Clenched fists, biting her lips, she’s finished strong!

It’s amazing the fight one has, if one really, truly, wants something bad enough.

I’m not typing this up to tell my personal story, or type up someone else’s race report, but more to maybe inspire other by sharing the inner strength one can pull from, as yesterday I got front row tickets to possibly the most uplifting and inspiring performances I’ve ever experienced.

Here’s my attempt to do it justice...
This weekend I drove up to Dallas to pace my friend Nedra for the 2nd half of the White Rock Dallas Marathon, to hopefully help her earn a qualifying time for the exclusive Boston Marathon.
On Saturday we drove the course to get acquainted with it. This would prove to be the best thing we did, as I was very happy to be familiar with what was coming on race day.
I took over the pacing duties on mile 12.5 after running a short mile warm-up with another friend (Phil) who was running a faster pace, and I figure could use some company, and silly jokes.

Her plan was to run a 3.5 hour, 26.2 mile marathon, leaving plenty of cushion as she ‘only’ needs a 3:45 to qualify.
The first half they ran at 3.5 hour pace, so we technically have about a 13 min cushion when I took off with her. We nailed our first mile pace. (I was happy about that, as I had no earthly idea how fast we should be going.) Miles 13 to 18.5 were mostly flat and rounded the White Rock Lake. At mile 19, the hills started, kept going through mile 21.5’ish and then a slight down hill or flat 5 mile stretch to the finish… sounds pretty simple.

As we rounded the Lake, she would tuck in behind me when the wind would blow, and stayed pretty strong at first. But this was clearly not one of her best days. I could sense that she was not feeling very well physically, and walked through a couple of the water stops, but then quickly regained our pace. Our pace started dropping though. I was trying to run ahead of her to drag her, but she’d fall off a little, so I’d slow up to run at her pace. This delicate balance between pulling her and running with her was new to me. She would tell me how her legs felt tired and she wasn’t feeling as fresh as she should. Some of the miles around the lake were 30 seconds slower than planned, then we had a 45 second slow mile. We kept truckin’. Never once was there a thought in my mind that she wanted to stop, because there was no stopping her.

We reached the hills at 18.5 and walked the water stop. We then picked up the pace, and I grabbed a beer from the beer people. (I’ve heard about this tradition at marathons and always wanted to do that!) Anything to bring a smile to her face! It’s “Fat Tire!” I yelled!

The hills were tough. We walked some, we slowed down, and we ran 1min 55 seconds too slow on one of the hill miles. We consistently dropped the pace to a minute slower per mile. But she kept at it. Not a word of failure, not an ounce of giving up in her. This girl has some fight. We started dedicating miles to different people. Mile 19 was for Karlee, followed by Steph’s Mile. “Hey, who are we running the next one for?” … a pause as I could see her thinking as we climb. “John”. Ok, good, she’s thinking of other stuff. Let’s run this one for John. etc etc…
We eventually reached the top of the hills, and after a lightning fast port-a-potty visit for her, we’re back on our way.

She’s hurting. She’s hurting bad. Her legs were heavy, she could barely move, she said she couldn’t feel her legs, but she kept it going. We’d slow up, and then speed up a bit, then slow down, then walk, then run, then walk, then slow down. The determination in her eyes was incredible though. She was fighting. Fighting hard. Fighting harder than anyone I’ve ever seen. The miles would come, slowly, but never did she say she wasn’t going to make it. People around us were fighting their own battles. Some were having good days, and other just wanting the pain to end. We kept going. We’d walk a little, then run again. She’s overdoing her running motions. I can tell she’d dying inside, but she’s not giving up. I’m thinking of any inspirational idea I can think of. Vince Young and the Longhorns winning in Columbus, Texas scoring 49 un-answered points to come back from 35 point down against Oklahoma State, the Rose Bowl win. I think it’s helping, but who knows. She not saying anything, and just has a focused, but beat up look. She just wants it to be over.

I finally broke down to tell her that we HAVE to pick up the pace if she wants Boston. My motivation turns to reality: There will be no Boston if we walk this much… Why do you get up and train at 5:30 in the mornings... The Mariposa loops… the countless hill workouts… these right here aren’t hills. This is no Stratford, no Mt Bonnel…. the track workouts... you’re a Rogue… you’re here to achieve this, and… my favorite: Do you want it or not? She nods. Ok, well then lets pick it up.” She nods her head and starts running faster again. She’s running at a much better pace, but her legs are dead. She fades off me again. But then she picks it back up. She can’t feel her fingers, not from the cold, she just can’t feel them. I suggest shaking her hands.

I ask her countless times what her time is on her watch so she can hopefully see that she’s within range, but we can’t slow up too much. We dedicate a mile for Mom, and a Mile for Dad, followed by a mile for me(I got a mile too!)
We reach Mile 25, and man oh man, she is dead. She is swinging her arms and her legs are moving but their dead straight like two chopsticks running, no knee bend, but hey, she’s running, not walking. We decide to lock in posts, signs, and streets that we’ll run to, that we’ll walk to, then pick up the running. Last Mile is for her husband. I tell her how proud of her he’ll be. The countless times he’s been out to cheer her on, then countless times he’s helped out as a volunteer.
We run a few hundred yards, we walk 30. I tell her to run. We have to run. I pull out the cheesy jokes. I see her grin. They’re dumb, but whatever, she’s running!

We finally turn a corner where we see the finish. The crowds are cheering and she’s clearly going to come in on time. I can see a small smile fighting the pains as she runs through the cheering crowds. "You did it Nedra! You did it! Boston, here you come!!" I exclaim. The finish line is a couple of hundred yards out, and she now gives it her all. She’s running as hard as she can. Clenched Fists, mouth shut, biting her lips, she’s coming in strong. She’s got it! She’s got her Boston!

Nedra would probably say that Sunday December 10th, was obviously not her best day on a race course, but I beg to differ. I got to witness first hand, the most incredible 2 hour display of pure determination and will power. She gutted it out, left everything single ounce of energy, desire, mental toughness on the course. 9 out of 10 people would have slowed down, walked more, stopped running entirely, complained about pains, or told me to shut up when I kept pushing them. But not her, not once did she say: “I can’t do this.”, “Not once did she show a sign of giving up”. Sure she said, ‘I can’t feel my legs’, but she never whined about her legs, just stated facts as I would ask her how she was doing physically and mentally. She rocked Dallas. If anyone deserves their trip to Boston, it’s her.

People forget their perfect races and I somehow doubt she will ever forget this Sunday morning. I know I won’t. We all have bad days in races, and this goes to show, that you never give up. You never give up until the medal is around your neck. NEVER.

Good job, Nedra. Way to kick some Dallas ASS!