As noted in the previous post (yes, a prompt to read it if you haven’t), the taper week before the 26.2 Run with Donna Marathon was going to pose a special challenge. The race for breast cancer was being held on February 23, the 36th anniversary of my dad’s death. I promised myself that the goal I would set going in would be to finish. Just to finish. I feared setting too high a bar would result in disaster.

I arrived in Jacksonville on Saturday, and ran some costly errands thanks to my dependence on cabs for transportation. As I had for the Clearwater Marathon, I attended 5:30 Mass and was at least 30 years younger than 99 percent of the other parishioners. That might explain my strong impulse to walk out and immediately purchase Maalox and a LifeAlert.

After a restless night, I set out for the race before the sun rose with nervous legs and an even more nervous mind. At the race site I dropped off my bag and huddled around the heating lamps with the other runners. Since it was a breast cancer race, most of the runners were adorned in pink, a color which for most of my life has elicited revulsion. I am not a “pink” kind of person. I, on the other hand, looked as if my sponsor was the Cincinnati Chamber of Commerce – a Reds shirt and a Bengals hat. You can take the girl out of the city . . . .

So, I waited. And waited. And then wished I had more time to wait, but 7:30 arrived and the race began. I set out slowly trying simply to warm up my legs and put my mind in a good place. I noticed at Mile 1 that setting out slowly meant an 11-minute mile, which if was my pace throughout the marathon would result in my slowest time ever.

The plan to simply finish? I knew putting pressure on myself was not a good strategy, but old habits are hard to break. I made a deal with the stubborn voice urging me to speed up that I would see my time at Mile 5. Before I reached that point a curve ball was thrown. Thrown right at my head. I was unaware that when the race description said the course went along the beach that it quite literally was along the beach. That would be the sandy beach. Sand-in-the-shoes sandy. Good God, what have I gotten myself into?

I tried to take in the beauty of the beach and the ocean and thought of the countless images in movies of people running along the beach loving life. The only problem was I was not in a movie. There was no inspirational background music. No flowing locks. No massive smile plastered across my face.

There was a snicker however. Life is filled with unanticipated events, such as losing a parent. So, what do you do? You deal with it, make adjustments and move along. So I did. Grudgingly, but I did by deciding this race time would have an asterisk to explain my dismal time.

It also occurred to me by Mile 6 when we were back on concrete that I was wrong to think this race should be run to mark dad’s death. Why should it represent just one event in his life? Why not run it to remember all of those moments shared sitting on the couch? Why not run it to remember the time my dad accidentally locked my mom out of their flat in London thanks to one-too-many holiday beverages? Or the time he took me to the office one Saturday and I got to sit in the “big” chair?

Thomas Francis Michael Hickey died on February 23, 1978. That is a fact. But it is also a fact that for 42 years he lived. He lived a full life and laughed a full laugh. He loved my mother and his first-born son. He mourned the loss of two other sons – one that died as the result of a miscarriage and the other who was still-born. And he loved his only daughter.

As I ran through the memories I found the weight of the taper week ease. The weight of my legs did not, but there are some things over which the mind has no control. As with other races, I broke the race into segments setting the halfway point as the first goal, then mile 18 because that meant I had less than 10 miles to go. Once I passed Mile 20, it was as much that we were running in the middle of nowhere, so bagging out was not really an option.

The course then veered off onto the highway, which was on a slant so it felt as if I were running half-drunk. I kind of wished I were half-drunk. Actually, I really wanted to be fully-drunk. I looked at my watch only to realize that (a) I would finish in time to catch my flight; and (b) that I had picked up time. The last mile was scheduled as a take-it-slow-just-finish mile, but the torrential rain resulted in a readjustment. As I neared the finish I saw a man 500 yards ahead of me who was losing steam. I heard the voice and told the voice to shut up. No, I will not start sprinting to beat him across the line. No, I will not. And then I did.

From somewhere I found the “kick” and sprinted the final 800 yards and did not even think to check my time as I finished. I looked up to the sky and nothing. No tears. No sense of sadness. Just satisfaction.

It is said that every marathon is a lesson. This marathon taught me what might be the most important lesson — I can get so much accomplished if I honor dad’s life, rather than his death.