Victory

Chicago Marathon Medal

Plagued with injury, against all odds (and doctor’s orders), more fear than most that I will crap myself on the course, I got through it. But I did more than get through it. After 26.2 miles, I found myself finishing with my arms raised up in victory across the finish line, even with a distinct limp (lovingly referred to as my pimp limp for the next five days). Then, shortly, a medal was placed around my neck. Tears fell down my sweat-dried and salt-dusted cheeks; and I could only muster up a head nod when the volunteer said, “congratulations,” for fear words might cause uncontrollable sobbing.

I hobbled slowly down that victory lane watching other runners seated along the parallel curb, some drinking beer out of plastic cups, others icing shoulders, knees, and ankles. All of us with a profound sense of accomplishment. My grandmother would be proud of me.



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