"I'm Glad We're Doing This ... But It Kind Of Sucks."

Lindsay Avner took this great photo of us at the Team Bright Pink

Pasta Dinner the night before the marathon.

Well ... that happened.

A full summer of training—dating back to June 4th, and even well before that—and we're done.

Marathon: over. Even if there's scanty official proof that we did it.

Fundraising: over. (And over $8,400!)

Improbable, impossible, immolative heat: over.

Welcome, autumn. It's really super of you to arrive. So nice to see you. Sort of.

If you've been following this blog, even just a teeny, weeny bit (and if you haven't, then man, you've really been missin' out), you know that this summer was—with but a few lonely exceptions— ridiculously oven-like when it comes to running in the great outdoors.

We had earned all 460 (roughly) of our training miles. We didn't melt, even if there were a few times we thought we might.

"Enough preamble, you two; tell us about the freaking race already," you might be thinking with some hard-earned exasperation of your own. Okay, fair enough. We'll spare you the details about the pre-race team dinner at Bright Pink HQ, when we got to meet Bright Pink founder, Lindsay Avner and her phenomenal team, and we'll jump right to Sunday morning—sometime at around 2 a.m., when, even though both of us had taken a sleeping pill, we were wide awake.

Somehow, we managed to get back to sleep—until the alarm went off at 4:50. We got up, threw on our very pre-planned running outfits, scarfed down some breakfast—oatmeal for Joy and cereal for Ross—and grabbed our very pre-packed gym bags for the trip to FFC South Loop to meet up with our team.

It's a short little car ride at that time of the day to get to FFC. We know this; we'd driven it every weekend but two since we started this whole adventure, and surely it would be 10 minutes to get there, park the car—for free! all day!—and take the elevator down a level to the gym. (Yeah, we said "take the elevator" one level even though there's a stairwell 10 feet from the elevator doors. Deal with it.)

But no. A version of this instead.

With everything else planned down to the last detail, the one thing that we hadn't thought about—a thing that didn't even begin to occur to us—was whether or not we'd be able to park in the gym's garage. Every time we'd been, we'd never had a problem finding parking. An abundance of spaces on Saturday mornings at 5 or 6 a.m. All damn summer long. So Ross asked "John Candy" [Editor's note: He didn't look anything like John Candy.] where else we could park nearby. JC—not to be confused with the JC some people along the first few miles would be encouraging us to read the good news about—shared the good news about a pay lot two blocks away.

Twenty minutes of waiting in line for exurban or out-of-town rookies to figure out the vending machine—and 20 dollars—later, we were finally on our way. Late. A little bit irritated and a lot harried. We fought to keep our cool, and kept it, striding into the gym, saying quick hellos to everyone and hitting the locker rooms for a zippier-than-hoped-for final race prep.

At 6:45, about a dozen of us donned our cold weather gear: hats, gloves, arm warmers and trash bag ponchos, and marched the 3/4-mile distance to the Gray Corrals, the back of the pack, Wave 2 of the start. If you're thinking that it's not-so-awesome to stand out in 36° temperatures with a 6–12 m.p.h. northwest breeze for nearly 90 minutes while wearing not-much-of-anything but better-than-nothing—shoes and socks, a technical t-shirt, running shorts, a hat, a head liner, arm warmers (formerly pairs of socks we'd cut the toes from), gloves and a construction grade trash bag—you're right.

We waited. Joy hit the porta-potties. And waited. Ross hit the porta-potties. The guy from Channel 11 who also mans the public address duties (yes, we wrote "duties" just then, Beavis) at Sox Park introduced the elite runners. We headed for Corral L—the second to last corral—at Columbus, between Congress and Balbo and waited. Joy made a second trip to the porta-potties (and a theme emerged) while Ross waited. 7:36 and Wave 1 off. Waiting.

Finally, we start moving. Walking about 20 feet forward in short bursts. And waiting. Walking. Now waiting. Now passing Buckingham Fountain. And stopping. Shivering. Now the Art Institute. Chattering. Struggling not to break into a fast jog as we approach the starting line—holding back, struggling not to let the adrenaline and emotion override the race plan, as droplets of water have just appeared on Joy's cheeks, her excitement seeping from the corners of her eyes.

Our feet hit the timing mat. We're on our way. On Joy's arms, hidden by useless socks, she has written "TTT"—trust the training—and "SPCH"—strong, powerful, confident, healthy. On Ross's arms, also hidden from view, he has written "good form / strong" and "breathe / relax."

We're cold, but we know we'll warm up by Mile 3. We consciously take it as slow as we can up Columbus and under Wacker Drive, across the bridge which has been carpeted (!), then down the other side into Streeterville. We turn left on Grand, just by Joy's office, and see a few people from Bright Pink as they pass us. People are lining the streets downtown, and there's a lot of great energy—and great hand-made signs:

"Keep Swimming!"

