by Ali Dean
I don’t know if Jace knows I do this, but I take over-the-counter pregnancy tests regularly. Usually right before a hard workout, and today, before racing my first marathon. I need the peace of mind that I’m not hurting a baby before I run hard and push my body to its limits.
There’s a hand on my shoulder. “Pep?” It’s Lexi.
“Yup. Ready.” I glance over to find most of the runners in the elite field already at the start line.
“Baby Wilder would be three months now, right?” she asks softly.
I smile. “Yeah.” I love that she saw where my hand was clutching and didn’t dismiss it. She knows that everything could have been different, and that as much as I love where I am and what I’m doing, I can’t help the sadness that seeps in when I think about what it would be like if I hadn’t miscarried.
Lexi doesn’t try to tell me to stop thinking about it, she just offers a hug and I take it. “Come on, girl, let’s go run a marathon.”
A minute later, the gun goes off, and I find my spot near the front of the pack. Today is about placing in the top three. It’s not about running a certain time, and I need to stay focused on the runners around me more so than usual. The first half of the race is slightly faster than I expected. I’ve trained to run 5:40 pace – just under a 2:30 marathon, which may or may not be a top-three time depending on the day. There are at least two dozen women here today who could run sub-2:30 marathons on the right day. Some already have.
We hit the half marathon mark at 1:12, which is actually 5:30 pace. There’s a strong possibility I’ll blow up at some point in the second half, but I can’t back down. I have to stay with this lead group and see if I’ve got what it takes. Indy is the only other one of my teammates still in the pack. Two Olympic team veterans are pushing the pace, and while I’m willing to follow them, most of the other runners have dropped off. There are only six of us going into the second half, which doesn’t mean anything yet. In the marathon, the real racing starts around mile twenty-one or twenty-two. It’s entirely possible the chase pack will overtake us at that point, so I’m not about to get complacent.
I’m guessing the two veteran Olympic marathoners ahead of us are pushing the pace as an intimidation strategy. Or because they know some of the younger runners have more speed. Doubt it though, the marathon almost never comes down to a sprint finish. The women train together in Oregon, with the group Kendra used to train with. The two of them are working together to push the pace, hoping to drop us, but we hold on.
When we pass a table with our water bottles, I almost miss mine. We’ve practiced grabbing bottles and drinking during training runs, but it’s harder to do it in a pack than I’m prepared for. I end up slowing down to make sure I’m grabbing the bottle with my name on it. It’s got the right formula in it that my stomach tolerates, and at this point in the race it’s crucial I get some in my system. By the time I get it down and toss it to the side, a gap has formed between me and the lead runners.
With my legs starting to fatigue, it’s so tempting to look back and let the chase group catch me, run with them the rest of the race. Aside from the two veterans going strong, the rest of the lead pack has dispersed. Water stops will do that, and often they don’t regroup. I’m uncertain what to do here. I could regroup with Indy and the two other women who fell off the lead pack just now, create our own chase group. Or, I could pick it up to go after the two veterans and stick with them. It’s mile sixteen now, and I don’t know if it’s smart to use energy to catch the women. But if I stick with a chase pack, I’m also taking a risk. Without the veterans pushing the pace, we’re likely to be caught by the others, and then it really is likely to come down to a sprint finish for the third spot on the team.
When I hear Bunny and Lulu screaming at the top of their lungs, and then spot them jumping up and down and waving pom-poms, my legs make the decision for me. Those ladies don’t know a thing about race strategy, but they’re yelling at me to hurry up and catch the leaders, and before I know it, that’s exactly what I’m doing. They road-tripped it down here, and I want to take this risk for them.
When I finally catch back up, the leaders hear me and glance over their shoulders, not hiding their surprise. It’s clear they were hoping to drop the rest of us and secure their positions on the team before the final few miles put us all to the test. Nope. I’m still hanging on.
