Winds of Change

happens to be my favorite Scorpions song. Seriously, my friend, Melissa, and I do an excellent rendition. Although she's a better whistler. But whistling is not the subject of this post. No, it is change. It's Saturday night 8:30 p.m. I'm listening to Liszt, Elgar, and Ravel and diligently trying to get this Religion and Society paper finished.

This is a change.

If I were back in San Clemente, I'd be getting dressed. It's the annual pumpkin carving party and my gals are now at home dressing up as sexy ghost, sexy Punky Brewster, sexy student (Just kidding - my friends aren't like that - and if they were, I'd probably deny it). As they get outfitted for a night of costumes and laughs, I realize just how different life is.
It's been a cold few days here in Jersey with lots of rain. Thank God my rain jacket arrived yesterday. Yes, the OC girl moved to Jersey without an umbrella or a rain jacket - and I still don't know what I'll be putting on my feet from December to February - do you think they make Rainbows with tread? [Point of reference, Rainbow's are sandals - I'm not trying to be poetic or cute by talking about walking on rainbows]

But I just feel these deep sense of appreciation for an experience that not many get to have. So few of my new friends here (who are great by the way) know what it's like to live the young adult life. Most are on college round 2. And here I am with a wealth of memories, experiences and friendships, now getting to study all the time and learn what I feel will be so invaluable to my future. Yes, it's an exciting time.

On Friday, I play pick-up Frisbee. And yesterday, we played in the pouring rain. It was something out of an American Eagle commercial (although we were a bit of a motley crew). We laughed and slid and ended up completely covered in mud.

And now, it's back to the paper. With fervent prayer, I hope that something brilliant comes out. Ok, let's just hope for passing. I don't want to be too ambitious.

"Just remember . . . it's your marathon!"

Before embarking on my first marathon, I told my running buddies, Kristy and Adam, two things. First, I just want to finish. And second, I don't want to be one of those people that cries at the finish line.

Why no crying? Well, it's just such a chiche. And I believe that there was a little part of me that knew it was coming. You see, in my adult life, I've discovered that I need a good cry every now and then. Not just the misty eyes that come from watching Grey's or Rent, but a good, tears streaming down, completely unattractive, cry. And let me tell you - I am due.

I've left the best job I've ever had. I moved from Southern California and left all my friends and family. And while I was tearful at my church goodbyes (there were many) and for a moment in Palm Springs with the girls, I really didn't have it all out. I didn't even cry when my car broke down in Lovelock, Nevada and there was a chance the cross country drive was an impossibility. So, there was a part of me that knew after running 5 hours and completing a feat that 3 years ago would have NEVER been possible - I just might cry.

The decision to run this marathon was complicated. On one hand, I really did want to run to promote awareness and raise funds for Malawi. It's the cause of my heart. I love that country. I believe in the partnership for which I now volunteer. Above all, I believe that the funds raised could go to give a improved quality of life to the children of Nkhoma.

However, there is this other hand where part of this race was really about me. It was about completing something that not just anyone can do. It was about the discipline it took to train all spring and summer (and me foolishly believing that I could train while moving home, running summer camp, going to Malawi and moving to Princeton). But I did train. I ran in Zambia, Nebraska, and endless times around Newport's back bay. I was committed to finishing 26.2 (and I have to admit that number often seems very arbitrary to me).

On the morning of October 7th, as I took my spot on concrete (see me --->), I repeated to myself the advice that Pastor Tod had given our team the evening prior, "Just remember, this is your marathon." I knew it was going to be hot [record highs for Chicago in October]. I knew that I should have trained more. But this was my marathon. I was going to finish.

After the national anthem was sung and the gun fired, we were off (well not quite - it took about 20 minutes to cross the start line). As I headed on my first mile thinking 'I can't believe it's here', I was exhilarated. Correction - I was exhilarated and sweaty. Excuse the details, but I was perspiring noticeably more than I ever do on mile one. It's ok Sarah - keep going. And I did.

It wasn't hard. The streets of Chicago were lined with supporters. With my name emblazoned on my Team World Vision Tech Shirt, I heard consistently - "You got it, Sarah!" "Go Sarah!" "Keep it up, Sarah!" "Yeah Sarah, looking good!" Oh the power of a name! I was charged with each cheer. I gave out smiles lavishly. I was loving my marathon.

