My Wife, My Hero

I’m not a runner. Unless there is some sort of goal to distract me, I don’t like putting my right foot in front of my left very fast for long stretches of time. It’s just not my thing. There are people who enjoy the endorphin rush and have the ability to clear their head after a long run, but that’s not me.

Prior to meeting my wife, Alyson Magrane, if you were to ask me about how one completes a marathon, I’d tell you it was a magic trick. Like sawing a person in half or pulling a quarter from behind a child’s ear. I’d say that running a marathon is a skill that certain people just have. Some folks are born marathoners, other people are born to marathon “Breaking Bad”.

But I’d have been wrong. Eleven years ago, my wife ran her first marathon and I witnessed first-hand the grueling determination that was needed to finish the race. You’re not born into marathoning, you train. A lot. Aly was a sprinter in high school, she never ran long distances. But one day she decided to just do it. The training took a lot of time and effort and focus. The biggest thing that I learned: race day is the “easiest” (might not be the right word) part. Okay, it wasn’t the easiest, but runners are jacked up and look forward to the actual marathon because all of their hard work culminates on this day. It’s just 26.2 miles to go and you’re done training.

Done with your toe nails falling off. Done with waking up with aches and pains in every muscle in your body. Done falling asleep in the middle of a movie because you ran 20 miles that morning and you just can’t keep your eyes open. Done with all of the hurt both physically and emotionally. If you can just get through a few hours, you’ll be done with this stuff forever.

Or until you do it again.

Once she finished the Boston Marathon in 2006, Aly told me that she’d never, ever, EVER do something like this again. Training sucks enough, but training alone—in the New England winter—is the worst. This was it. She did her marathon, checked off the bucket list box and that’s it. Never again.

All of the above was true. Then my lovely, beautiful wife hit 40-years-old. She was starting to experience what I’ve been telling her for the last three years: your body gets sore after doing seemingly easy things, you get tired quicker, you just can’t do what you used to do anymore. “It’s a fact of life, honey,” I said. “Turning 40 sucks and you just have to accept it.”

Aly had two words for me, “Fuck 40.”

And that’s why Aly is my hero. While I retreated into a woe-is-me, Mick Jagger what-a-drag-it-is-getting-old, sort of state; Aly raged against that aging machine. Not only did she tell 40 to piss off, but she was telling the ghosts of marathon past to piss off too. In the early summer, she informed me that her and her two friends, Nicole DiPentima Herman and Christine Boermeester, were running the New York City Marathon in November.

There was nothing that I could do about it, Aly’s mind was made up. I sighed and thought, “She doesn’t know what 40 is like. Forty is a tough dude. You can’t beat 40.” I prepared for picking up the pieces of the inevitable body breakdown. I’m not in the best shape of my life, but I can do stuff and I have trouble playing pickup hoops. A marathon? Are you kidding? At our age? Aly hasn’t trained for a marathon in more than a decade and, by the way, had two children.

I should know never to bet against Alyson Manasso Magrane because again, she showed me what she’s really made of. It wasn’t easy—these things never are—but she stuck with it. She ran through the heat of one of the hottest New England summers in history. She ran through all sorts of muscle pain. She ran through guilt (truth be told, I didn’t always cover myself in glory during this training) and training depression, through anger and frustration. She often came home, declared that her run just “sucked” and that she was done.

But I knew that she wasn’t done. Aly has an incredibly will and an uncanny ability to grit her teeth and grind out whatever goal she’s trying to accomplish.

Unlike 11 years ago, Aly also had a tremendous support group. If she got down, Christine or Nicole would pick her up—and she did the same for them. They provided inspiration, if Christine was going to train at 8:30 am, Aly wasn’t going to stay in bed. If Nicole was going for a run at 6:30 pm, Aly was going to get herself up from the couch and go with. This was a different type of training than the last time, I don’t know if anyone ever really looks forward to running 18 miles on a blazing hot Sunday, but when you’re running with your friends and you all have the same goal and each other’s backs, it’s not so bad.

Easy for me to say.

I don’t know if Aly would agree with me if I described this marathon’s training as “fun”, but I think that she would concur that it “sucked much less” and maybe if you gave her a margarita or two, she might even say it was “enjoyable”. The only reason for that attitude toward marathon training is because of Christine and Nicole.

During my life, I’ve been on enough sports teams to know who the good teammates are—Aly, Nicole and Christine are the best teammates that I’ve ever seen. Running may be a solitary sport, but these three made it a total team effort. All three women have children and I hope that the kids all realize what can be done once you put your mind to something. Never say die, never let anyone—especially age—dictate what you can and cannot do. By running this marathon and sticking to a tough training schedule, Aly, Christine and Nicole are imparting a more powerful lesson than I’ll ever be able to teach.

On Sunday, Aly and her friends are going to lace up their shoes and run through the five boroughs of the greatest city in the world. If you’re like me, during this time you might throw an iPad at your kids while you watch football elbow-deep in sour cream and onion dip. But for a few seconds, put the chip down, pause the game and stop and think about Aly and Christine and Nicole running the streets of New York. Right foot in front of left, infinitum. I know that they would really appreciate it.

#fuck40