I’ve got no way of knowing if that was a stupid move, but here I am. Yeah, my body is already hurting in a way it never has before, and I’ve still got a lot of miles left, but I’ve trained distances longer than this, and I’m confident that what I’m feeling isn’t a sign I’m going to blow up. At least not yet.
There’s a small uphill at mile twenty, and Jace is waiting for me at the top, urging me on. As we work our way up the hill, the pace slows slightly, and I realize that the Olympians pacing me are starting to feel the consequences of twenty miles at a brutal pace.
I’m in pain too, but seeing my husband clap his hands and shout encouragements, it makes me smile. I can’t help but notice that some on the sidelines are more interested in him than the lead pack of runners coming through. He did play in the Super Bowl last weekend. If my husband wasn’t already hot shit, he sure as hell is now. They didn’t win, but he’s got plenty of years ahead of him to get all his goals.
I’m expecting the pace to pick up again once the road flattens out, but the veterans don’t attack again. They’ve eased back, and I can only assume it’s because they’re toast. After all, with 10K left, this is when the race in a marathon really begins. When the training under our belts is really put to the test. I’ve run 6.2 miles a million times, but the distance ahead is daunting. Especially as the women I’ve been following start to falter, and I realize it’s time for me to set the pace and take the lead if I don’t want the others to catch us.
We can’t hear the chase pack behind us, but it’s hard to say what the gap is. It’s not like we have earpieces updating us like they do in cycling races. And anyway, it wouldn’t make a difference. We’re going to need to dig deep just to get to the finish line, never mind if we’re a mile ahead of the others or about to get overtaken. So I let the two veterans fall into line behind me as I attempt to hold the 5:30 pace they’ve been pushing for twenty miles.
I can’t quite pull it off. I know I’ve slowed the pace, even without looking at my watch. My legs burn, begging me to slow to a jog, or just stop altogether. Every muscle in my body is cramping, and the world around me is blurring. Not in a way that makes me think I’m going to faint again, but in a way that makes me focus all my energy on simply continuing to move forward. Tunnel vision. Thoughts of pacing, and strategy, and the runners behind me, it all goes to the wayside as I use every cell in my body to keep going.
It’s not only my legs burning, it’s my arms, chest, throat, hell, even my eyes. By the time we hit the final mile, I register enough from the noise bearing down on me that I’m alone now. It’s only my name I hear shouted, not the others. Squinting, I try to focus on the road ahead. Did runners pass without me noticing? It’s entirely possible. I’m half delirious. But I don’t see anything. Just an empty road.
The realization that I am winning the Olympic Trials marathon shoots much-needed adrenaline though my system. The zing of energy shakes some clarity into my head and I let the cheers fuel me forward. As I close in on the finish line, it really dawns on me. I’m going to win the Olympic Trials marathon. I’m going to be an Olympian. Tears stream down my face and I completely forget about the pain I’m in as a smile spreads. My hands go to my mouth in disbelief when I break the tape. When I stumble to the ground, it’s not from exhaustion – well, that too, but it’s the shock of what I just did that brings me to my knees. My hands go to my chest, clinging to Baby Wilder.
Familiar arms are around me, lifting me up, and I breathe in my husband. He rented a scooter just so he could cheer at the top of the hill, the hardest part of the course, and still race through the side streets to
get to the finish before me. And my strong man has tears in his eyes too.
His words melt over me. “I guess I’ll have to wait another six months before I get to put a baby in you.”
Epilogue
16 years later
“Dad, how can you be cool with a purple house? It’s fucking embarrassing,” I hear Jude ask as I walk through the sliding back door to our deck. Jace looks up from the grill and smiles at me before answering our fifteen-year-old son.
“Don’t curse in front of your mom. And she earned a fucking purple house when she won an Olympic medal. Before you were even born.”
Jude is a mini Jace. The oldest of our four kids, he’s starting his sophomore year at Brockton Public tomorrow. And he’s been embarrassed of our purple house since kindergarten.
“I can’t believe you made that promise. You should have known better. Of course she was going to win a fucking medal.”
