the start

They call it The Moment: the point in marathon when the runner knows she will finish. For me, this time, this first time, I think I'd call it The Start. I'd sat on the curb for nearly ninety pre-dawn minutes as Geary Street filled in around me with dozens then hundreds then thousands of runners. I stretched, and I watched, and I waited, as calm as I now feel in the comfort of my living room couch. I record this atypical absence of butterflies now both to remember and to verify that it was real.

The sounds in my memory are muffled; sharper is the edge of the cold breeze that blew up from the bay and the coarse cotton feel of my off-white throw-away gloves. The wind may have calmed as we shuffled then walked around Powell to Post to the gate to the next 26.2. I couldn't tell you. I know the black Goodwill fleece that I was coached to buy then discard heated through quickly and I left it a mile out with the gloves.

I boggled, slightly, at those who pulled off to the sidewalk to pose with the sunrise over the not-golden-but-grey Bay Bridge. They may well have passed me minutes or hours later, but race as photo op does not fit into the uninterrupted progress that is, to my mind by definition, marathon. Forward through the city streets, up the hills, up the hills, up the hills. Around the curve of the water, through the misty forest, down the glorious decent by the cliffs. Eyes lingering, mind memorizing, or trying, feet moving, always moving.

I'm not sure I remember everything I saw or could have seen according to the route and the map and the pictures, but I remember how I felt for every minute of that race. I was ready. And then, I did it.