Dirt and some pebbles skitter down the face of the mountain behind me. Kevin, Eric, and I are engaged in a conversation about Flannery O'Connor, and for the first time in several miles, I'm glad to be here.
A massive valley sprawls out to our right. The air moves in cool and warm currents, and the sun splinters through multicolored leaves. We jog forward slowly, humbled by the miles we have already run, exhausted, and vaguely aware that after Suck Creek, we will have to finish the run with two massive climbs back up Signal Mountain.
All of a sudden, a new wave of nausea slams my stomach, and I feel the blood leave my limbs in response.
"Guys," I tell my team, "I gotta walk. Go ahead. I'll catch you at the next aid station."
I know this feeling, because I got it on my 20-mile training run. I've hit what runners call a "bonk," when your body runs out of fuel. With no way to get fuel to my system since I can't hold anything down, I am stuck dragging my heavy legs forward through the rest of the race, and I still have a long way to go.
I will skip through most of what happens during the final miles, because it would be just about as grueling to read about as it is to haul myself through. However, just to give my readers an idea of what it is like, I will mention that there is a tiny, older asian man in a safari hat who keeps overtaking me by walking slightly faster than I can. I pass him on the hard climbs, by sheer willpower, and the last few miles of the race feel like a battle between snails, with this guy hot on the heels of our team.
We break out onto the road at mile 30, and the race volunteers tell us just to run up the hill and around the corner. Eric and Kevin, who have waited for me, dragged along with me, and encouraged me to keep moving, both break into a slow jog. I speed up my walk to keep pace with them.
As we round the last bend, we hear cheers erupt from the finish line. Ruthie and my older sister Lisa have spotted us, and are going crazy.
I force my legs to jog down the hill. The better portion of the runners have finished the race and gone home, but many men and women I talked with out on the course are still here, watching, eating burgers and cheering for everyone else who comes across.
A few hundred feet away from the finish, I burst into tears. I fight the urge to double over, and I run with Kevin and Eric across the line, my face flushed, my legs burning from fatigue, my skin and clothes spotted with the crust of salt deposits left by long-dried sweat.
The feeling that washes over me as an official shakes my hand and gives me a finisher's medal is difficult to describe.
The moment is one of victory, the reason for 8 months of concentrated training, and I have accomplished something that few people even dream of. But I don't feel like a hero or a victor. I feel humbled, defeated, exhausted, and relieved.
Underneath the pain, as the minutes run by, as I hug my family, pose for pictures, try to sip a Sprite, a realization of what I have done grows alongside the pain. Something inside me changed between throwing up the last of my nutrition at mile 16 and stumbling across the finish line at 31.
I know the bliss of being completely exhausted, obliterated, embarrassed, and hurt. I know the kind of humility it takes to get to the finish line, because this course taught it to me.
As Eric and Kevin and I climb into the back of Lisa's car and head back to where we're staying, I feel and enjoy every twinge of pain from my knee, every screaming soreness that shoots up and down my calf, every reeking whiff of my own sweat-soaked clothes.
These are the things that tell me that we did it. That the race changed me in a profound way, and all I had to do to receive its gift was to drag my tired self through everything its long, slow miles had to teach me.
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