"Worst. Parade. Ever!"

"Go, Random Stranger, GO!"

And some really terrible signs:

"Just 25.2 miles to go." (Not funny. Not ever. Not even ironically.)

"You're almost to the beer!" (Seriously? We just ran past 17 hotel bars. Idiot.)

Joy has stuck her name in bright pink Duck® Tape to the front of her shirt, so people are shouting encouragement to her. [Note: It's fun to yell "Joy!" out loud—go ahead. Bet it makes you smile.] 

Near Mile 3, still not so warm, but we see Joy's Aunt Gail and Uncle Steve in the Gold Coast with a "Go Team ROJO" sign, which gives us a boost of energy and warms us up a little—at least metaphorically, which we'll take. Then we realize that we won't see them again for at least an hour, probably more, only two blocks west of here. 

We continue up LaSalle and into Lincoln Park, where we see Barry Talbert and the Old Town School of Folk Music's Beatles Ensemble playing "Born Back in the U.S.S.R." It's here, a little bit past Mile 5, that Ross violates Chicago statute 8-4-081, behind a recycling bin, on an electrical transformer. [Ross: Guilty as charged!]

Of course, just a couple of minutes later, a whole bank of porta-potties is available at Mile 6. We just keep motoring—through Lincoln Park, a legal, race-sanctioned porta-potty stop for Joy and it's now warm enough for Ross to go bare-armed, so he (stupidly) discards his arm warmer socks. We continue on the Inner Drive, and somewhere near Surf or Briar, Joy says, "I'm glad we're doing this, but it kind of sucks." Then we both say, "That's the title for the blog post." Joy: "I'm sure I won't remember it." Ross: "We'll try."

We continue north through Lakeview and take a left turn—west—into Boystown, with its famous/infamous mens cheerleader team. This year, we're treated to a rifle team. It feels pretty subdued, dudes, not gonna lie. This is what some people would call foreshadowing.

Now south back through Lakeview and on into Old Town, the sun is out. All the coaches said that we'd run 20° warmer than the air temperature, and even though the wind is a little on the bitter side, the sunshine feels glorious. The spectators are a little bit on the sparse side suddenly—another portent of things to come—but when we turn onto North Avenue and jag back to Wells Street, we see Gail again waving her sign. Some much-needed juice. Thanks, Gail.

There's a lot of noise by Moody Bible Institute [Ross: Totally off-topic, but that they're not selling black "MOODY" t-shirts in that school's bookstore or online is a lost opportunity.] and the sun is shining and this is all feeling pretty okay. Until we get back into the shadows of the taller buildings as we get closer to downtown and it's just freaking cold again.

Joy: I haven't heard my "motivation song" yet.

It's here that we should mention Buster the Blister. Buster came into Joy's life the Sunday of our 20 mile run, appearing on the side of the ball of Joy's right foot. For two weeks and six days, there Buster remained. Never changing. Never, um ... popping (gross). Per doctor's/therapist's/
coaches' orders, we kept Buster covered and took very good care of him. Kind of like he was our 8th grader's sack of flour child. Or a houseplant. Or a pet that required care and feeding.

Well, at some point on Saturday evening, Buster ... um ... emerges from his shell? Sheds his skin? Fine. Buster ... we didn't want to have to do this ... busts. So we bandage him up like nothing happened and Joy starts the race having trained on a blister for three weeks. What's 26.2 more miles on a blister that looks like the TSA would confiscate it at security for being more than the allowed 3.1 ounces?

Well, around now-ish, Buster begins to reassert himself. Somewhat. As she does, Joy puts her head down and just keep moving, knowing that just down Franklin and a west on Adams, we'll be at the halfway point of the race, and more importantly, we'll see Joy's parents, Martie and Jerry, her brother Ian, her friend Alissa, and Ross's parents, Vita and Warren.

Now actively trying to conserve energy, we don't take time to mingle, but we definitely take all the energy we can from seeing our family—and the wonderful sign they've made. And we definitely need it. What a boost. We wave our hellos as we jog by, thankful to see them, down the hill, away from the river to the halfway point less than a block from Ross's office, through Greektown and all the freaking way past the United Center—and about a mile from our house. We could've just run home at this point and taken a shower.

But no. We turn east, back toward downtown, a surprise waiting for us near Mile 15. It's this, a sign made by our good friend Quincy Tye. She and her family—brother Collin, parents Julie and Roger—are waiting for us with a bunch of bright signs like this one.

Poster courtesy of Quincy Tye. Photo courtesy of Julie Tye.

Joy spots them, and again, we steal energy from our supporters (sorry guys!), while Roger and Collin give chase, Roger trying to snap some photos on his phone. Thanks, guys!

