26 Fist Bumps

My friend Trisha and I ran a marathon last weekend – a first for both of us. We’d decided, in a fit of endorphin-fueled madness following a successful half marathon, that we should train for a full, and before we knew it, we were at the start line of the Flying Pig marathon in Cincinnati.

Just before the race started, I suggested to Trisha that we fist bump to commemorate every mile that we passed. I could tell she thought it was stupid, but she agreed, because she indulges me being stupid, as long as I shut the fuck up and keep running. Here’s how our 26 fist bumps unfolded:

Bump 1: Fist bump on the middle of a bridge from Cincinnati to Covington, Kentucky. “Twenty five more fist bumps to go!” I said. Trisha rolled her eyes. In her defense, 25 is a lot of fist bumps.

Bump 2: Another bridge. Did you know that bridges slope upwards? I mean, for half of them. Then they slope downwards.

Bump 3: Guess what? Another bridge, this one headed back into Ohio, and covered with uniformed police officers. I had already lost one of my gel packs at this point, so from here on out, I obsessively checked for my other pack and my iPod (which I still insist on calling my Walkman) every ten seconds.

Bump 4: We saw Trisha’s husband Brad in the crowd! Full disclosure, I couldn’t pick my own son out of a crowd, (as we learned on mile 18 – but more about that later), so I didn’t see him until we were halfway past. Hence the pictures of me where I look like a sneezing horse.

Bump 5: Downtown. We’d been steadily going uphill the whole time, and I knew that the big climb was approaching.

Bump 6: No lie, during this fist bump, there were people on the side of the road, screaming, “You’re headed for The Climb! “ in the same way that someone would scream, “You’re headed into the arms of a hungry Yeti!”

Bump 7: “19 fist bumps to go,” I panted. We were in the middle of a hill. “We’re in the teens.” The first nine miles of the race are uphill, and miles 6 – 9 are significantly uphill. We’d decided long ago that we weren’t too proud to walk the hills, but at the last minute, changed our plans and decided that we were, in fact, too proud to walk the hills.

Bump 8: The most beautiful fist bump in the whole race, looking down across the city and at the beautiful Ohio River. So breathtaking that we almost forgot that we were still climbing.

Bump 9: Downhill. Phew! For months, whenever Trisha and I would mention that we were running the Pig, non-runners would look at us knowingly, and say, “You know those hills are killers, right?” For the record, that’s not a helpful thing to say. Next time you’re doing something difficult, say, having a baby, I’ll be sure to come into the delivery room and say, “You know that baby’s head is going to rip your vagina, right?” See how you like it.

Bump 10: This is where the half marathoners split from the marathoners. We were with the marathoners!!!!! We ate a gel pack, made our first water stop, and simultaneously realized that our armpits were chafed. Sixteen more miles of chafed armpits couldn’t be that bad, right?

Bump 11: I PTSD blocked this mile. Chafed armpits are, in fact, that bad.

Bump 12: Fact: If you are incapable of hitting the toilet with your poop in a port-a-potty, you shouldn’t be allowed to leave your house, much less run a marathon. We stopped for Vaseline on a stick to put on our armpits. Spoiler alert: after the race, the greatest pain I had was in my damn armpits. Looked like I’d gotten run over by a corn thresher.

Bump 13: I don’t think I even bothered saying anything like, “Halfway there!” because it was fucking depressing that we still had an entire half marathon to go. That’s what I remember from fist bump 13. Also, this may have been the point when a middle-aged lady turned around after passing a young, shirtless man, and yelled at him, “You’re really cut!” His response, “Well, as you can see, it’s not helping me right now.” Oh, we laughed.

Bump 14: PTSD blocked. At this point, I started wondering where in the hell my son Jude was. He’d driven down from Columbus with his bike in the back of the car, and planned to meet us at several points in the race. Now, planned is the operative word, because the kid scarcely Googled directions to Cincy, much less made an actual plan or actually learned where the actual course was. So, if he found it, it would more likely be because he’d accidentally stumbled into the course. And he hadn’t stumbled on yet.

Bump 15: Without a doubt, this was the most down I was during the entire race. I suggested that we put on our Walkmans for ten songs, just to get us through to mile 18. By song eight, and in a cruel twist of fate, Trisha’s Walkman died, so in solidarity, I took my tunes off and put my Walkman away, too. Thankfully, we saw Brad, which gave us both a little more pep. He took a picture of us, which revealed that Trisha and I run laughably close to each other. No wonder we bump into each other so much.

Bump 16: Another Brad sighting. He told us that Jude would be at mile 18 and offered us a gel pack. We decided to wait until 18.

Bump 17: “We’re in the single digits of fist bumps!” I screamed. Part of the reason why I screamed was because I was still wearing my Walkman at this point. Elated from being in the single digits, we floated through this mile.

Bump 18: Huge, steep hill that came out of nowhere to laugh at us. We weren’t too proud to walk this one, and from there, we merged onto the freeway, got a gel pack, and had our first Jude spotting of the race (full disclosure, Trisha spotted him. I would have missed him completely despite the fact that he’s 6’4”, was wearing a bright orange shirt, was on a bike, and was yelling, “Go Mom!!! Go Trisha!!!!) We also started randomly eating oranges whenever they were offered. The rule is that you should NEVER do anything in a marathon that you hadn’t tried before, but living dangerously seemed like the right move.

Bump 19: If you join a training club, you can get a coach to run alongside you for some or all of the race. One such coach was perched at mile 19, waiting for runners from the club to go by so he could run with them for a bit and give them some encouragement. “Hey, wanna run with us?” we yelled when he broke off from his runner. “Sure!” he said, and ran with us for most of the mile. Thank you, stranger!

Bump 20: “Uncharted territory,” we repeated several times. Our longest training run had been twenty miles, and Trisha had done that run with a temperature of 102, so she probably didn’t remember that one. Anything from here on out was new ground.

Bump 21: “We’re down to one hand, Trisha,” I said. Five miles to go.

Bump 22: “Any idiot can run four miles, Trisha.” We stopped after the gel pack station to stretch out our backs and hips, and we must have looked like we were dying, because a race monitor approached us to see if we needed him to call out the stretcher. “I’d run four miles on a broken leg if I had to,” Trisha muttered as we began to run again. Ditto.

Bump 23: “Just a 5K to go!” My son yelled, flying out of nowhere on his bike. “I’ll see youuuuuuu at the finishhhhhhhhhhhh lineeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” his voice trailed back, as he pedaled away, headed for the end.

Bump 24: “This is what separates the boys from the men,” Trisha said through gritted teeth. We stopped walking through the water stations. Water wasn’t going to help us now.

Bump 25: “This is the glory mile!” the man at the mile marker yelled as we passed. “Enjoy it, ladies!”

Bump 26: “Last fist bump!” we shouted, able to see the finish line up ahead. Suddenly, the pain, the fatigue, the chafed armpits, the broken Walkman, the horrible mile 15, and everything else faded away. We had done it! “You’re not just runners, you’re marathoners!” a sign read. Yep. I’ll fist bump to that.