Peachtree Road Race

This was one of the firsts in what would be a list of unbearable moments, unexpected foreshadowing of what was to come.

We had a history of jogging together on the Beltline or around the base of Stone Mountain. We usually started together, but she would often go off on her own for a bit because she was much faster and fitter. Nevertheless, it always felt like we did it as a team. In 2019 when I ran my first 5k, she ran super slow right by my side, and it meant everything to me to have her support. 

I cried as I crossed the finish line.

After many misdiagnoses, I was told in 2016 that I had chronic exertional compartment syndrome, a condition that caused excruciating swelling in my legs the more I exercised. At the start of 2017, I had a fasciotomy to release the pressure in my calves and allow me to be more active. Because I had been misdiagnosed for 10 years, the surgeon tried to level with me about my mobility. I was much older since I first quit regular exercise, I was out of shape, and there had been substantial damage to my muscles due to the sustained pressure. The prognosis was clear: be glad you can walk pain-free. Don’t expect to run again. What he didn’t know was that a year later I was going to meet the biggest cheerleader of my life who would motivate me to resume running and find a way to do the things I loved.

In 2024, she finally registered for the 10k Peachtree Road Race, a tradition she had long wanted to join but had not yet made happen. I would have loved to run it with her, but my legs wouldn't hold up. I had been experiencing setbacks while trying to run even a mile or two. However, to demonstrate solidarity with her, I signed up to volunteer at the post-race participant T-shirt booth. This station seemed to make the most sense so that I could be close to the finish line and able to celebrate her inevitable accomplishment.

July 4 arrived too quickly. She had her number, her outfit, and her spirited accessories — she was ready to kick ass. I knew she was nervous; it was a big undertaking for a first-timer. I had no idea what it must feel like to anticipate that kind of exhaustion before it even began. I tried to help with an appropriately carb-loaded meal and a you-can-do-it pep talk, though she was focused on getting to the start line on time. Thankfully, my volunteer shift began before her lineup, so if anyone was going to be late, it would be me — a kind of pressure I could handle. It all worked out.

She had an added bonus that day: her friend was running with her. It was the first Peachtree for both of them, and though their training had been minimal, their love of running carried them. They started side by side and stayed together for most of the race. Near the end, my girl pulled ahead, just as she often did on our morning runs around Atlanta. After crossing the finish line, she found me at the T-shirt booth, where I got to congratulate her just as I had hoped. She was beaming, as was I. We hugged. We kissed. She did it!

At the booth, I had already handed out hundreds of T-shirts by the time I saw her. The brutality of running in 95 degrees with unimaginable humidity was behind her, but my duties were still in front of me. I had been standing for 5 hours in the direct sun in an open area of the park. Against my own knowledge of what was good for me, I hesitated to drink enough water to stay hydrated because I feared having to use a stinky porta potties that in the heat would likely make me gag. Knowing me as well as she did, my girl returned to the T-shirt booth with her hat to protect me from the sun and her water bottle, demanding I drink up. That has always been how she demonstrated concern for me. Her crisis management instinct has always impressed me.

Unfortunately, as the morning was only getting hotter, the race organizers issued a black flag alert due to extreme heat causing dangerous conditions for staff, volunteers, and participants before everyone had crossed the finish line. Thankfully, my shift was cut short, but not before I was weak, exhausted, and sunburned. She ran and fetched the car while I trekked with my bag up the hill, barely enough pep to make it. If anyone had offered to push me forward, I would have obliged. 

Once at home we took showers and lay down for a long nap. Both of our tanks were on E and the heat had drained our reserves. After three hours of rejuvenation, we were ready to have something to eat and continue to enjoy a laid back holiday. As we settled in for the rest of the evening, she prepared her celebratory Instagram post that highlighted her accomplishment with before and after pictures with her friend. I had to approve the caption before it was published for all to see. I was proud of her and let her know publicly on the post.

We talked extensively about the day and the huge achievement. We also discussed how I should have been on the route with her; it just would have made sense. As a result, she quickly signed us both up for the 2025 race, a full year in advance. She was determined to return to the track and support me in my first 10k. Of course I was intimidated and nervous that I wouldn’t be able to complete the entire race, but I was also excited to think I might be able to manage it if she were with me. After all, I had an entire year to train, and she had a way of giving me strength to overcome my obstacles.

