26 miles + 0.2

I’m running the Marine Corps Marathon. I’m not sure why though. Oh wait, I do too know why.

It’s my brother’s fault. 

My oldest brother Lee got into running, and as the little sister who wants to do everything her big brother does, I take up running too. A little lemming warns me that doing something just because someone else does it isn’t the best motivation, but I figure I can cross that cliff when I come to it.

For now, it’s my brother’s fault.

And as the person responsible for this pavement-pounding “race” I am now running, Lee is along the course cheering me on. He has mapped out the course so that I see him several times during the 26.2 miles.

I have my name written on my shirt in big, bold letters. It may seem like a silly or vain thing to do but hearing thousands of spectators chant and cheer your name is a pretty significant psychological boost. 

When I have the energy to yell back, I loudly state, “My eyes are up here.” 

It’s an oldy but a booby.

Anyway, the biggest endorphin surge comes from my brother’s cheers, because let’s not forget: this is his fault.

Now I’m somewhere between mile 25 and the finish line and my brother leaves the spectators and runs alongside me. This is way more powerful than just hearing my name. He encourages me with advice about the next 1.2 miles. 

More specifically, he advises me about the final .2, which, because it’s a race put on by the Marines, is uphill.  Nothing like running 26 relatively flat miles only to be rewarded with an incline on the last point two.

I am not looking forward to this.

My brother says, “And when you finish, you’ll be my first sister to finish a marathon.”

That fuels me more than powerbars, gatorade and pasta.

As his youngest sister, I’m on pace to be his only sister to finish a marathon.

Visions of me and my brother crossing the finish line sprint through my head. Our hands intertwined and raised in a victorious pose.  The photo finish will be captioned with “Youngest and eldest Barrett siblings finish Marine Corps Marathon!” 

I have grandiose visions.

Lee warns me the hill is coming. Two tenths of a mile until our goal is realized.

I’m at the base of the hill. 

Lee coaches, “Head down. One foot in front of the other.”

I feel his steady hand on my back. 

He yells, “Take the hill!”

My feet no longer feel the pain from twenty six tread-melting miles on the DC pavement.

My legs no longer scream for icy hot, tiger balm, ben gay and ice packs.

My body no longer craves food or drink.

My entire soul is fed by the thought of the suitable-for-framing photo of me and my bro finishing this marathon. Together.

Tears well up, not from the pain of running, but from the thought of our brother-sister adventure.

I’m mid-way up the hill. The finish line is in sight.

I reach over to grab Lee’s hand to prepare for our photo.

No hand.

No Lee.

Over my shoulder I see my brother… at the bottom of the hill… standing still… cheering.

He had prepared me. He had encouraged me. He had gotten me into this.

Although he wasn’t running that last hill for me, he was certainly running that last hill with me.

I finished the marathon alone. That was my brother’s fault.

But I finished the marathon.  That was also my brother’s fault.

Logically, I know he can’t run the last part of the race for me. Logically, I know he can’t run any part of the race for me.

But he can encourage me.

His support, cheering me on, running next to me, his steady hand on my back… that’s what got me through the final point two miles.

Actually, that’s what got me through the first 26 miles too.

See?  It was all his fault!