“Don’t curse in front of your sister,” Jace scolds as Dash, our second oldest, approaches from the yard with Josie on his hip after pushing her on the tree swing. Jace really hasn’t cleaned up his language since becoming a father, but feels the need to reprimand the kids when they talk just like him. With neither of us growing up in “normal families” consisting of two parents or siblings, we’re winging this thing. And, after a sixteen-year career in the NFL, it’s no wonder Jace hasn’t cleaned up his mouth.
Our only daughter and youngest of the four is also a mini Jace, only a girl version. She refuses to wear anything but the kid-size Wilder jerseys the Stallions had made for all our kids over the years. Josie is only three years old, and adores her older brothers. Gran tries to get her to take on her eclectic style involving animal prints and neon but Josie isn’t into it.
With four kids each four years apart, Gran’s busier cooking and taking care of us than ever before. Now in her nineties, she’s still living on Shadow Lane with Lulu. Wallace and Harold passed away within months of each other three years ago, but Gran and Lulu show no signs of slowing down. Without their help, and Jim’s too, I don’t know if Jace and I could have continued chasing our athletic goals and had four kids. Well, we could have, but it wouldn’t have given the kids the stability we wanted for them. We tried to avoid being out of town at the same time as much as possible, but it happened a couple of times a year. Gran, Lulu, Jim, or Wes and Zoe took the kids when that happened, and the kids loved it so much they probably wished it happened more often.
After the first Olympics, Jace had not been kidding about putting a baby in me. He took his promise seriously, setting an alarm to ensure time for sex before heading to the stadium for practice, and then rushing home to me afterward to continue the baby-making activities. When his efforts were fruitful, he made it his mission to repeat the task after each Olympics, except this last one. At forty years old, I don’t feel the need to endure another high-risk pregnancy when I already have four children. Besides, I always liked even numbers better. Jude and Zane share May birthdays, exactly eight years apart. Dash turned eleven in June, and Josie turned three in July.
While Jude and Josie have trouble written all over them, Dash wants to be a runner like me. Zane, well… He has a lot of Bernadette Jones in him and walks to the beat of a different drum altogether. He joins us just as we’re sitting down for dinner, wearing polka-dotted suspenders over a tie-dyed shirt and faded jeans that look suspiciously like a pair I used to wear in elementary school.
“Did Granny B give those jeans to you?” I ask as I scoop pasta salad onto his plate. Gran refuses to be called a great-grandma, so she goes by Granny B with her great-grandkids.
“Yeah. She gave me a box of clothes. Said they’re vintage. I got these shoes too. Like ‘em?” He pulls up his jeans to display a pair of blue high top Chucks.
“Zane, those were your mom’s shoes when she was your age,” Jace tells him with amusement.
Zane grins. “Cool. I’m testing out my outfit for the first day tomorrow. I’ll tell everyone that my Olympian mom used to wear these.”
The kid’s incredibly sweet, and I’m grateful he’s got the Wilder build and has two older brothers. I worry that his eccentricities will get him bullied at school. Jace tells me that’s ridiculous, and he’s probably right. So far, Zane has proven to be the most popular kid in his class every year. He makes friends with everyone. But he’s still in elementary school and I know firsthand how mean kids can be.
For a kid who’s been embarrassed of our purple house for ten years, Jude isn’t the least bit embarrassed of his eccentric little brother. In fact, Jude loves bringing his younger siblings around with him, having them watch his football and baseball practices and games.
“I want to go to school!” Josie complains from her spot between Jace and Jude.
“You get to hang with Dad all day,” Dash reminds her.
Passing the corn on the cob down the table, I tell her, “You’ll start preschool soon, baby, as soon as Daddy decides he’ll give you up for a few hours each day.”
After retiring three years ago, Jace has taken on the role of stay-at-home dad, and while the rest of the kids started preschool at Josie’s age, Jace refuses to sign her up to start this year. I haven’t pushed it. She’s our last, and the two of them have a special bond.
I’ve just returned from my fifth, and final, Olympic games.