Less than six months after her gesture of confidence in me to run my first Peachtree, and more importantly, to do it together, the excitement had evaporated. The UEFA Women's EURO 2025 was being hosted in Switzerland and some games would be played in St. Gallen, a perfect opportunity for her to be a part of a once-in-a-lifetime experience. She had played soccer for 15 years, which meant having a women's tournament on home turf was a rare and special opportunity. Of course, her participation as a volunteer at the games in St. Gallen also meant that she would not be back in the US in time to run the Peachtree with me. I would unfortunately be alone.

I can't remember now if the motivation to train dwindled because she wouldn't be there for the race or because I had been swamped at work. Perhaps a combination of both. In any case, I barely mustered enough enthusiasm to train beyond a couple of miles per week. I was visiting a personal trainer 1-2 times per week and occasionally attended kickboxing, so I was active, just not running. Running was an activity I had done alone since high school, but somehow I connected it to her now, to us. The association had shifted that first time she pushed me into the can-do mindset.

About a week or so before the race, the Atlanta Track Club started flooding my inbox with all essential information for race day. They included details about the runner expo the day before where participants pick up their race numbers and get ushered through a pop-up runners store to spend oodles of money on shorts, shirts, shoes, and running accessories that most people who run regularly already have plenty of. The added bonus was that many items could be branded to commemorate the annual race participation. I partook and even gifted her a pair of shorts she had requested. It was a nice practice for me to learn to navigate public transit. I had ridden the incredibly simple MARTA trains so many times, but every time was with her. I was nervous. The newness and fear of messing it up was an added stress that wasn’t particularly welcome when I was already jittery about running the race alone, without a cheerleader by my side, and without anyone to congratulate me at the finish line.

Race day arrived. I had my number, an outfit she and I picked out in the winter, and a good luck picture of the two of us in my pants pocket. I called her on my way to the train station, with every word I had to hold back the tears. I could not believe she wasn’t here. We had broken up at the end of May, but it never really felt like we would ever separate our lives. We were too invested in each other, and I believed we truly wanted each other to be happy.

On the train, I was alone while pairs and groups boarded with cute little outfits all decked out in red, white, and blue to honor the holiday. I kept checking that my good luck token was cozy in my pocket. I needed the feeling that she was with me. I also triple checked my ID and my car keys. I was alone in this world and had no safety net to bail me out if anything got lost. I put in my earbuds and tried to find some Zen. The anxiety was growing, and I was continuing to fight the emotional build up. I felt my eyelids slowly giving way when some wayward tears dripped from the corners of my eyes.

I was so fucking sad to be on this adventure alone.

The night before I had met with my friend Jamie to eat a carb-heavy meal and to vent about all of the craziness in my life. Unnecessary drama seemed to always follow me despite my genuine desire to live truly in peace. I told him how upsetting it was to feel alone so often despite having someone so important in my life. As always, he gave me the sage advice to live in the moment and to embrace the experience without worrying about what was missing. I tried to keep his words of wisdom close as I lined up in Wave W.

I was most certainly wrong, but I felt like everyone else around me knew what they were doing. They all knew how long we would have to walk from the MARTA station to the starting line. They were all in the know that the portapotties a half mile back were the only ones available until we got on to the race path. Water? I thought surely we would have access to some sips before we kicked off. After all, we had been in line for over an hour and the blistering July temperatures were gradually emerging. I was wrong.

Finally, two and a half hours since I set foot on my first train, my wave of runners was ready to start. We slowly climbed Wieuca Road to Peachtree Street. With each step in our collective march, I could feel the energy around us growing. We could see crowds lined up to wish us well and set us off with as much positivity and hopefulness as possible. My running playlist was already thumping in my ear. Modest Mouse’s Float On and its feeling of perseverance was an intentional first song to get me hyped. Each song was carefully selected the night before to capture the energy and emotion I needed to push me across the finish line.

The countdown began. 10…9…8… Deep breaths. 7…6…5... Am I really doing this? 4…3…2…Girl, I miss you. Wish you were…1! And we were off! 

