Fourteen.

The room was shrouded in dark shadows and the only glimmers of light illuminating the antique flowered wallpaper, tin ceiling and fireplace were random flickers of the floodlight on the lawn through the waving tree branches being whipped by the ferocious gale.  The old radiator in the room clicked and hissed, a comforting noise to me as it brought back warm memories of visiting my grandparents in their old Victorian house years ago, similar to the ancient Inn in which I was staying in Falmouth.  I lay cocooned under layers and layers of quilts, in cozy cotton pajamas and compression socks, right cheek pressed against the cool sheets and just watching the rain splatter across the stuttering windows in awe.  The building and room creaked and at times, the utter force of the winds caused me to open my eyes out of fear that the windows would blow clear in from the utter force of the storm; spooky and fitting for this time of year.

It was the eve of my 14th marathon.  After arriving in Falmouth early, picking up my race packet and checking into the Inn, the storm barreled in, it started raining and just did not stop.  This wasn't just a storm, but a powerful forecasted Nor'easter, which later left thousands without power in its wake.  Once settled and running my pre-race errands and doing a bit of antique shopping and out of towner-perusing, I found myself instantly soaked while walking to and from my car or in and out of shops.  The rain was simply staggering.  Back at the Inn, I started ritualistically organizing everything for the race but was just an absolute bag of nerves.  What do I wear for this one?  What is this crazy weather going to do exactly?  Am I going to be able to deal with all this for 26.2 miles?  I've ran marathons in the rain before, but nothing quite to this extreme or on this scale.  I really didn't know what to think or do which was unsettling.  Then there was a knock on my door.  I peered through the lace curtains to find a shriveled old man; the Innkeeper was going from room to room dropping off flashlights to all guests "Just in case".  I thanked him, then felt a knot in the pit of my stomach.  Gulp.  The calming point of my evening was spontaneously having dinner with a friend at one of the local pubs a few blocks from the Inn.  I arrived soaked and shivering in my jeans and sweater, but instantly felt warm in good company.  It felt good to laugh and relax and get out of my own head for a few hours.  But then I soon found myself back at the Inn again, in that room, pajama clad, cozy under those quilts, trying hard to rest my tired body and ignore the sour knot in my stomach enough so that I could dream.  Or not dream.  Just sleep really, any form will do.  Jail.

I awoke the next morning to an ear-splitting noise outside of my window; during the night a rather large tree capsized across the road which was part of the first mile of the course.  The Department of Public Works was outside, bustling in the morning darkness to remove the tree with chainsaws and a wood chipper.  My alarm never went off, but I was alarmed.

What an omen. 

Peering outside, the rain had stopped, but the wind continued to howl.  What do I wear for this one?!  I finally forced myself to stop dawdling and decided on a pair of winter pants, a t-shirt, a wicking top, gloves and a headband and grabbed what I can only begin to describe as what has become my unlucky marathon talisman. 

As catalyst to the Great Life Upheaval of 2010, I purchased my home after deciding to end a major relationship which was going absolutely nowhere.  While packing to remove myself from what became a horrendous situation before moving to my new house and self-created stability, I somehow managed to collect one of his old sweatshirts in with my clothing on accident.  Prior to a marathon, most marathoners wear an old piece of clothing to keep warm, then discard that particular article along the course, which is then collected and donated to charity.  Ten marathons later since that door in my life closed, and I'm still trying to rid myself of this damn sweatshirt.  I've tried to get rid of it for TEN MARATHONS and it keeps following me somehow.  It's now become my own personal joke and talisman and game to try to get rid of it, and I just cannot for whatever reason, but feel it deserves a proper burial.  If he knew of this, I'm sure he would chuckle a little, just as I do about it as well; you know something is better off dead when all that remains is a worn out sweatshirt that just won't seem to commit itself to charity. 

Unlucky sweatshirt-clad over my running top, I walked over to the start and was worried about my nagging hamstring as I danced around in the sea of other runners waiting to get moving.  I could not get over the winds.  The rain had stopped but the winds were 30-40mph with gusts of 75mph and cold, cold, cold.  The revision to my goal for this marathon became evident:  I was only going to run this one to finish, finish strong and not further damage my hamstring. 

CANNON BOOM.  

Off we went.  I purposely took the first few miles very, very slow because of the freezing temperatures, winds and slick pavement.  I wanted to let my body adjust and warm up so as not to further aggravate my already shrieking hamstring. 

Then someone tapped me on the shoulder and I heard a strangely familiar, velvety accent.  Surprise!  It was a marathon ghost!  I had met him during this exact same marathon, one year ago.  He seemed to remember everything that I had told him during that marathon, while sheepishly I fought to remember everything he had told me.  Marathon confessions, I call them.  When conversing with a marathon ghost, marathon confessions are inevitable; it is therapy.  Marathon ghosts disappear and vanish after a race just as quickly as they appear, yet never leave an imprint, never exist, are neither part of life nor living.  Marathon confessions, are things that remain on the course, sometimes they are lighthearted, sometimes they are dark, and sometimes they are secrets that no one knows.  It's part of the race and part of the novel that is each and every 26.2; admissions, catharsis.  We happily bantered for a bit, then off he shot in hot pursuit of a Boston-qualifying time, while I remained taking it easy on my hamstring.  I smiled at my haunting.

The first 10 miles were windy and worrisome.  I was concerned about injuring my hamstring in the cold and stressing out about the winds.  It was so windy that my eyes were burning and weeping and although I wasn't crying, had to keep wiping tears from my face.  Running in that type of wind is an absolute energy drain and I was worried about running out of steam.  Miles 11 through 20 met me with another surprise - although I did this same marathon last year, I could have been running a totally different course; there were hills, hills, hills, short and steep and jagged like a jack-o-lantern.  Oddly enough, I think these hills helped my hamstring because it stopped hurting around mile 16, although I did not accept this as permission to speed up.  The hills were simply relentless.  It's funny how a course can be completely different with different weather and conditions.  Miles 20 through 26 met me with a very strong headwind which caused my thoughts to fume.  I dug in and ran.  Hard.  At mile 23, I flew past the marathon ghost, he was walking and in pain as were many others; or perhaps I was the ghost as I vanished from his life towards the finish?  I was ready to get off of this course, out of these winds and into dry clothes.  And then I turned the corner and there was the finish.  I finished in 3:58 according to my watch, and 4:01 according to the clock.  Not my best, not my worst, but in difficult conditions, with a strong finish and without hamstring pain; I was happy!  I felt a heat shield blanket draped over my shoulders, my 14th marathon placed around my neck  and a giant hug from my friend who ran the relay with his team.  I was beaming sunshine despite the gloomy weather. 

Alone and in silence, I trudged back to the Inn to change into dry clothes and check out before grabbing some food and laughs with the relay team and watch others finish the race.  I had all sorts of thoughts running through my head about that marathon, just as I do now, but am not ready to articulate out loud.  I've noticed that I tend to sit with my marathon thoughts for a day or two these days before expressing them to the world.  But I was walking, shivering, thinking, celebrating, medal proudly on display, excited for a hot shower.

And then I saw it. 

There, on the lawn of the Inn, half covered in yellow, red and orange leaves and a few sticks from the winds, laying on the grass in a crumpled heap, was that damn sweatshirt.  It is a zombie that just won't die.  I picked it up, shook it out and placed it in my car; perhaps it will get it's burial at number 15.