When I ran my first 5k race, I had no idea that running would become my passion. That 5k quickly turned into a 10k which then morphed into a half marathon, after which I declared that a full marathon would be impossible and I would definitely never attempt one. Of course, I was lying to myself. Deep down, I wanted to do it.

So, in the Fall of 2017, I made the decision to start training for a full marathon. At first it seemed easy. “No big deal! 15km isn’t very far when you’ve got a few half marathons behind you!” Gradually, as my mileage built up, so did my fear. Before I knew it, I was back to “I can’t do a marathon! It’s too hard!” Fortunately, I had my amazing husband, family and friends standing behind me to push me through my self-doubt and the difficult winter training months.

My husband would follow me on my  long runs (from the warmth of the car) to make sure that I stayed safe and to act as a mobile water station that was there whenever I needed him. He spent countless hours doing this and never complained about spending his Sunday mornings on the side of the road in the car with a book and a large supply of energy gels and water bottles. Aside from my own hard work and training, he is the #1 reason I was able to make it to the start line of the 2018 Bluenose Marathon in Halifax.

Before I knew it, I was registered for the big day. I was officially going to attempt a marathon. I still didn’t think I could do it. The days, and the training runs kept rolling by and in the blink of an eye, it was race day. My nerves were incredible. I hadn’t slept much the night before and I was still filled with doubt. “Look at these other runners! They’re all athletes! I can’t do what they do!”

The morning of the race was wet and cold. A typical Halifax day. My shoes and socks were wet before the gun even went off but that didn’t stop the adrenaline. I’ll never forget how emotional I felt as I stepped over the start line of my first ever full marathon and was officially about to become a marathoner. I knew I would probably be one of the last to finish if I managed to finish at all, and I was totally okay with it. I was just so ecstatic to be taking my first few steps in the race I’d trained for for 8+ months, and dreamed of for even longer.

It didn’t take long to fall into a comfortable pace and I found myself running side by side with a lady in her 60’s who was also running her first marathon. We ran the first half of the race together, leaving each other and catching up when we needed to and keeping each other motivated as the kilometers rolled by. We headed across the McDonald Bridge to Dartmouth, toured around a lake, and headed back across the bridge to Halifax where we made tracks for Point Pleasant Park. There were two stages of this race when I thought I wasn’t going to make it – Point Pleasant Park was the first. I had to run two laps up a predominately uphill route on the gravel trails through the park. By the time I was on my second lap, I was walking. My wet shoes had taken a toll on my feet and I could feel raw skin in several spots. My legs were tired. I knew I was pretty much in last place at this point (there were a very small number of people still behind me) and I was exhausted. “So this is what the ‘Wall’ feels like” I remember thinking. I fought back tears and kept trudging forward. There were too many loved ones waiting for me at the finish line to give up now.

My shoes sloshed onward and I was now attempting to complete the race by running when I could and speed-walking when I needed to….which was a lot. On Lower Water Street, I spotted my Mom standing on the side of the road, cheering for me. I cried. She ran with me for a short moment and then I kept sauntering along. I hit the wall again shortly after when I large blister that had formed on the side of my heel exploded and started bleeding. It hurt like Hell and I could barely walk on it. I remember thinking that I needed to quit. Or take my shoes off. Or eat a burger. Or drop dead. Instead, I kept going. I was completely alone through this part of the course. I didn’t see a water station, or any other runners or volunteers. I questioned whether I was even going the right way. I was, thank God.

One of the most motivating moments happened for me when I was only a few kilometers away from the finish line. A complete stranger who was out walking her dog, joined me for a few minutes and kept me company. She encouraged me to keep going and that the worst was over. I believed her. I knew I was looking pretty rough when a police officer who was helping to secure the route for runners asked me if I was okay. “I’m fine!” I remember saying, “But I might be dying!” We laughed and he followed me for a bit on his motorcycle. EVERYONE along the route was so supportive. Nobody cared that I was slow. Everyone just cheered me on like I was an Olympian about to win a gold medal.

Finally, I saw it. The last downhill stretch. All I had to do was jog down a long hill and turn a corner and the finish line would be in sight. I’d made it. My family and friends were all there screaming my name and helping me get through those last few steps. I was done. I had finished the race in just a few minutes short of 6 hours. They placed a medal around my neck. I cried some more. I hugged everyone, thanked everyone, and then ate a banana. It was finished! I was a marathoner. And I had made it to the finish line with only a few minutes to spare before they started to tear down the race.

It was a moment of pain and pure bliss that I will never forget. 8 months of hard work, plus 6 hours of sloshing shoes and blisters all came together and my dream had come true. I have no idea why it took me so long to get around to writing about my experience, but even months later, I still beam with pride when I think about what I accomplished…and I’m reminded of it daily when I look down at my feet which still have not fully healed.

See you next year, Bluenose Marathon! Perhaps for just a 10k?