Muscle Memory

About the time I ran a marathon

Despite not enjoying it much, I swam all throughout childhood. The activity was in part tainted by all the para-aquatic elements. I hated having to leave my remarkably thick glasses in the locker, to then drag my hand along metal, then concrete, until I finally reached the smooth, cold tile framing the pool. Then there were the obstacles standing between me and the chance to relieve my myopia with the refractive properties of water. The year of the corralito, for example, we had an instructor who wouldn’t let us dive in until someone correctly guessed the overnight devaluation of the Argentine peso. Another year, a coach obsessed with the aesthetics of swimming strokes would often pull me out of the pool so that, perched on a kickboard in front of the entire class, I could practice the breaststroke kick over and over again, wet and shivering.

I wish I could say that the determination and discipline culminated in a successful career as an amateur swimmer. That wasn’t the case; my physical build never allowed for the development of the kind of muscle that might inspire fear in a lane. I made my high school swim team, only to lose every single race I ever competed in, making my coach’s constant encouragement and spirited pep talks land like mockery. This, combined with the fact that my Tae Kwon Do sabomnim once described a sparring match between a classmate and me as “a truck versus a compact car,” contributed athletic aspirations all but disappearing by the time I reached late adolescence.

At 22, spurred on by several rejections in academia, I began to question my relationship with failure—my attitude toward it and the myths I had built about myself. Since moderation is not among my virtues, and with the need for something to prove, I signed up for a marathon. A quick Google search told me there were two marathons a year in Toronto, and since it was already June, I registered for the one in October. Given that I had never run more than a few meters—and that those attempts had always left my lungs burning—I took on the challenge with the humble goal of running all 42 kilometers, in whatever time it took, but without walking.

I printed an 18-week training plan that gradually increased mileage. Little by little, the routes grew longer; what had once seemed unimaginable became routine. Once a week came the long run, which started at six kilometers and climbed up to 32. To really savour the torturous nature of the endeavour, on my way back from those runs I would stop at a convenience store, buy a bag of ice, and as soon as I got home, dump it into the bathtub. Then I’d boil water for tea, which I would drink sitting in the freezing bath, questioning everything.

The training and all its paraphernalia did not go unnoticed by my family. The amount of time I was spending outside seemed excessive to my mother, who couldn’t understand what exactly I was doing alone in the street for hours. One day, my brother found me running in circles in the driveway, a fact he ignored as he opened the garage. My grandmother calling from Argentina, asked, “Listen, querida, what if you tried running the 42 kilometers before the race, just to make sure everything works properly?” My father, who was living in Mexico at the time, took the weekend off to be there on marathon day. Since my family has never been good at celebration, to this day I remain convinced that his insistence stemmed from genuine concern I might drop dead halfway through the affair.

The night before the race, after swallowing as many carbohydrates as I could, I went to bed early. I woke up with a knot in my stomach and went down the stairs to the rhythm of a funeral march. My father and a now-forgotten boyfriend drove me to Toronto’s financial district, where the race would begin. Among what felt like the entire population of the city, I found the corrals and headed straight for the last one—the one reserved for those who, like myself, had registered without any hope for glory.

The sharp crack of the starting gun cut through the chatter, announcing the beginning of the race. The professional corral went first—those who would be back in two hours or less. Gradually, we moved forward in a mass until I crossed the starting line. Once the race began, the knot I’d carried all morning loosened, and for the first time I allowed myself to lift my head. I was surprised by a carnival of colors: people in fluorescent leggings, others running in tutus, with fairy wings and magic wands. I spotted the Mexican characters, El Chapulín Colorado and a Kiko, and even a group of women in their sixties discreetly popping ibuprofen. Little by little, the glass and steel towers gave way to the concrete highway stretching across the city, and we ventured farther west. It was still early; the sun at my back and the primal feeling of running in a pack convinced me that every infected blister had been worth it.

The race route snaked along the shimmering lake, dotted with sailboats and seagulls. Orange cones marked the curve that signaled the return toward downtown. The split for half-marathon runners thinned the crowd around me; there were stretches where I found myself alone, accompanied only by the rhythm of my shoes against the pavement. Now heading east, I ran past Greektown, framed by men sitting in small cafés, chatting and watching the strange parade. A few kilometers southeast, scattered among storefronts with colorful signs, bundled-up spectators waited to cheer with signs that read, “Worst parade ever!”, “This is a lot of work for a free banana,” and “Smile, remember, you paid for this!” Others made an effort to personalize their cheers, and, trying to read my bib, congratulated me with variations of my name—Aileen, Allen, Ellen, and my favorite, Alien. By then, the lack of glucose and the trembling in my muscles had eroded my composure; every attempt to encourage me triggered uncontrollable tears and off-key squawks.

With my vision still blurred by tears, and my sleeve soaked in sweat and phlegm, I passed a small sign marking kilometer 32. I exhaled hard: training had never taken me beyond that point, and I had always known the last 10 kilometers would be a leap of faith. I had convinced myself that, past this mark, I would collapse into a heap of tendons, bones, ligaments in the middle of the street—that some poor soul would have to sweep me up to prevent further casualties. When I looked down and found my legs still relatively steady, I let out an incredulous laugh and managed to pick up the pace.

I passed the last volunteer tent and saw them handing out colorful packets of energy gel and paper cones filled with water and Gatorade. As we neared the end, solidarity among the delirious runners grew. I tried to pat a man in his fifties on the back—he looked like he was running on sand—but misjudged the distance and hit nothing but air. A man in his thirties passed me, trying to encourage me; I caught something like “Good job, Ai… Alle… ah… never mind” as he dodged a stumble and kept going. Gradually, the buildings rose up again, the sun now shining overhead. The course widened, the ceremonial cones proclaiming that the end was near. At last, I saw the finish line, and the relief of nearly being done allowed me to sprint the final stretch.

That was the only marathon I ever ran. I took on the challenge to somehow erase my frustrations and try to rewrite who I was and what I was capable of. It took hundreds of kilometers, countless calluses, and two pairs of shoes to learn that running towards failure is considerably more fun than running from it. I think that might be what my swimming coach was trying to teach me. I think I could have saved myself 18 weeks and the registration fee if I had listened to her. Just as well, I’ve never been one to learn things the first time around.

Prone to Hyperbole by Ailén Cruz