The Long Walk to Recovery...

The marathon.

People told me it would be the ultimate test of mental toughness, of mind over body.

It is.

I've been a runner for five years, a rower for one. I know physical pain, I know what it means to push my body to its furthest limits. But I never imagined I would hit a point when the only thing that kept me going was sheer stubbornness, pure unrelenting mental pressure.

The marathon started in Hopkinton, a quaint New England town with brick houses, a local pizzeria and a lambasting preacher warning us about the evils of sin. April 16th is Hopkinton's big day, and the whole town turned out-piped music, banners and an arts and crafts sale sponsored by the local church ladies. Some hardcores celebrate Patriot's Day by meandering through the sneakered crowd in costumes from the 1700's.

But mostly there are runners. Some relaxed and joking, others serious and confident, a few nervous and highstrung. There are endless lines to the johns as runners get rid of that extra glass of water they had with breakfast, and every lawn is littered with people stretching out or gearing up.

The beginning of a race is always my favorite part. I turn inwards and take stock of everything--energy level was high, legs felt powerful, muscles were long and loose. I may have been sitting still but underneath I could feel the solid base of miles I've built up all semester.

I sized up the race ahead of me--it would be tough, especially the two mile hill between the 18th and 20th mile that they call Heartbreak Hill. My goal was to put out a strong sustained effort for 26.2 miles and finish under four hours. It would take a great deal of mental discipline and a formidable physical effort, but I was not scared. I knew what I had to do and how to do it. All that remained was to run.

If the gun went off, I did not hear it. I was too far back in the pack. About five minutes after people started moving, I crossed the starting line and for at least the first half-mile of race I had to walk because the crowd was so dense.

Marathoning has taught me the art of a Zen start. With more than 26 miles ahead of me, not only would the first half-mile make almost no difference, but freaking out could do a lot more harm than good.

The race began. I started out fast, as I always do. I passed people and kept up with my running partner, who was aiming for a really fast time that, in my infinite cockiness, I had thought I could also achieve. After a few miles, I realized that I would not be able to sustain this pace and settled into a more manageable speed. For the next three hours and 20 minutes, I would knock off mile after mile, battle fatigue and pain--force my body to keep running even when it was screaming to stop.

People have asked me what I think of during the four hours I am racing. To run well requires intense concentration. Every minute of the race I have to monitor the way my body feels and make sure I am holding a steady pace. When my soles start to burn, my body starts to dehydrate and a seering pain rips through my legs, I have to keep telling myself that I did not run miles and miles through snow, rain and wind to wimp out in the end.

Ten miles down, 13 miles, 15, 18. Finally, Heartbreak Hill loomed before me. I broke it up into little pieces--16 steps running with my hamstring muscles, 16 steps with my quads, hamstrings, quads, hamstrings. I powered up the whole hill without stopping, and when I got to the top, a half-dazed smile crept onto my face. I had beaten the monster of the Boston Marathon.

Spectators clapped and cheered from the sidelines, little kids held out water and orange slices, one strange woman wore rabbit ears and played the accordion for us. My race belongs in part to all of them that yelled at me to run harder when I was dogging it, that ordered me to run when I was in so much pain that it was all I could do to take another step.

I crossed the finish line at 4:01:30. Somewhere around the 20-mile mark, I had passed my running partner. Dazed and depleted, but with a smile of pride plastered across my face, I stumbled into the chute and started the long walk to recovery...