TSPT

On showing up.

Bob Kempainen, Mark Coogan, Keith Brantly.

Do you know these names?

I do. They were the three men who represented the USA in the 1996 Atlanta Summer Olympics Marathon.

They got there by placing 1st, 2nd, and 3rd in The 1996 Charlotte Observer Marathon qualifying race.

I ran it with them.

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Time often allows a memory to fade around the edges. This one has not faded. If anything, it’s sharper.

Today, at 9:45 a.m., marks the 30th anniversary of the start of my first marathon — a statement that still astounds me. February 17, 1996.

At that point in my life, years before the births of my precious kiddos, before so many chapters I could not yet imagine, this feat shared the podium with finishing Chapel Hill and my wedding as the three biggest accomplishments of my life.

With its Olympic qualifier fanfare, the QC was abuzz. Streets were lined with thousands of spectators. Coats, coffee, and clapping. Such sideline support is unheard of.

A 26.2-mile long blue line painted on the road in vegetable dye marked the course; it was intended to wash away in a few weeks. It did not. Some lines aren’t meant to.

I told almost no one I was doing it.

By the numbers, I trained for a mere 7 weeks. I was barely 29. My longest run the week before had only been 18 miles. I carried the quiet fear that if I spoke the goal too loudly, I would be a zero. That I might not reach it. So I kept it close. A private, personal dare with myself.

And yet — the moment I hit the pavement, it stopped being private.

I sheepishly told my intrepid marathon veteran friends Katherine and Todd Smoots that I was thinking of doing this and they quickly and loyally agreed to run with me. They had trained less than I, but this was not their first rodeo. They bolstered me the entire run. Not part of it. Not just the start line. Or the finish line. The. whole. damn. thing. They even drove me to and fro.

Those are gold medal friends.

~ Mile 0: I talked Lisa Cashion into being my date to the Carb-up Party at the Convention Center on February 16. She had no reason to say yes to a crappy mass-produced pasta dinner with me, but she did. LLC, I owe ya.

The body forgets pain but the heart archives meaning.

~ Mile 3: Dear friend/coworker Jane learned from me about the marathon on Thursday, and she came out at about mile 3 from her Selwyn Ave. apartment to cheer me on. She snapped a photo, went straight to Eckerd’s, 1-hour developed the film, enlarged it to a 5x7, framed it, and delivered it to me that damn afternoon — same day service for a moment she decided mattered.

~ Mile 15: Perhaps out of an odd sense of boredom, I needed something different. What? Some kind of wardrobe adjustment? A distraction? Change of pace? Lacking the options of today (Jelly Belly Sport Beans are my electrolyte treat/go-to), I simply rolled up my sleeves and tossed my cheap gloves into the landscaped hedges of a Foxcroft home for the needed boost. Change is change.

The Smoots went back the next day and retrieved my gloves and brought them to me as if they were sacred artifacts. I love you guys.

~ Mile 17: Trotting up Sharon Lane, I turned and recognized the boys soccer coach from my Westchester Academy days. Coach Lessard was running alongside a friend in the same encouraging spirit that Katherine and Todd were with me. I didn’t really know Paul, but by now my mojo was on full tilt — I was more than halfway done — so I spoke up.

We caught up mid-stride — enough so that we are Facebook friends from afar to this day.

~ Mile 22: The Observer had brilliantly published every participant’s bib number in the paper the day before the race. From the parking lot across from Myers Park Methodist Church, a complete stranger began, “It’s, it’s…,” as he scanned the columns for my number, “…it’s Courtney Clark! from CHARLOTTE, North Car-o-lina!!!!!” All of his friends whooped along with him.

I had fewer than 4 miles to go; those steps were one thousand percent fueled by these cheers. Thank you dear stranger. I can hear you today.

I hadn’t announced my dream, but people showed up anyway.

~Mile 26.2: What stays with me most isn’t my finish time — though I remember it to the second (4:31:53). It’s the paradox: I intended to carry the dream quietly. Doubtful. But my people insisted on showing up. Strangers called my name. Unwavering friends ran beside me. Someone framed the evidence before the day was over. A painted line meant to fade refused to disappear.

That race taught me something I’ve been relearning for 30 years: some of our bravest decisions are born in private. But the moment we commit our quads to the course, we invite community — intentional or not. We are seen. We are carried. We leave marks that last longer than we expect.

Thirty years and seven total marathons later, that race remains a defining point of my LIFE. Intense and indescribable pride — partially because I ran 26.2 (aka TSPT) miles for the first time, but also because I think I understood. Courage doesn’t have to be loud to be real.

I could whisper a goal to myself, step forward anyway, and discover that I was never doing it alone.

My "late fee" was $25!!!!!