As we neared our first aid station, I heard complaints that there was no Gatorade. This was distressing. My 'marathon plan' was to drink Gatorade at EVERY aid station. It was hot and I needed those electrolytes. But it's ok. No Gatorade at one station - I'll drink water and get 2 cups at the next. However, as I reached the second aid station (near mile 4) not only was there no Gatorade, there was no water. This. Is. Not. Good.

Runners were getting restless. I was getting nervous. And the citizens of Chicago stepped it up - big time. Neighborhoods pulled together and handed out water and ice to runners. It was amazing. "Here you go, Sarah!" "Keep it up, I hear there's Gatorade ahead."

So, I kept it up. I chatted, I smiled at the crowds and slapped high fives with kids along the curb. Around mile five some very bold men with a sign reading [Free back rubs for hot chicks, everyone else $5], shouted, "Hey Sarah, you want a massage?" - Against every gender studies lecture I've ever attended, I smiled in spite of myself and offered a "Thank you" as I ran by.

By mile 10 - I, along with the other runners, was being doused by hoses and accepting anything I could get my hands on - Water, Gatorade, anything! It was hot- but it was fun! Yet, I began to notice the ominous sounds of sirens since mile 4 and it was making me a bit nervous. I put on my ipod and reminded myself "It's your marathon - you just have to finish."

At the halfway point, I was tired. I gave myself a generous 3 minute walking break. I got my heart rate down, blared the Killers and Fratellis on my ipod and thought with confidence 'I am going to do this!' It was at mile 16 where things took a turn. With the music rockin', I missed the announcement. I saw runners distressed, pulled out the headphones and asked what was going on.
'The race is cancelled.'
'We're being re-routed.'
'Stop running!'
'I think we aren't allowed to finish.'

No one really knew what was happening. We passed the 16 mile marker and kept going. The crowds thinned and the next thing I knew, I was running down Jackson Ave with cars driving on my left. It was complete chaos. I would estimate that there were about 300 people in front on my and another 400 behind me. We had no idea that the course was changed. Some walked. And others ran.
As we turned the corner, I saw the park and knew I was back where I started - about 8.2 miles too soon. I couldn't believe it - everyone looked confused- we actually had to run against the finish line where everyone was getting their medals, bananas, and ice. We were instructed to cross the finish line. I can't remember the last time I felt that confused.

No one I knew was near me. Someone put a medal over my head. I was given water, ice, bananas and congratulations. But I didn't finish the marathon. As that thought sank in, the tears came. And they really came. I stumbled in disbelief.

I didn't finish.

I cried for my confusion, for my exhaustion but ultimately for my failure. The volunteers didn't know what to do with me (or anyone for that matter). Runners were dropping like flies due to heat exhaustion and this crazy girl was wandering down the line with a quivering lip and tear-stained face. (They kept offering me bananas).

In my last performance evaluation at work, my supervisor told me that my growth edge was that I needed to get better with failure. At the time, I thought this was funny. It reminded me of how Michael Scott would say "Do I have shortcomings? Well, maybe I give too much to charity!" How can my critique be that I'm not ok with failure? Isn't that exactly the type of person you want working for you?

Well, as most of my lessons from Jim have gone, it has new meaning now. And I'll be honest, I don't think the lesson has been completely learned yet. What I do know is - I am definitely not ok with failing.

I wanted to finish. I believed I could finish. But it wasn't going to be this day. My marathon was my first real failure. And just maybe the F-word isn't so bad.

If you want to read more about the race, you can check out Tod's blog http://bolsinger.blogs.com/

or Google 'Chicago Marathon' - and it'll be on cnn.com, nytimes.com, associated press, etc.

I don't regret running. I don't regret the hours that I spent training. And while the ankle is still a little sore (and the tears haven't completely stopped), I don't regret my first marathon.

Before walking into the team tent, I knew I had to pull it together. A very very special friend was able to listen to my story through sobs and gasps and said, "Sarah, you ran 18 miles today. I am very proud of you." I may not be proud of myself just yet - but it was exactly what I needed to hear.


Will I run another Marathon? I've told myself that I don't have to answer that question for 2 weeks.

A very very special thanks to Nonna, Chris, Rick, Virginia, Krista, Julie, Mike, Michelle, Matt, and Karen. Your support is deeply appreciated. And the best news is that although I didn't finish, the kids still get the money!!!! Joking aside, from the bottom of my heart, thank you!