In October 2009 I ran my first marathon in Portland, Maine. It was a life-changing day and resulted in a finishing time far beyond my imagined goal time of 4:00. I finished in 3:38:17, a time fast enough, at age 45, to qualify for both Boston and New York City marathons.
After that I, in pretty quick succession, ran four more marathons, ever chasing that fast finishing time. My Boston marathon was just over a minute slower than my Portland time and I felt oddly defeated coming off my Portland high. Over the next three years—two NYC Marathons and one Steamtown—my times, still good, increased with each race. Try as I might, a race faster than my first marathon eluded me again and again.
I raced other distances too, and similarly did not have much success beating my early race times. I was fast out of the block as a new runner, and I began to worry that I had hit at my peak and did not have the guts it would take to increase my speed. A small gleam of hope began this past spring when I succeeded—with a lot of training and coaching—at the Brooklyn Half, in setting a new PR at that distance.
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| 2013 Steamtown Photo Credit: Carol Lowry |
Yesterday I ran my 6th marathon, Steamtown in Scranton, Pennsylvania. My official finish time was 3:33:33, nearly five minutes faster than Portland and almost 25 minutes faster than my last 26.2 mile run.
So much to say about yesterday. The first 18 I ran with a cousin, Scott Lowry, who kept me strong at a sub-8:00 min/mile pace. After Scott moved forward, I found the strength within me to continue despite aching legs and flagging spirit. I fought off my desire to stop several times in the last eight miles. I heard Scott, as I passed him later, tell me it was my day and to keep going. I kept checking my watch and knew that a personal record was possible as I multiplied in my head the distance by my pace. As my wonderful Coach, April, had suggested, I checked in with myself every few miles and found each time that the pain was not enough reason to stop. When an onlooker said, "Go! Your are in sight of a 3:40, I wanted to yell back that he should check his facts because there was no way I was coming in that late."
Still enough left, I kicked in for the last mile. Was alone in the long chute to the finish line. Felt my body strong and fast and sure. Heard the announcer tell the crowds that Rachel Pratt from Brooklyn was finishing. Checked the clock as my foot hit the mat. Knew that I had, finally, beaten my fastest marathon. Tears started to fall as soon as my foot crossed the line. Never before have I cried at any finish.
And later, sitting on the deck by the shore of Newton Lake with a beer in my hand I felt a kind of ease that I have never in my life experienced. The moment was perfect. There was nothing to do. Nothing to prove. I am. All is right and good.
