So earlier this year I got the crazy idea to run the Marines Marathon – and I’d never run a foot race of any length in the past. And there I am, swinging for the fences on a 26.2 mile race.

Its no secret that I didn’t train enough. Runs up to 15-16 miles, I could manage. I’d never done more than 17 miles. I just hoped that I’d be able to run 17, and then 9 more without my body noticing.

I’d heard that marathons are long and difficult. Lance Armstrong, one of the greatest cyclists in all of history ran the NY Marathon and proclaimed it the hardest thing he’d ever done.

And this guy has won Tour de Frances, a grueling 2,100 mile race over two weeks – seven times in a row.

So I figured he probably wasn’t kidding.

Even knowing all that, I still didn’t fully expect it to be this long and difficult. Each mile grinds away at you. Punishes you mentally and physically. Parts of your body that you didn’t know you had start hurting. Your knees and feet are being pounded to pieces. Doubt and fear start wriggling around in your mind.

And there was an completely unexpected part to the marathon. The emotional rollercoaster.

Starting with the pre-race jitters, the euphoria of the start, the easy pace over the first couple of miles. Things seem pretty good.

Then things start getting harder. Little aches and pains start coming up. It gets harder to choke down the power gels and the Gatorade leaves you feeling ill.

The miles dont seem to be coming by faster, but slower.

And there’s the human triumph and tragedy. People on the sides cheering their friends, relatives on, or just cheering for everyone. Runners lying on the side of the road in the grass battling a cramp or twisted foot. And you just have to keep going.

There are faces of the fallen. This being a Marine Corps marathon, there were many people wearing shirts dedicating their race to a fallen comrade from Iraq. I saw too many names and dates of dead kids. Kids who were born years after I was, and are now dead. Their comrades running for them.

And there was this mother. On the back of her shirt was a piece of paper, a pretty face of some young girl. The words seared in my mind.

“In loving memory of my daughter. Killed by a drunk driver 10/15/2007″

My God.

This mother lost her daughter only thirteen days ago. And she’s running. I put out my hand on her shoulder, and said I’m sorry. She smiled at me and said “thank you”. And we kept on running. It was all we could do that day.

Then theres this lady who beat cancer three years ago and is running. The guy who lost 150 pounds and was running his third marathon. The girl who ran for his dad who wanted to run a marathon, but never was able to.

In light of all those, my suffering was inconsequential. I pushed on. Even when knee and foot pain forced me to walk/run with six miles to go, I never thought about quitting. I knew I’d get there. I might get slower, and slower, but I knew I would finish.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, I reached the last leg, glimpsed the finish line, and soon I ran across, and it was over.

I finished the marathon. Took me a lot longer than I thought, but I finished.

Or so I thought.Walking away from the finish line, the gravity of everything started to sink in. I was done with the marathon. I was about to leave DC for a new life, unknown, out west. I was leaving many wonderful friends in DC. The finish line was more than just the end of the marathon. It was also the end of a chapter in my life.

Then I thought about all those people who would never have that chance. All those kids who have died in this stupid war. All those kids who come home mangled and scarred. Those people who have lost daughters and sons to drunk drivers. Or those who lost their own personal war with cancer. Those people who never would have a chance to turn to a new chapter in their lives.

A Marine walked up next to me. He lifted up a finisher medal and put it around my neck. And it all just hit me right there. I started to tear up as I thanked him and walked past and onwards.

I started crying out of pride and happiness for my personal acheivement. I cried in sadness for those kids overseas who have had their lives cut short far too early. I cried for that mother who lost her daughter two weeks ago.

Its funny, as I sit here typing this. That I realize that while I set out to run the marathon as some sort of personal acheivement. But it turns out it wasn’t really the run that was the most significant thing about that day, but rather, the awakening it brought about in me about why people run marathons.

Yeah, I’m going to run it again.