Once again, we hit Greektown and head south on Halsted to Taylor Street and Little Italy. Somewhere near Mile 17, a cute/creepy gentleman is playing an electronic keyboard on the "accordion" setting. It sounds funereal. Dirge-like. Sorry, dude. We're not looking for that kind of thing right now. [Joy: I put the song on my playlist, like, 12 times...how can I not have heard it yet??]

At the end of Taylor Street, another big surprise: Dan Lundak is using what he calls his "outside voice" (which sounds a little bit like his "angry voice," which is also his "scary teacher voice") to shout us up from a few hundred feet away. It's nearly Mile 18 and we're starting to get a little loopy, so it's hard to tell what's happening. But Ross thinks he sees Dan's son "Zoom," and Dan's wearing a Northwestern hat, not a Nebraska hat, and the purple looks weird on him. But as we get closer, yes, we see that it's them. More energy. Sorely needed—even from the extremely disinterested "Zoom." Thank you!

Is that Dan? And "Zoom?" Let's wave anyway. (Photo by Dan Lundak.)

Down to Pilsen, where it's becoming more and more clear that the race's laggards—that would be us—miss out on a lot of the neighborhood fun. The only things happening in Pilsen, the epicenter of Chicago's Mexican culture, are a couple of loud sound systems playing Top 40 dance music and some extremely overzealous aid station volunteers who've managed to narrow a 35-foot-wide street down to five feet. Yawn and yikes, respectively. The one exciting thing: we discuss how much our feet hurt. [Ross: I feel like someone's hitting my feet with a ball peen hammer.]

One last time on Halsted Street (this makes three) over the bridge into Bridgeport and onto Chinatown, we see a lone, possibly lonely, gentleman—Ross calls him "SpongeBob the Builder" because he's dressed in green shoes, green tights, a SpongeBob costume, green face makeup, sunglasses and a construction helmet. And he's occasionally blowing into a vuvuzela.

Though it's possible we're hallucinating.

We pass a Dunkin Donuts. Ross: I REALLY want a donut.

On our way into Chinatown just after Mile 21 we realize that Ian has flown for nearly a day from Hong Kong to cheer us on, only to end up back in an approximation of Asia. It's 2 a.m. for him, so he's got to be about as nutso as we are. "Gangnam Style" is blaring—loud!—over and over and over again. Very high energy. We see our gang of six again and are so grateful to see them. Even though it's for about 20 seconds, we're glad to have it. Just a few more miles now. Also? We miss the action in Chinatown. The dragons and drummers have all gone home. Bummer.

South to 33rd Street, just east of Sox Park. East through the Illinois Institute of Technology campus, south to 35th Street. A couple of blocks east to Michigan Avenue and we're so close now. Gates and barricades are coming down all along the route. The sun is shining, but the wind has picked up and the shadows are growing longer. We run to the eastern edge of the street to get as much sun as we can. [Joy: I'm pretty sure I haven't been bitten by the "marathon bug."]

The Nike mile banners are coming down. Where an hour ago there were 14 water tables, now there's one.

20 blocks to go until we make the turn up "Mt. Roosevelt"—the cruelest hill on the course, and one we'd surmounted more than three dozen times this summer.

Now 14 blocks. An official race vehicle creeps up on our left displaying the official start time.

Now five blocks. Wow, it's cold.

Now three blocks, and we can see and hear the crowd at Michigan and Roosevelt. We can do this. We're so close. We've got this.

We turn up that cruelest hill. 25.8 miles in. We're still running. Almost there.

Just a quarter mile left.

Now 26 miles just as we nearly crest the hill. One more light pole and it's all downhill to the finish.

We grab hands.

And race down the hill.

As fast as we can.

With all that we have left.

Tears stream down Joy's face. She's overcome with emotion.

Volunteers hand us our foil blankets, a couple of bottles of water, bags of food. No medals, though. We're too late for medals—organizers were short a few thousand. We walk through the finishers' chute, take a few photos along the way, and out to the world. We will have walked an additional two miles before we get back to the gym where our day began nearly nine hours prior.

We have done it. Joy's first marathon. Ross's second. Most likely our last full marathon. Finished.

And it all began with a simple conversation in January, when Ross casually mentioned, "I'm thinking about running the Chicago Marathon this year...." Then Joy found a charity we could both really get behind, something that would be the connective tissue, that we could—for extreme, personal reasons—relate to. Then so many of our family and friends supported us—emotionally, verbally, contributorily—and we have been continually at a loss for words (so we make them up, like "contributorily"). We thought of you all on Sunday: The family members and friends that we've all lost to breast or ovarian cancer. Those that have survived their battles. Those that have taken an active role in cancer prevention. We salute you, family, friends, organizers, coaches, teammates. You made this day—these weeks—easy for us. Thanks.

"Well ... that happened." (Photo by Lindsay Avner.)