Goodness, the crowd in the race was as big as the crowd cheering from the sideline. Navigating the swarms of runners, walkers, and the chaos of those first few blocks was pure sensory overload. I had no idea. The adrenaline of the moment took over, and my breathing became shallow. I had only covered the first half mile. Against my own wishes, I stopped the run and began to walk. I also began to take in participants drinking beer instead of water. One table passed out shots! Some people were grabbing snacks. Others were stopping for random photo ops and selfies with bystanders. The first band performing on the sidelines was a guy I knew. It was more of a circus/festival than a 10k competition. If I had been a little happier, I could have enjoyed the unseriousness of the event. I wasn’t, though, and plodded along at my slow pace with determination that once I relaxed, I would restart the run.

As we progressed up the road, I was darting around people, trash, dropped props, and lost articles of clothing. I decided to pick up the pace and run again. Somehow I knew that my pace was extremely slow–it always was, but I felt like a million bucks, a badass, I was doing it. Look at me! My playlist could not have been any better curated, and it really pushed me along. The sun was getting hotter and there was no shade along the open path. In fact, the sun mightily reflected off the buildings making the rays overly intense for portions of the road.

Just as I approached Cardiac Hill, lovingly named to describe the 3.1% incline that most runners find brutal, I returned to a walk. I had made it just one mile.

The race continued. My speed walk continued. The crowds were enthusiastic and supportive. The party was everywhere. I was emotionless. Why does this happen to me? I had envisioned myself dancing down the street. Since my race time meant little to me and I was meant to participate for fun, I thought I would muster some joy of the moment. But, nope. No joy at all. 

I had calculated before the race where the last half mile would start. In my head, no matter how much or how little I ran overall, it was important to me to run the last half mile to the finish line. As soon as I saw my marker in Midtown, I took off for one final push. I was feeling powerful. I could do this. Just as I turned onto 10th Street, the crowd was twice the size. The onlookers were screaming, cheering, encouraging us to not give up. Zayn’s I Won’t Mind began to play. The moment couldn’t have been more perfect. I felt his voice and lyrics speak to me. He said what I wanted to say to her. I breathed through the emotions and ran with blinders. 

It was me and the song. 

It was me and her. 

No.

It was just me. 

The song ended and I instinctively stopped running.

I pulled myself back into the moment and back into the race. I was just a few meters from the finish line. Shit. For one last time, I started to run, just enough to cross the finish line as I hoped, in full stride. As I crossed I saw the smiles, hugs, fist pumps, celebrations from everyone. I saw couples and groups reunited after one runner had obviously pulled ahead at some point. Race volunteers did their best to make each participant feel special and appreciated. I thanked them for their commitment to the tradition, grabbed a free peach, a bottle of water, and a cooling towel. Tears welled up again as I saw the T-shirt booth where I had stood one year prior, where I had waited for her to cross the finish line. Where, even for a brief moment, we could celebrate her achievement together.

I was already so tired and dehydrated. I could not afford to cry. I had to get out of there, get home, and let the emotions out in a safe place. I remembered the uphill climb from last year. This year I headed towards the MARTA station where no one in particular was waiting for me. As I pulled my phone out of my pocket I had missed calls from her as well so many messages I had not read. She was worried about me. Apparently, I had accidentally called her at the beginning of the race and she thought something was wrong. She had tried to get in contact with me, but couldn’t. The moment that calmed her nerves is when she looked at the online race tracker, she saw I was in motion and making progress. She monitored my entire performance and had sent me well wishes and congratulatory messages at all the right moments. I tried calling her back, but her volunteer duties had already begun. I appreciated her attention, but I would have appreciated more that she was by my side.

I took the reverse train route back to my car. I opened the car door and fell into my seat. I drank the entire bottle of water I had placed in the cup holder earlier in the morning, and because of the blazing summer temperatures, the water now tasted as if it had been microwaved. Just before putting the car into drive, I realized my playlist was still humming in my ears. I had no perception of the music playing by that point. It was all just a continuous set of notes, similar to white noise. I took the earbuds out, placed them in their case, and drove home. My senses were oversaturated.

The short drive was emotionless and thoughtless. I was on autopilot. At home, I walked in to see the dog and cat eager to greet me. I gave them my first smile of the day. I crashed onto the couch and pulled off my shoes. My feet were sore, and my legs felt like a ton of bricks. I tried massaging away the 3.5 miles to and from the MARTA stations and the 6.2 miles of the race. I also took a moment to reflect on the morning: I had just completed a feat that not many can claim, and yet I had no way to celebrate. I had no one to tell. And I had no pictures to post on social media. My big day came and went. 

I did it.

But I did it all alone.