“Dude, where are we supposed to be?”

Jed was asking me to look at my pace bracelet, to know if we were on schedule. But it took me a few seconds to register what he wanted me to do. It was mile 20, we were three and a half hours in, and fatigue was setting in. It clicked in my head that I was supposed to react and I looked at my wrist, but the numbers were blurry. I blinked a few times and rubbed my eyes. I looked again. Nothing.

At first, I didn’t say anything. It hadn’t dawned on me that I was supposed to talk; everything was a little hazy. But then I realized he had asked a question and I had to respond.

“I can’t read anything,” I called out.

I can’t recall if he heard me or not. He was about 15 meters ahead of me; he just kept running, and so did I. We had 6.2 miles to go, a 10K. I could tell by his confident stride that he was going to make it. I looked down at my own legs and wasn’t so sure.

It hadn’t been like this the entire time. It started out a lot more normal. So normal, in fact, that I wouldn’t have ever imagined that I would be struggling so much to breathe, talk, think, react, or anything else I take for granted on a regular basis.

From the moment April dropped us off two blocks from the starting line, there was an excitement in the air. We were 45 minutes away from starting the race that we had trained four months for, and not even an annoying side-trip to the McDonalds across the street because Jed couldn’t control his bowels could quell the mood. When we finally made it to the starting line, about 150 yards deep, the buzz had grown. As far as I could see, in front of me and behind, there were runners. It was an amazing thing to see. I looked at Pa.

“This is really cool,” I said.

“It is,” he replied, as he stared ahead. I could tell he was excited. I was excited. Everyone was excited.

In fact, by the time the gun blasted 10 minutes later, all three of us were a little too excited to start.

“Dude, we have to slow down,” Jed said after looking at his watch. “We’re going nine-minute miles at it.”

“Let’s just do it,” I said, jokingly. “We can keep it up.”

“You go ahead,” Pa replied. “We’ll see you in five miles.”

We found our groove, and before long, we were knocking out 10-and-a-half minute miles left and right.

The first hour went by quickly. We didn’t talk much, satisfied to just be taking in the experience. It wasn’t until a man ran by wearing nothing but a rainbow Speed-o and a clown wig that we said anything at all.

“That’s what I’m wearing next year,” Jed said.

“My god, Nick.” I said, imagining it.

When I made the turn at the half-marathon mark, I remember thinking about how good I felt, and that it wasn’t going to be as hard to finish as I had imagined it would be. By this time, I was running alone. Jed was consistently 30 meters ahead of me and Pa was 30 meters in front of him. Jed needed the pad, though, because he had to stop to pee every seven or eight miles, something Pa and I were perpetually bitching at him about.

Time was flying by. I felt good, my legs were loose, my lungs were pumping and I couldn’t even find my heartbeat with my hand. The ground below me was a blur.

And then, an unofficial aid station between miles 16 and 17 happened.

“What’s this?” Jed asked me.

“How am I supposed to know?” I answered.

We were approaching the table quickly. The lady on duty held out some pretzels. We both grabbed a handful as we ran past. I ate four of them and regretted it immediately, tossing the remaining ten or so on the ground. I heard them crunching when the runners behind me ran through.

I looked ahead to Jed who had done the same thing. He and Pa were running next to each other. I still felt good; my mouth was a little dry, but it wasn’t anything a little water at 17 wouldn’t cure. And that’s when it hit me. I couldn’t breathe.

Well, I could, but I had lost my breath. My lungs were heaving in and out at an awkward rhythm, and my pace had slowed to a jog to compensate. I was scared, but when I heard Jed tell Pa that he couldn’t breathe, I took comfort in the fact that it wasn’t just me. I took comfort in it, but it didn’t make it any easier to run.

The miles were no longer flying by. I began noticing every step. I began to feel every twinge of pain that seared through my legs. My shin felt like a twig waiting to be snapped. My left big toe hurt, my right big toe hurt, my pinkie toes hurt, as well.

I began to live for the Gatorade. Every time a mile sign appeared, I rejoiced. Not because it was another mile down, but because I knew there would be volunteers handing out lemon-lime goodness in roughly 200 meters. At mile 19 I began taking two cups of Gatorade and two cups of water. I would drink the Gatorades and pour the water on my head. It was a ritual I perfected back in May at our first half-marathon and never forgot. But this day, the aid station at mile 19 would be the last one I remembered.

From what I’m told, I was a different person those last 6.2 miles. Jed says he would talk to me and I would just stare blankly ahead. Pa says he had to grab me on several occasions because I was headed directly for a parked car or the curb. He says I would abruptly stop running and he would have to yank my shirt and literally pull me to get me started again. He says I even asked him if he had ice cream sandwiches between miles 22 and 23 (an allegation I would say is false if I didn’t specifically remember craving ice cream sandwiches during mile 17.) He says there were many times he had to lie to me because I would ask if April was close, to which he told me that she was right around the corner with a camera. (I’d also like to think this is a fabrication, as I wouldn’t be this needy. But if it’s true, he had the right strategy in telling me she had a camera.)

The next thing I remember is looking up to see Jed jogging in place waiting for us. We were on the last block and I could see the finish line. We passed the McDonald’s that we visited five hours prior. The crowd was enormous and loud. The announcer’s voice was clear and I gained a little composure. We passed the 26-mile sign and we knew there were only 320 meters to go. We strode side by side and pointed our fingers as a cameraman snapped our picture. We entered the chute and there was one man in front of us. One jogging man between us and the finish line.

“Hold up,” Pa said. “Slow down; let him get his picture.”

“Let’s go,” I yelled. “Lets just pass him. Come on.”

And all three of us sprinted the last 60 meters. We threw our hands in the air as we crossed the line and I immediately stopped. I put my hands on my knees and stared at the ground. It was a heavy moment. I was physically exhausted like I’ve never been before, but the rush of adrenaline that came with it was just as unique. The last 10 months flashed in my mind. All the miles we’ve run, all the bloggings, and all the shirtlessness. The sentimental thoughts were dashed, though, when a lady approached me with a cup of Gatorade.

“I’ll take two,” I said. “And one water, please.” I’ve never drunk anything so quickly.

I found Pa and I hugged him.

“Dude, I couldn’t have finished it without you,” I said. And I meant it. It was the truest thing I had said all day. Maybe all my life.

“That’s why we’re here,” he said. “Where’s Jed?”

We found him at the free-food table and made our way to the exit. I was still a little out of it and only vaguely recall finding Heather and April.

I hugged them both and Pa sold me out.

“You sustained him,” he told April. “Even if you don’t know it. He was asking about you every five minutes.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “I’m independent. A one-man army.”

Pa laughed.

We found some shade and sat down. Jed called Sarah Catherine to tell her we were alive, Pa sat and stared into the distance, I clutched my medal and winced in pain.

It was done. We were done. 26.2 miles, done.

To say I fulfilled a lifetime dream would be a lie. But maybe that’s the beauty; I had just done something that I perceived to be so far from possible that I hadn’t even dreamt about it.

12 months ago I was locked in my bedroom killing virtual demons and eating pepperoni Hot Pockets.

Today, I’m a marathoner.