Becoming Joy
Five years ago this week, I ran my first marathon. I’ve shared before how I’m built with short, stocky legs and a stout body—not exactly a runner’s physique, less like a gazelle galloping through the woods and more like a pig on a treadmill.
Nonetheless, I completed my first marathon, which, to this day, remains the only marathon I’ve run.
The Dallas Marathon is generally a great experience. It usually enjoys favorable weather, has very few hills, and runs through beautiful neighborhoods, starting and ending downtown. The halfway mark wraps around White Rock Lake, which evokes a love/hate response among runners. The crowds have cleared out, it’s lonely, and you’re the at the furthest point out in the race.
Right after you curve around the lake, there’s a slight elevation that provides a clear view of downtown Dallas—13.1 miles away…and you have to run to get there.
For me, in that moment, in the middle of the race, I thought to myself,
“Maybe I could just collapse, and they’d carry me across the finish line. But would I still get the medal?”
