Marathon #3: Why I am the Luckiest Little Sister On Earth

I ran my third marathon on July 27^th, 2003 in San Francisco California. I was beyond thrilled when my brother Peter asked if I wanted to run it with him, because I had spent the last few months after the LA marathon in a blissful haze about what to do next, so when Peter called, I jumped at the chance to run marathon #3 with my big bro.

The coolest part about running a marathon in San Francisco was that I would be hanging out the with the ”OG” Ironman crowd, our cousin Patrick, Peter’s friends and roommates, and the original marathoner in my life, my oldest brother Tim.  I absolutely revere Tim; he is the oldest of all four of us Kelly kids, seven years older than me, and the first hero in my life.  Tim had to grow up very fast due to our parent’s divorce. He became “the man of the house” at only fifteen when we moved  from Palos Verdes to Claremont.  Tim had just finished his freshman year of high school where he ran cross country and track, and the only upside to the move was that the cross country season started in the summer, so he was able to join the team and start the year off with a few new friends.  I was only eight years old at the time, so I don’t remember too much about what Tim was going through, but I know that he was a very good student, he was a good runner, and even though he was mature beyond his years, he was the first to burst out laughing when I made a joke at the dinner table, which made my young, tom-boy self-esteem fly through the roof.  Between my two brothers, Tim was the mature one, and Peter was the goofy one, which is a priceless combination for a little sister like me.  Even with different personalities, Peter followed in Tim’s footsteps by running cross country in high school, and guess who followed suit a few years later?  I will always cherish the time I had running on the cross country team as a freshman, when Peter was a senior, team captain, and the fastest runner on the team.  Luckily, I was pretty quick that year too, so I don’t think I embarrassed him too much:)  

Tim rowed crew in college, but soon after he graduated he started running marathons. “What?”  That is what everyone in my family thought, because the size of a marathon was too huge to wrap our heads around.  However, Tim was always up for challenge, so it was no surprise that he not only ran four marathons, but ran them fast!  I think his fastest time was a little over 3 hours, which is smokin’.  Unfortunately, he ran his last two races only three weeks apart, and his knees have never been the same.  Nevertheless, the night before my first marathon the only person I wanted to talk to was Tim, and I’ll never forget the priceless advice he gave me, “Just take your time in the beginning, you don’t want to go out too fast, it is a long race.”  I remember taking those words in as my doctrine because Tim’s words were golden for me; he was both my big brother, and my marathon guru.

The night before our race in San Francisco Peter’s friends came over to pump us up, and I was confident because I had a bit of experience under my belt, no matter how many times you do it, 26.2 miles is a long way to go, and both Peter and I were pretty nervous.  In fact, I had one of those “oops, I missed the alarm!” dreams that night, so when the real alarm went off early in the AM, I felt like I had already survived the toughest part of the day.  The car ride to the race was hysterical, Peter and I laughed the whole way there, and before I knew it the gun went off, and Peter disappeared in the crowd in front of me. I loved the early part of the race because we ran through the Embarcadero, along the water, and up into the trees of Pacific Heights, then up down, and around the many hills of San Francisco.  I felt okay, not too good, not too bad, until I hit the out and back strip of strand around mile 13, I saw Peter again ahead of me at the turn around, and noticed that he was feelin’ it, too, when he yelled in a joking, but strained voice, “We’re running a marathon, huh?”  

My spirits picked up when we ran out of Golden Gate park down Haight Street and right by Peter’s apartment because his friends were out front cheering for me, and I wanted to make them proud, so I picked up my pace, and charged down the hill.  The next few miles looped us in around a part of the city I never want to see again.  There were no trees, barely any crowd, but plenty of Reservoir Dogs-esque warehouses that made me feel isolated, and annoyed.  When I came up to the mile 23 marker I was genuinely upset, I was sick of running, and just ready for the race to be over, then I saw a hint of the promised land, AT&T park, AKA Giants Stadium.  I knew the finish line was close, and with the help of a smattering of fans along the parking lot I cruised through the last mile or so, and into the rousing finish line where I noticed a J. Crew model type cheering his head off and yelling my name, and when my exhaustion cleared, my tears formed, because my ultimate fan was Tim!  I had never seen Tim so excited, he kept saying that I should really be proud of myself because I ran under four hours, and “only real runners go under four hours.”  Peter finished strong, but he was beat, he developed respect, but no love for the marathon that day. Meanwhile, I was in little sister heaven standing at the finish line in between Peter and Tim, it felt amazing that we now shared the bond of the marathon.

The following morning I went on a little recovery run and the wheels started turning in my head as I repeated Tim’s words over and over about the finishing under four hours, and I started thinking about the qualifying times for the Boston marathon.  I was 23, so I would need to hit 3:40 or below, yikes, 15 mins., but why not?  I had lopped off 30min. from my first marathon time, so what was another 15min.?  I decided then and there that my goal was to qualify for Boston by the time I turned 25; I had just over a year to do it, but if Tim thought I was a real runner, then I needed to prove it.