ever run… by 12 miles. Yup. Before that day, my longest run had been 14 miles, and now I was about to double that. Genius move, right?

A Little History

Running and I go way back. In the summer before ninth grade, I was obsessed. This was before GPS watches, Strava, and all the techy stuff, but I felt fast, and that’s what mattered. That is, until the day I rolled my ankle off a curb while running with a friend (who, annoyingly, was on a bike and had no such problems). That little misstep cost me months of on-and-off crutches, steroid shots for a pulled nerve in my foot, and an angry Achilles tendon that refused to let me forget my mistake.

So, I pivoted. I joined the bike team at UCSB and again at Sac State during grad school. Cycling became my thing. I’ve done more bike races than I can count, completed my fair share of half marathons, and even tackled a few short-distance triathlons. But a full marathon? That was new. I had never committed to the level of training, mental prep, or sheer endurance required for something of this magnitude.

Fast forward to my mom-running era. After having kids, running became my go-to because, let’s be real, strapping them into a stroller for miles was way easier than dealing with them on a bike ride. Adding a second kid? No big deal, just a little more weight. But then we moved to the foothills and had a third, and suddenly, it became a logistical nightmare. I’d still get my runs in when I could, but often, it just wasn’t worth the circus act. These days, they can pedal their own bikes, which helps… until one inevitably needs a tow rope, and then I’m back to questioning my life choices.

Back to the Marathon

Let’s be clear—my running had taken a hit since baby number three, and our move didn’t help. Where we live, there isn’t a single flat road unless I drive down the hill first. But still, I showed up. And sometimes, that’s what matters most. I started. I was here. It’s all down here from here, right? No literally, CIM is literally a net downhill course—how bad could it be?

Famous last words.

I won’t bore you with the mile-by-mile breakdown, but I started way stronger than I expected. I held onto that energy longer than I thought I would. By mile 14, I had a full-blown Sam and Frodo moment of “This is the furthest I’ve ever been.” I’m pretty sure I even texted my sister at that moment. By mile 21, I was questioning my entire existence. But I did it. I ran. I walked. I hobbled. I repeated. And somehow, I crossed that finish line.

I had to pace myself—I still had to be a functional mom the next day. There’s no “recovery day” when you live in a split-level house in the foothills with three kids who don’t believe in breaks. But I did it. And now that I’ve had time to reflect (and regain the ability to walk downstairs without wincing), I have to ask myself…

Would I do it again? Hellz yeah I will! I just haven’t gotten the courage to press the register button yet haha

What’s the biggest physical challenge you’ve taken on, and did you walk away thinking, “Yep, I’m doing that again!” or “Never. Again”?