Standing at the start of the marathon, I felt a soft breeze brush across my face; the 7 a.m. sun warmed my skin. At 7:20 a.m., the crowd noise faded into a quiet hum, “five, four, three, two…”
Without realizing it, the race had begun, I didn’t even feel my legs pushing me up Nazarbayev Avenue.
Before the race, my anxiety seemed to get the best of me. I had never run 10 km non-stop. I’m the kind of person who always thinks about what will go wrong instead of what can go right. Would I fall in the crowd of runners – trampled into embarrassment or even injury? Would I even finish the 10 km, or would I beat the time I had in my head? Would I disappoint my mother?
All of those fears were neatly packed away, as I ran toward Al-Farabi Street. I was fueled up on pure adrenaline.
But my mother’s voice returned: “The pain is in your head,” she would say during the hours of our practice. “In my head,” I repeated with each step pounding down on the asphalt and I looked up at the pale blue sky filled with enormous puffy clouds. Kendrick Lamar blasted into my ears telling me what he got.
8 km to the finish
Two kilometers into the race, your body feels like a well-oiled machine. I felt light. My heart pounded to the beat of my steps. I could feel sweat on my back, and the wind gave me a chill. I’ve got this – easy.
My breathing became rhythmic, and my legs felt weightless. The sun washed over Almaty, creating a golden sheen on the buildings. My first 10km race, thousands of people surrounding me, all of us sharing these postcard views.
6 km to the finish line
Approaching the 6 km mark, tears welled up in my eyes, I was doing it. I look at my phone and see I’m right at 7 minutes per kilometer, which is faster than I expected to run. Another kilometer ticks away and my time continues to improve. A new kind of runner’s high takes over my body – that euphoria all runners feel and what makes them endure these kinds of runs.
4 km to finish
My legs start to ache. What am I doing? Why am I here? All of those doubts I had so neatly packed away at the start of the race returned. I could stop. Maybe I should walk the next kilometer. No one will know. My pace weakens just a little. I’m running slower now. The bright sun has faded. Maybe I should quit.
A woman in front of me falls to the ground. People pass her. Some look, most don’t. I do the same. She’s probably alright, I thought to myself. Later I would feel guilty, but Lady Gaga and Bruno Mars talked about dying with a smile. So I kept running.
With just a few thousand meters left, my body wouldn’t let me quit. And neither would my fellow runners, who shouted encouragement to everyone they passed.
“You can do it,” they would say. “Smile, it will make you run easier.”
“Just a little bit left,” they would say of the nearing finish line.
So I didn’t stop. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. Kept my legs moving.
2 km to finish
Suddenly, I knew I would finish. My body was tired, but my 18-year-old mind said don’t quit. I didn’t even know I was crying as I got closer to the finish line. The final kilometer, I pushed even harder, and found myself crying harder too.
I did it. I crossed the finish line in 1 hour, 13 minutes and 58 seconds.
I ran for my mother. I ran for my family. I ran for my friends, but mostly, I ran for myself.
The sharp pain in my legs was nothing compared to the happiness surging through my body. I rushed to my mother. Her hug felt like pride, love and joy.
“My little girl,” she said. “I’m so proud of you. You did it.”
She was right. I did.