I ended up running my first marathon in an utter delirium of stupidity. My mind was definitely not listening to my body throughout the entire three hours and fifty-nine minutes it took for me to complete the race. The pain in my knee that had become apparent during my last week of training was still making its presence felt and I simply tried to ignore it. Frozen pees and ibuprofen were recruited to help me stop the swelling that seemed to last a good month. My lesson learned? Running is 30% physical and 70% mental. I ran two marathons that summer in the forty-ninth state and after moving back to Canada I was eager to run my first marathon in our Nation’s capitol.

When I tell people that I am going to run a marathon most of them are surprised and then they say they could never run one because they would get too bored. I can understand why running would appear to be monotonous and rather repetitive. Most people would prefer to chase after a ball and have the companionship of other teammates. However, I run so that my mind can wander. I rarely if ever listen to music and I allow my thoughts to explore my troubles, my worries, and my fantasies. I have often used running as a therapeutic release so that any stresses from the day can be absorbed into the empathetic pavement. When I was studying for exams in my first year of sciences at the University of British Columbia I used to keep pace by chanting, “You will pass physics, you will pass physics, you will pass physics,” which I managed to do by a nose hair.

Race weekend in Ottawa has arrived and I am motivated by the support from my family and friends. I am staying with Alison, a fellow Junior Ranger. When I was seventeen I participated in the Department of Natural Resources Junior Ranger program. It is a program that exists at the heat of teenage angst and hormonal rage, which allows groups of young men and women to work together in a team building environment and form bonds and friendships for life. The camps of course are not co-ed. Otherwise would any work actually get done? Alison and her mother Barbara’s cheering capabilities proved to be indispensable in the last throngs of the race.

On race day I am wearing my ING Ottawa Marathon t-shirt and my lucky hat that looks like a bird crapped on it. But really it is just white paint. It is a 7:00am start and I have to go to the bathroom but refuse to line up in the gargantuan serpent-like queue. Male runners are bonding while urinating on buildings behind bushes. The race is about to start and I must do the unthinkable, hold it. In my mind I tell myself, “the faster I run, the sooner I get to go pee.” The delirium of stupidity has returned and I have yet to experience an official runner’s high.

The night before the race I went out for a pasta dinner and then went to bed early. I know that pasta is the carbohydrate of choice for runners and I have eaten it before, however on the morning of race day I am having a serious bout of irritable bowel syndrome. I was trying to think about what could have caused such an unfortunate upset, too much garlic? Stress? So here I am with a full bladder and a distended belly about to embark on a 42.2 km run. At least my knee doesn't hurt.
When the race starts, I keep the three hour and forty minute Race Bunny in view and attempt to maintain its pace. I really want to make my qualifying time to run the Boston marathon. The attempt was futile, however and I later recede leaving ol’ bunny ears to get lost in the crowd in front of me. The race takes me all around Ottawa. I run past the parliament buildings, the National Art Gallery and through neighbourhoods with plush yards and palatial estates. In fact the spirit of the city is intoxicating. Live bands play music, water station volunteers are in costumes and on-lookers cheer and hold up signs that read, “Keep up the good work!” “You’re doing great!” “You can do it!”

Just before I reach the 24 km marker I spot my own cheering crowd, Alison and Barbara. They motivate me to keep going. I am over halfway done and with my legs cramping up I saunter on. As I look across the canal, I spot the elite runners on their way to the finish and I suddenly feel terribly exhausted. The fatigue sets in when a runner beside me proclaims his dire wish to simply finish the race since he is now running with a painful stitch at his side. Motivation is what I need right now, not deterrence. Thanks champ!

Throughout the race I had been looking for bushes to duck into and relieve myself. Indeed, many people were doing this and all I had to do was make a dash for the closest fern. However, in my running-zone state I feared the loss of time and I felt if I stopped I would not have the desire to continue. My motivation to finish the race trumped my biological yearning to empty my bladder.

When it is time to count backwards I start using my fingers. Ten more kilometres to go, two full hands out. At each passing kilometre I eagerly put a finger down. With only one hand left my legs are moving, limber and relaxed. With two more kilometres to go Alison and Barbara ride beside me on their bikes. I am grateful for their encouragement and I am determined to finish the race strong. The last five hundred meters seem to take forever, but as I approach the finish line, I am jubilant. I spot my mum on the other side of the fence and after receiving my metal and emergency blanket I meet up with her in the recovery zone. The race took three-hours and fifty-two minutes. A personal best for the longest time I had to hold a pee.

Angelique Myles, Kingston, Ontario, August 2005