Story by Wafaa

 

The Chicago marathon was my first marathon ever. I’ve always been a runner but it wasn’t until I cheered on the Boston marathoners for the 6 years I lived there that I became inspired to run a marathon. I decided to take a chance and enter myself into the lottery and I was chosen!

 

My training cycle was successful until my hip and knee started giving me some trouble about a month from race day. I kept pushing through the tightness and pain, I never let it defeat me. I also never let the hardships life threw at me in those 4 months stop me. Marathon day was an exciting day.

 

I was on pace to meet my time goal of sub 4 hours until mile 18 when my hamstrings turned into rocks. I had to stop. I cried and cried and cried. All of my hard work flashed before my eyes. I felt a tap on my shoulder as a grasped my leg and hobbled down the course. It was a guy from New York, he told me he felt my pain, that I was strong, and that I would finish.

 

Next came the group of women who wiped my tears away, fed me salted oranges, and sent me off with a hug. There was the woman who looked me in my eyes and said “there is no crying at Mile 22” as she forced me to drink pickle juice. There was my Chicago run family at mile 23, the lady who recognized my Moroccan flag and stuck by my side for the last 3 miles. The only thing that got me over mount Roosevelt was knowing my mom, dad, and brother were on the other end.

 

No one wants to ever get injured. Ironically, if it wasn’t for my cramps, I would not have felt the true spirit of the marathon. I’m not sure how many more marathons are in my future, but Chicago ‘23 will always hold the number one spot in my heart.