My Marathon Journey
It was quarter of six. “I am up, no need pretending I am sleeping any more”. The alarm clock will go off in 15 minutes…but I got up. The pasta was eaten, the mandatory sleep rest was complete, I was now nervous for my first ever Marathon race; a historic one; the 2,500 year anniversary since the battle of Marathon. Got out to the balcony, and saw the first light of the day touching the Parthenon. The historic hill was naturally lit by God in a purple and gold light. But I could not appreciate the beauty, I had to eat breakfast and go to my journey to Marathon to find my soul.
At the beginning line I found the world. Runners from all races and countries, all ages and skills. Runners with cameras and cell phones; runners with fast paces and champions. All with a common goal, to finish the original course; 2,500 years part of history. Some fit and some fat, some nervous and some happy, some dressed up in ancient attire, and some in high performance leggings.
At the 5th km I found my past, the history of Marathon. As I run around the original tomb, and the statue of Pheidippides, some kids gave me olive branches from the trees that crowned the original marathon runners. I hold the branches tight, determined to bring them back to Athens.
At the 10 km I found the immigrants, people like us, looking for a better future, people from India and Pakistan that came to cheer us. As I was going by them, the men dressed in their traditional robes, and the women with their covered heads, I found that religion should unite us and not divide us; as they cheered me I silently asked for their prayers, so my feet will not fail me now.
At the 15th km I found the true spirit and the mental toughness. I saw the handicapped, and the chronic injured running. I found the lady with one leg going in an uphill battle with the road and her life; having to prove to none that she is as equal as all of us. I found the runner who broke his foot two months ago during training, and he was so determined to be part of a 2,500 year history, that he WALKED the entire distance in a special cast. I found the cancer survivor that starred death in the eyes and death blinked.
At the 20th Km I found the young Greek generation of the €700 per month. I have read the articles, I knew about it but never met them before. The 20 something generation all educated with a degree working volunteers passing water and helping. at emergency stops. Eager to help me as my legs started cramping, apologetic as they run out of supplies, going the extra mile themselves to rub my legs a bit more than need, to give me the extra push. They were doing their own marathon, standing up and helping for 6–7 hours with no money, just as pay the bragging rights that they were part of history. They were all proud, with the dignity of a wise grandfather passing down the torch. During these tough economic times the young generation of the overworked and underpaid, was there, present and proud.
At the 25th km I found courage. The line to give up and keep going was extremely thin. The uphill road ahead seemed unstoppable and unforgiving. I saw the buses that were picking up the injured, and at that moment the finish line looked impossible. The sun, that I love so much, was hitting me with all his power and punishing me. What an irony I thought; every day I ask for blue skies, and today I got what I wished for: “not a cloud in the sky”. A perfect day in the 70s, and I would probably had been enjoying it in a beach, working on my tan…today was my torture. As my legs were giving up, as my dry mouth was begging to stop and fill my insides with water (a guarantee that would shut my system down and I would stop); at that moment I looked up and saw the people on the sidelines. The young kids in soccer shirts; the old couples in their Sunday best, the families that stopped for five minutes and stayed for two hours; the police officers on duty that gave me a comforting stare; the middle aged man smoking a cigaret and clapping; the old “yiayia” dressed in black yelling with all her heart “bravo”; the hangover bachelor saying my name. I looked into their eyes starving for energy; they all looked back and said “courage”.
At the 30th km I found my sense of humor. Asking for a gin and tonic at the water stops, asking for lamp chops instead of power bars; and thanking all the volunteers, apologizing that I run out of tips at the previous stop. I was the one now yelling “bravo” to the crowd, and asking them for a spare smoke. The uphill was over; but who told you that downhill was easy? The leg cramps were getting worse; but I was not going to deny myself the experience of entering the all marble stadium.
At the 35th km I found friendship. He spotted me among the runners, he cried my name, with exhaustion. He had spend all his day along the course, fighting with police and race organizers to come from his home and see me run. All morning, for four hours he and his family were in a crazy “treasure hunt” to time my pace, and be next to me, to push me, to hug me, to feed me during my journey.
At the 40th km I found my culture. I run this historic race to “Save the Classics”; to raise money and prevent the extinction of Arion Journal that forges the link between Classical heritage and the modern culture. I recited all the donors names, one by one, to get my mind of the pain. I saw their faces, and remembered their belief in me…I kept putting one step in front of the other and keep going.
At the finish line I found my faith and unconditional. love. As I “sprinted” (whatever a sprint is after 5:30 hours) to the finish line; as I was waving my arms to get the faithful crowd going; as my vision was blurred from the tears; as my legs were stiffed from the cramps; as the music and the cheers were feeding my soul; as I was holding tight the icon that belong to my late father I found my faith; at that moment I found unconditional love waiting for me at the finish line. It had taken me a journey around the world to complete my 42 km pilgrimage back home and to find my soul.
