There I stood at the gate enviously entranced by the interaction between a little boy and his father. The boy was fitted with a Bob the Builder backpack, a teddy bear hanging from the strap, and the air of excitement often associated with a first-time flyer. He seemed to be about seven or eight, about the same age as I was at the time of my inaugural solo flight. I can’t recall where I was going, nor why I was flying alone. But it was an adventure, so the details were irrelevant.

As much as I could relate to his exuberant anticipation, I cannot deny the feelings of envy reverberating throughout my body. I was setting off for the first marathon, the first which I would be running with a purpose and that purpose was in the front of my mind. Every parent travelling with a child was a reminder of the relationship with my father that I never had.

Leading up to the race I thought a lot about Thomas Francis Michael Hickey. I thought a lot about all of the stories that have gone untold and all of the stories about him that could be told by people who were mere acquaintances. I knew this race would be a challenge on several points.

I was functioning on little sleep before I headed to Florida and did not have a good night’s rest before the race. That is never good. I was still fighting a chest cold and felt like the waste product of a farm animal. And looked no better. But the stubbornness that I inherited from my dad prevented me from backing out. Besides, I had paid the registration fee and made the trip, so backing out . . .

At the starting line I was focused on keeping my legs warm and trying to mentally kick myself into gear. My strategy was simple – finish the race in time to catch my flight back to DC. Hell, that would be a mortifying story to tell if I were so slow that I missed my flight. As usual, I held the option of cutting out at the halfway point. Let’s see how the race goes and decide at Mile 13.

The majority of the race ran along the road, so there were houses and neighborhoods to distract me from heavy legs. And there was the radio. The first miles were rough, so the battle against negative thoughts was fierce. I kept repeating in my head, “Take it one mile at a time, one mile at a time.”

Clearwater resembles many Florida towns, including Boca Raton, where my father’s older sister has a home. I recalled the vacations my mom, brother and I took to Florida as a child. I remembered the one trip we took with my father. Of course, I remember very, very clearly when I jumped off the side of the pool cracking my head open on the side of the pool.

Note: My middle name might be grace, but that is where it begins and ends. The scars on my head from subsequent head-cracking incidents is a testament to that fact.

With the blood from my head came the fury of my father’s temper. Like my brother and I, my dad felt screaming was the best way to handle a crisis. It is like people who raise their voices when speaking with the deaf or foreign speakers. And it gets you nowhere.

But thinking about it got me through a mile or two. And beyond Mile 13. And I knew what was next – the hills. There were two steep declines that lay ahead and I knew it would require more mental than physical strength to get me over those. My chest was not loosening up and each time I coughed my right leg would jerk back. Yes, I could have stopped to cough but that would be no fun at all. Frankly, I probably looked a lot like Elaine dancing in the classic episode of Seinfeld.

The fatigue was not so funny though. Once I got beyond Mile 20, I found myself digging deeper and calling on my dad and grandmother, after whom I was named, for strength. Please just get me through this. Please. I was getting angry at the course at this point. Each mile seemed to get longer as I prayed that my legs and heart would carry me forward. The Mile 26 marker was a most welcome sight, particularly since my legs had less in them than any other marathon I have run before. I was certain my time would be pitiful – I had stopped keeping tabs on my time at Mile 23.

I crossed the finish line at 4 hours and 6 minutes, which was the second fastest time I have run. Go figure. You never know your ability to overcome challenges until you take them on and take them head-on. I did make my flight back to DC and was happy to have the first marathon in the books. I also felt more convinced that this journey will be worth it. It might not change the world, but I will be happy if it can change one person’s world.