It’s Marathon Monday in Boston. Cheers to All the Runners

After a sad break up at 27, I took up running. Not because I was drawn to the road. It was out of spite. My ex-boyfriend had always wanted to run the Boston Marathon, so I was going to make sure I ran it before he did. Spite can be empowering.

I had never even run a 5k, but I was determined to get to 26.2. By December of 2000, I had done enough 5k races to advance to feel confident I could follow the beginner training program that would get me across the finish line by April 2001. My life was ruled by the running schedule, and my diet aligned with all the recommended power meals I needed to fuel my body. So when the day came, I pinned a bib onto my shirt and corralled in with the thousands of other runners. While I had planned to run as a bandit, a woman running in my friend’s fundraising group had suffered an injury and couldn’t run. Luck was a lady, and I wore an official BAA bib, even though I was prepared to run as a bandit. (Shame!)

What I didn’t know then was that this single act of spite would be the start of decades-long addiction that wreaked havoc on my body. In 2002, I had worked my tail off both training and fundraising. Because I had made a connection to the charitable organization the year before, I was able to join the team for 2002. However, three weeks before race day, I pulled my hamstring.

During the months of recovery, I worked with physical therapists and chiropractors and personal trainers. One told me, “you don’t have a runner’s body,” and advised that I give up long-distance. I never went back to see him.

I ran five more marathons before crossing Boston’s finish line for the final time in 2007, but I didn’t toss out my running shoes. Instead, I committed to shorter road races, running 5k and 10k races, even half marathons for the love of the sport and the entertaining social aspect of a race.

For years, running fueled my soul and strengthened the bond of friendships I had formed with so many women, especially with my sister.

After I had my second daughter at 40 years old, I worked tirelessly to whip my body back into shape. At 41, my best friend and I ran the Rock & Roll Half Marathon in Chicago and I got a “PR”—personal record. As part of our registration, we got tickets to a Billy Joel concert. My cousins from Virginia and Denver ran. It was rockin’ good time.

The following year, a group of us signed up for a running series, and on the night of my 42nd birthday, I was set to break my 5k personal best when the sidewalk popped up out of nowhere and tripped me down. I landed straight on my knee and my palm. Bloody, with torn leggings, and a wounded spirit, I limped the remaining mile of the race in tears.

I never fully recovered from that fall. For three years that followed, I sought every type of treatment available. After months of working with a running coach, I was sure that I was ready to get back out there. Then I hopped on the treadmill for a slow ten minute, easy pace run only to have my knee balloon up.

X-Rays and MRIs showed that all the cartilage in my knee was gone. It was bone on bone, littered with arthritis, and a patella that was ‘off track.’ My doctor and I considered all the possible options, which included different surgeries, all with differing recovery times and outcomes. After much deliberation, we landed on a partial knee replacement as that would allow me to continue running.

But my knee had other plans. Six months post-surgery, the patella was subluxing, which meant it shifted outward every time I bent my knee. That’s why, at 46-years-old, I underwent a complete knee replacement.

The knee has never felt great, and it’s been a long, slow process of defining a new normal. At one point, I was certain that if anyone else recommending I try swimming or biking to fill the running void that I would scream. There really is no substitute for running. It is the only exercise that makes my body feel powerfully alive—and I’ve tried just about every exercise out there.

My doctor did grant me permission to run one 5k per year, and this May 11, I’m looking forward to running a MOM’s run with my daughter. Throughout the year, I do sprints on the treadmill a few days a week, just for quick fixes when I need a little dopamine boost. But when the spring comes, I turn my meters into miles and look forward to running all 3.12 miles. Then I try to ride the wave and go for a second 5k in July.

It’s an inexplicable desire that I can’t break away from despite knowing the pain it causes my body, but it’s also why I can’t watch runners cross the finish line of the Boston Marathon without crying. There’s so much heart, determination, passion, commitment, and hard work that goes into accomplishing this incredible feat. My heart simply swells with pride and envy.