After 13 miles, the Chicago Marathon Wasn’t Going According to Plan. Here’s what happened.
Last year, I ran the 2023 Bank of America Chicago marathon, broke my personal record, and felt like a superhero for weeks afterward. So, of course, I couldn’t wait to run the race again this year. This would be my third marathon since turning 50 in 2022. I’d spent the past five months training, determined to beat last year’s time and finish the race in under four hours. I’d even stopped drinking wine and added strength training to my race training plan.
My race day goals were clear, but my body had other plans on the race course that day.
The week before the race, Hurricane Milton loomed. Instead of resting, tapering, and hydrating, my sister and I spent the week on the phone with our parents in Ft Myers, Florida, monitoring the potential wreckage. We’d just celebrated our father’s 90th birthday the previous weekend, and I was terrified their home would flood and they would drown.
By the time my husband and I flew to Chicago on Friday, October 11, my parents were alive and well — Milton did not directly hit them. But my mind was still a jumbled mess of nerves. And I was tired.
On Race Day, I started running slowly, determined not to go out too fast. The temps were already a balmy sixty degrees. Forcing myself to smile, I repeated my many mantras.
I can do hard things.
Thank you, Glennon Doyle, but that mantra wasn’t helping as the temperatures rose.
Pressure is a Privilege.
Yes, Billie Jean, but by mile seven, I wondered why I’d thought running Chicago a second time seemed like a good idea.
By mile thirteen, my stomach churned as the temperature rose to the low seventies. My inner voice bigfooted my soundtrack, turning down Taylor Swift on my Spotify playlist, turning up the criticism: a negative voice I’d battled as a professional child actor. This voice used to tell me I wasn’t talented enough, pretty enough, skinny enough.
That day in Chicago, the running version of that old inner critic met me on the course. And she started to yell.
“You didn’t drink enough electrolytes!” Her tone was filled with pity, contempt, and ferocity.
“You should have worn your other sneakers. Why did you wear the Brooks and not the Saucony Endorphin Speed Pro 4?!”
A chorus line of sneakers jogged across my foggy mind.
“You didn’t rest enough leading up to race day.”
Stop, I begged the voice. Go away.
And finally, “Who do you think you are? You’re going so slow you’ll never finish the race in under four hours. And you’ll never qualify to run the Boston Marathon.”
Enough, I muttered, forcing myself to eat another gel at mile fifteen, hoping the sugar and caffeine would ease the stomach pains.
While hundreds of runners passed by me, I had two choices: Drop out of the race or persevere and keep running.
At mile 19, I saw an old friend from high school who lives in Chicago. I jogged over to him, sure I’d break down and scream and cry. Instead, I joked about my stomach, then insisted we take a selfie. He took the selfie and then showed it to me. Wait? Was that me in the photo smiling?
If I could smile for a selfie, I could endure the stomach pain and suffering and cross the finish line, right? But I’d need to force that inner critic to shut up and get off my race course.
I kept on running. Whenever a negative thought floated in, I tried to breathe and keep moving—little steps.
Three miles later, in Chinatown, I saw my husband, Andy, holding his purple sign, “Run Jenny Run.” I hugged him, took another selfie, and said I’d see him at the finish line.
And then, the playlist in my head dialed back to my actual marathon playlist: Beyonce, Taylor, Dua Lippa, and some disco. Olivia Newton-John sang “Let’s Get Physical.” I had just one final hill and then the turn toward the finish line.
I crossed the finish line, my arms in the air, celebrating my victory.
A few minutes later, with a bag of ice on my head and my shiny medal around my neck, I found Andy. I wasn’t beaming like last year. But I forced a smile. I’d suffered. But I finished.
It’s been three weeks now since the race. I spent a few sleepless nights replaying the race, wishing my body had performed differently, that the weather had been cooler, and that I’d rested more the week before. But instead of lamenting about everything that didn’t go right, I decided to focus on everything that did go right.
My definition of what a winner is has changed. I’m choosing to celebrate finish lines instead of finish times.
Now I’m waking up ready to run and finding the joy in running again, a thread I somehow lost during the marathon. I’m not putting any pressure or judgment on myself right now. I’m content running around the Central Park Reservoir and taking photos of the beautiful fall foliage. There is no inner voice on the run.
I can’t wait for my next race. And next time I’m on the course, my inner critic — she is not invited to the run. Instead of focusing on my next race and the finish time, I’m determined to focus on silencing the part of my brain that thrives on keeping score.
Jen Rudin is the author of Confessions of a Casting Director: Help Actors Land Any Role with Secrets from Inside the Audition Room, published by HarperCollins. Her writing has appeared in Newsweek, USA Today, Kveller, and Huffington Post. Jen works in the entertainment industry and is a certified RRCA running coach for New York Road Runners. Follow Jen @rudinj and visit www.jenrudin.com for more info.