“Hey Mom,” Dash asks, “can we go on a run tomorrow before school?”
Our dog, Pretzel, perks up at the word “run” and nudges my knee from under the table. Dave ran up until the day before he passed away at age twelve. Even though Jude was a toddler and climbing all over everything, it still felt like the house was missing something so we got a puppy, which Jude named Dave Junior. DJ passed away two years ago, and now we’ve got Pretzel.
“Course, Dash, wouldn’t miss it.” We started doing sunrise runs together on the first day of school a few years ago. He’s starting middle school, and I wonder when he’ll decide he’s too cool to run with me, but Jace thinks that will never happen. Dash still idolizes me and wants to be an Olympian someday, but I don’t know how long that will last. I keep expecting the kids to become embarrassed of us some day, but even Jude still wants to hang out with us.
I would run every day with Dash but I’m doing my best to keep him from overdoing it too young. I can tell he’s inherited my love for running, but I also don’t want him to feel any pressure just because of who his parents are.
“Cruz said you’re retiring now. Is that true?” Dash asks, concern furrowing his brow.
Jace laughs. “Your cousin likes to rile you up. Uncle Wes used to do the same to me. Especially when it came to your mom.”
“Mom’s never going to retire, dummy,” Jude tells his brother.
Jace shoots Jude a warning look and Jude mumbles an apology before saying under his breath, “It was a dumb fucking question.”
I sigh. “I’ll be running as long as my legs let me,” I admit. “And I’ll probably always race here and there, but my goals are changing. I’ll be doing more coaching with the team instead of racing.”
After five Olympics and four kids, I’m ready to slow down. Just a little. I’ve kept my traveling and racing schedule significantly less demanding than most professional runners in order to be home with the kids and give them as much stability as possible. It’s probably one of the reasons I’ve been able to run relatively injury-free for so long.
“Granny B!” Josie squeals, hopping down from her seat and running across the yard. Pretzel hustles behind her. Gran walks along the sidewalk and opens the side gate to our yard. It’s a short walk from Shadow Lane, and I think the kids keep her younger than most in their nineties. She has a reason to crouch down on her knees, like she does now, to give Josie and Pretzel a hug.
Jim, Gran and Lulu have open invitations to dinner at our house, and at least one of them pops in nearly every night. Gran takes her usual spot on our outdoor dinner table between Dash and Zane. It’s a little crammed, but that’
s how we like it best.
“So Jude, you tell your parents about your new girlfriend yet?” Gran asks, reaching to grab a burger and a bun.
My eyes swing to Jude, who attempts to look unfazed, and then to Jace, who is clenching his jaw. “We talked about this, Jude. No girls. They’re trouble.”
“Real trouble,” Gran chimes in. “Might make you paint your house purple someday.”
Jace sighs and put down his fork. “Exactly. He can’t understand that concept yet. When he understands why I let Pep paint the house purple, he can have a girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Jude says with conviction.
“I saw you kissing her,” Dash adds helpfully. “It was definitely a girlfriend kind of kiss.”
Jude shrugs, not even the least bit embarrassed of himself. “I’ll just tell her I can’t have a girlfriend yet,” he replies with a smug expression.
Oh, I don’t think so. I see where he’s going with this. We have a little player on our hands.
“You need to think of all girls like you think about your sister.” Jace tries a new tactic. “Until you’re eighteen, at least.”
Zane asks through a huge bite, “But Daddy, Josie can’t date until she’s sixty, I thought?”
Jace takes a long pull of beer. His eyes meet mine over the bottle and I try and fail not to smile. I convey with my eyes that we’ll talk about this later. Jace has turned out to be the stricter parent. Sometimes, I find it ridiculous given his own activities growing up, but I get it. He made a lot of mistakes he doesn’t want to see his kids make. And that control thing, it hasn’t changed much even as he’s tried to accept that when it comes to kids, there’s a lot we can’t, and shouldn’t try, to control. It’s a constant challenge, but one we work on together. The best challenge we have in our lives.
