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Gina Warner

Shortly after running the Duke City Marathon with a group of Runner's Edgers in October of 2005, member Vince DiCroce and I were talking about what our next assault would be. Chicago sounded good to both of us - Vince had run it right before being diagnosed with brain cancer in 2004, and I had run it back in 1992 as a survival move to come out of a difficult personal situation. Back then it was without a major sponsor and had only 8,000 participants, so I was eager to experience it as one person in a race of 40,000 others. Members Alexis Van Meenen and Steve Renda were immediately on board and the chatter started. Soon after, more than 20 in the group were registered. Training started in June, and the inevitable camaraderie that ensues when a group of individuals works concurrently toward a similar goal was in motion.

Having lived there when I first ran it 14 years ago and meeting my husband just a month later, Chicago had its obvious attraction. It also provided an opportunity for me to experiment with my approach to training. I had set a do-or-die goal of 4:30 for Duke City after running the Steamboat Marathon 4 months earlier in 4:51. Given the altitude and hills at Steamboat, it seemed doable. But at mile 17 I strained a muscle, and it took me a grueling 5 hours to finish. My self-admitted, type-A perfectionism kicked in and I felt like a complete failure. After all, I'd done the training without missing any runs. I was the 4:30 pace group leader. I had a well-organized, color-coded pace chart, laminated and wrapped around my wrist. I had dedicated each mile to a different person in my life. I hadn't suffered any injuries throughout my entire 16 weeks of training. So if I'd done everything right, why wasn't my goal realized?

My frustration festered for weeks, until I reluctantly admitted that I had let my marathon experience be defined by the outcome rather than let it be savored for sheer love of the process. It was obvious: more important than progressing physically and posting a faster chip time, I needed to change my paradigm and mature mentally as a runner. If I could meet my 4:30 goal in the process then great, but if not I needed to get to a point where that had to be OK. So it was decided. Chicago would be my laboratory. If I trained in the spirit of my pure enjoyment of running, and focused on finishing strong and having fun, would the outcome be different? More importantly, would my acceptance of the outcome be healthier?

Training always has its ups and downs, but training for Chicago had more downs than normal. There was the usual life-throws-you-curve-balls stuff at home (sick kids, flooded laundry room, etc.), but I also faced a series of injuries (calf strain, periformis problems, brutal IT band issues). Unlike past sessions though, I adjusted my training schedule around them, listening to my body. When it felt like too much, I backed off, even if it meant deviating from my schedule. This alone was progress for me!

I continued through the training session as the 4:30 pace group leader for Runner's Edge, coaching a handful of members, both seasoned marathoners and a handful of virgins. On our long runs I found myself encouraging them to have fun with training, and to consider it as a celebration of health and fitness, rather than just a means to an end. What they didn't understand is that while I was selling them on that mantra, I was trying to convince myself of it alongside them.

Chicago approached and I felt great. Deep down, I wanted that 4:30. But I felt at peace with my training, my physical ability, and my mental outlook. I knew that if I focused on the fun of running through the great city that I once called home and first started distance running in, I would be OK with whatever the outcome was. Those of us who traveled to Chicago together had become so melded in our interest in each other's goals, the excitement was infectious - a tone continually reinforced by our coaches David and Julie Manthey throughout our training. All weekend, fellow members like Amie Hennen were a continual beacon of the attitude I wanted to have for the race.

But as the usual pre-race nerves set in, I found myself on the eve of the race obsessing about making my splits, and sticking to the 4:30 pace chart that I'd planned on wearing on my wrist. Hanging out in the hotel lobby after our group dinner that night, members Suzanne Johnson and Michelle Apicella softly suggested that I bag the pace chart, practice what I'd been preaching, and just let myself run. My shoulders immediately felt lighter. This was what I needed: permission. I needed permission to do what I had trained to do all season - have fun, feel strong, and celebrate the outcome. So I trashed the pace chart, and the next day got dressed and ready to go without it. It felt great.

Like all of my training runs, during the race I didn't look at my total time. At each mile marker I'd glance at my watch to check out each split as a sort of note-to-self. Besides, I was way too entangled with the fun of the spectators and other runners to care. How can you not get caught up in the hilarity of fans holding signs like "Don't Poop Your Pants", "If Oprah Can Do It, You Can Too", and :"Pain is Temporary, Pride Lasts a Lifetime"? At one point along the course I saw Michelle cheering and the only thing I could scream to her was "This is so much fun!" What I was really saying was, "You were right!"

There's no superlative for the joy of that race. The cold, the brutal wind, the crowds to weave around - yes; but the pure, organic fun diminished their presence. Running past my first apartment after college where I lived when I first ran this race so many years ago, I couldn't help but reflect back on how much I've changed since then - not just as a runner, but as a whole person. In '92 the race was for a purpose --to get over something and somehow inject myself with a much needed dose of self-esteem. But on this day I struck the pavement as a strong person, a mother of three with an amazing husband, happier than I have ever felt in my life.

At the mile 22 mark I realized nothing was hurting yet. That feeling continued. It was the first of my four marathons where I hadn't hit the wall, never even felt crampy or uncomfortable. Then I looked down to check my split and there it was - my total time: 3:40. If I could run the last 4.2 miles in fewer than 50 minutes I would hit my 4:30 goal. I knew that even if I walked the rest of the way I could do it. I quickly calculated that if I wanted to amp it up a notch, I could possibly even break 4:20!

As I headed up Colombus Drive toward the 26.2 mark in the immense sea of spectators, I felt like I was running faster than I had ever run in my life. I crossed the finish line, stopped my watch, received my medal, ate a few bites of an apple and a banana, and strolled over to the tent to meet up with the teammates that had become my family. When I got there, fellow Runner's Edger Chris Wozniak gave me what felt like the most enormous bear hug of my life. Then he took a picture of my watch. It read 4:19:49.

Waiting in line for my post-run beer I called my husband. I told him that the only thing that hurt was my face from smiling non-stop for 26.2 miles.

Gina Warner
Member since January 2005