It all began on a bright, cold Sunday morning run of 2-3 miles in New York’s Central Park. There were three of us then, all huffing and puffing, career women with children in our late 30s. We were all in communications, and we did just that as we jogged. We talked about what we wanted, how we intended to get it, why we wanted it, our goals, our men, our children, our disappointments, and we found we’d run six miles. This astounded us and led us to question whether, just perhaps, IT could be done – a marathon – a mere 20 more miles than we’d just run. One dropped out, the six miles had done her in, but the other two, the blondes, decided on the brink of 40 to "go for it." This cliché and all the others, "Because it’s there," "Life is so short," "You only live once," spurred us on to get in shape and to try in five weeks a ½ marathon in Brooklyn, and from there, perhaps, possibly, just possibly, the full 26 miles, 385 yards. Our conditioning was far from perfect. I had had a baby a year before, and Kay’s "baby" was 17. We were not young physically, but the courage of our years added to our stamina, and we went to Brooklyn and finished, albeit in pain – great, great pain for me. But we did finish those 13 long miles. The seed to run a marathon planted that early Sunday morning in Manhattan had taken firm root in Brooklyn.

And so, we began our grueling preparation. This meant days of running alone, often in the snow and rain. It meant juggling 1-2 hour daily runs with careers, love, babies, cooking, housework, and friends which, in turn meant getting up very early or no lunch hours or coming late to parties. But we found out it could be done, and we could do it. We could stand black toes, aching shinbones, backs, and shoulders. We could tolerate the boredom of the circling, the never-ending circling, of the Central Park reservoir. Central Park became our home away from home, and it was there we discovered how physical discipline and mental discipline interrelate. It was there we discovered about ourselves how we could respect the fortitude of the self that persevered and frown upon the self that preferred to sleep late on Sunday, read the New York Times, and bake brownies.

Until now, female friendship in my life was based on going to the movies, talking about "life," traveling together, all sorts of fun things. But running with a woman is different. Men experience this on football fields with injuries and practices and a common goal. They tough it up and learn about spirit in combat. Kay and I learned about this spirit and found we both had it. To celebrate this spirit, we decided to marathon, not in New York, but in Paris. For if you have only one marathon in you, and I was sure that’s all I had, wouldn’t it be fitting to do that one in Paris?

Paris became the goal, the 26.2 mile, a costly $26 a mile goal. Paris, running amidst beautiful architecture, along the Seine, with the scent of flowers in May, and gorgeous Frenchmen cheering us on. Paris – how easily that destination got Kay her vacation and me time off from the soap opera I was on. Paris – how in the face of our disbelieving, misbelieving, would-be-believing friends, we believed, and we ran.

Kay came up with our game plan. On The Day, we’d "chat" until 13 miles, then she’d discuss Middle East Policy. At 15 miles, I’d cover the economic policy. At 17, we’d discuss graffiti on New York’s subways; at 19 miles, the topic was books, at 20, that night’s dinner menu. At 21 we’d tell jokes. For the last five miles, we’d tell each other how very wonderful we were.

And, oh, we felt wonderful as we boarded our flight. The champagne was bubbly, and our hotel on the Left Bank was charming. But all too soon, reality appeared in the form of Raceday. It dawned cold, wet, and dreary. But how could a little rain daunt our enthusiasm? We were, it’s true, the last to start, the back of the pack, and it did take us ten minutes just to reach the start, only to find traffic as part of the course – diesel traffic, playing tag with the darting bicycles, and under our feet, wet, slick cobblestones. Where were the gay, young Frenchmen throwing flowers? They were there, as rain soaked as we, yet they applauded us, shouting, "Vive les blondes! Vive les femmes!" Their support helped us on our way, and we ran happily for 13 miles, but at 13 miles, only Kay cared about the Middle East. The reality of the 13.2 miles left to go had become all too clear to me.

We entered the lovely Bois de Vincennes. There we started passing big, strong men, hundreds of them, many running at a turtle’s pace, others walking, no less. What pride! We felt positively euphoric. The 70-year-old couple trotting easily next to us, veterans of 19 marathons, told us many people start out too fast and have to walk in. Kay and I still felt fine, but as we left the woods, at 21 miles, I hit the dreaded Wall.

Kay felt terrific. I hated her. She talked happily; I could barely breathe. She pointed things out to me. I could only see my feet. She told me I looked great. I couldn’t stand her. My friend with the shared goal and the spirit in combat became my enemy as she kept urging me on, telling me the finish, the Eiffel Tower, was so near. All I knew was that the Eiffel Tower was big, and I couldn’t see it, so we must be lost; or more logically, it must be lost – stolen. I was thoroughly convinced someone had stolen the Eiffel Tower. This enraged me enough to go the last mile, and when finally it came into view, I couldn’t see it for the tears and rain were streaming down my face. I had finished, and I didn’t care. Kay had finished and was ecstatic.

I suppose my numbness and Kay’s ecstasy are typical reactions after completing a task which has taken months of time and commitment. The marathon was over – it was 4 hours and 54 minutes after we’d started. It was 8 p.m., cold and dark, as we fought our way home on the Metro. And it was while riding beneath the lovely city whose pavement we had just pounded for 26 miles, that our new self-esteem began to take shape. The praise from the other passengers meant little compared to our own feelings of self-achievement and accomplishment. Marathons are said to reflect one’s whole life, and we like our reflections far better than we’d ever dreamed. Perhaps that is why six months later, Kay ran New York, alone, and eight months later, I ran Honolulu, alone.

By Tina