In the dying days of last Winter, I made the decision. It was a Saturday, and I hadn't run for a week. So, I went at an easy jog, rather than my usual driven pace. Four miles later, I felt like I could have done it, again. I felt fresh. I wondered. How many miles COULD I do at a nice, slow jog?

I'd recently turned 39, and next February was the big 4-0. Greg, a friend of mine, was planning on running this year's Columbus marathon. When he told me, I'd snorted, "26 miles? That's insane!" Now, a smile crept across my face. The marathon would be held in late Fall, just a few months shy of my 40th birthday. "What better way," I thought, "to spit in the eye of advancing age than to run a marathon right before I turned 40?" I made the decision.

All though Winter's last gasps, through Spring, through the hottest Summer I can remember, into Fall, I ran every other day. On the weekend, I ran my "long run." I started this at 8 miles and increased it until I hit 20. In the middle of the week, I would run half of the long run, other times four miles.

Race Day finally arrived after eight months. Greg and I had pledged to run it together. After a few nervous moments, hopping up and down in the chilly dawn air, we were off. After the first few miles, we realized we were going faster than our pace. Should we slow down? We both agreed since it FELT like our 10-minute mile pace, and we were comfortable, we'd keep it.

At mile six, our first friend who'd come to cheer us on appeared. More showed up, bless them all, as we went on. At the halfway point, Greg and I were cruising. We were 7 minutes ahead of schedule and felt great. Then, began the long, 7 mile climb of High Street, followed by even steeper Upper Arlington. My legs began to feel it. Greg was fine, but I knew my pace slowed.

I began to get nauseous in my stomach. It was a battle to keep running. My legs were okay, but I felt sick. Finally, at mile 22, I felt I either slowed to a walk or threw up. I waved Greg on, and began my private battle. I walked for a half mile, then began to run again. After awhile, the nausea returned and I slowed. I could hear the spectators calling out, "Only a mile and a half more!" Leaving Victoria Village and heading downtown, I knew I was there. I picked it up again, and soon was over the bridge and heading down the final half mile. I heard my name being called and saw my Mom and Dad there, encouraging me.

Now, I said, give it your all. My legs rose and fell, my arms pumped. I began to sprint. I passed up a dozen other runners, until my foot hit the mat and it was over. I had finished! 26.2 miles, 4 hours, 39 minutes, 46 seconds. I was 125 days away from 40 and in the best shape of my life. Take that, old age!