Did that actually happen? Did I just run my first marathon? It still feels surreal. After committing to the Detroit Free Press Marathon over a year ago — and surviving all the highs, lows, and mid-run existential crises of training — I can’t quite wrap my head around the fact that it’s done. Over. Finito. What?!

At the starting line, I was buzzing. Heart pounding. Brain screaming “THIS IS HAPPENING!” I just felt… electric. I wanted to remember everything — every step, every emotion, every weird cramp and mile marker.

This race felt especially full-circle. My first-ever 5K? Here. My first half? Also here. So obviously, it only made sense for my first full marathon to happen right here in the city I love, surrounded by the people I love.

One of the coolest parts of this race: you cross the U.S.-Canada border twice — first over the Ambassador Bridge into Canada, and then back through the underwater tunnel. After running the Detroit half twice before, I already had an established love affair with the bridge (and a slightly frostier “ehh” relationship with the tunnel). The day was overcast — so no bridge sunrise moment this year — but the wind took the day off, which was a huge win. Running into Canada still gave me goosebumps.

Canada, by the way, showed up. The riverfront was packed with spectators (and so many cute dogs!), and I made sure to glance back and admire the Detroit skyline from across the river. Those Canadian miles flew by… and then came the tunnel.

Look, the tunnel is cool. In theory. You’re literally running underwater across an international border. But after about half a mile of thinking “Wow, neat!” the air gets thick, the heat kicks in, and you realize you’re essentially inside a humidifier. I was thrilled to see the (literal) light at the end of the tunnel and popped out into the fresh air like a sweaty meerkat. I even jumped to tap the “Welcome back to the USA!” banner like I was in a Nike ad.

From there, it was a tour of Detroit’s neighborhoods — cruising through Mexicantown and Corktown — and the miles just ticked by. 8, 9, 10, 11, 12… Wait, what? Since when does 13 miles feel like just a warm-up? I was feeling great! (Note to self: this is probably how people accidentally sign up for ultras.)

My piriformis and hamstring had other opinions, though. They were tightening up and throwing a bit of a protest party. But I was in marathon mode. I was gonna move if it killed me.

The split at Campus Martius was electric. Crowds going wild. Runners peeling off for the half finish while us full-marathon folks powered into the next lonely stretch: three rather quiet miles on Lafayette. Highlights included a lively church snack table and a few high school marching bands bringing the energy. But the real party? Indian Village.

Oh. My. Gosh. Indian Village came to party. People were out on lawns with signs, snacks, beers, boomboxes, and lots of love. There was even fresh PBR being handed out, which — honestly — was a little tempting. It also reminded me I’d consumed approximately an Olympic swimming pool’s worth of fluids and should probably address that.

Cue: my first-ever mid-race pee break. Normally not noteworthy… except the port-a-potty door flew open mid-squat thanks to a rogue runner who apparently didn’t knock. We both made awkward eye contact, and I was too tired to care. So. That’s a memory.

Next stop: Belle Isle. Another bridge, another milestone — literally. Mile 21. The farthest I’d ever run. But my body was not too pleased. My left hamstring locked up like Fort Knox, and my “A” goal pace group waltzed right by me like a well-oiled machine. From that point forward, it was less “running” and more “forward locomotion in any form possible.”

The Riverwalk stretch was sparse in terms of spectators, but the ones who were out there brought the encouragement I desperately needed. I was fading. Fast. And then… salvation.

I turned a corner, glanced over, and saw someone on their phone. My tired brain took a moment to process… and then it clicked. OMG. IT’S MY SISTER! I ran straight at her. Epic flying hug. She shouted into her phone “I found her!” and then — without missing a beat — said “Let’s go!”

She ran beside me for the next half mile, chatting and cheering me on, and I swear her presence alone numbed the pain a bit and gave me that much-needed mental boost. I didn’t want her to see me walk, so I didn’t. I’ll remember that moment forever. One last hug, a “You got this,” and I carried on.

At mile 25, we hit a hill. A giant hill. Or at least it felt that way. But I could feel the adrenaline firing. I could hear the finish line roar. And I knew — I knew — I was about to become a marathoner.

I sprinted (okay, shuffled enthusiastically) down Fort Street toward the finish. Butterflies. Cheering. Medals gleaming in the distance. I was grinning like an idiot. A few fist-pumps to the sky and then across the finish line. I did it! I. AM. A. MARATHONER!!!

Still dazed and glowing, I got my medal and then — suddenly — out of nowhere, my bestie Cara comes sprinting toward me from the finish area, barreling through like a linebacker and scooping me into a flying hug. She was full-on sobbing, yelling how proud she was. It was perfect.

Oh, and she had just finished her first half marathon that day. With a fractured tibia (!). And our other friend Kim? Completed her first half with a broken ankle. I mean… do I have the most badass friends or what?

We all reunited on the sidelines, swapped stories, and laughed our tired, elated heads off. I’m still riding the high of it all. My body hurts. My heart’s full. And I earned that shiny little hunk of metal.

I earned dat medal!

Motor City Musings

  • Best nonhuman spectator: A Canadian beagle howling in perfect time with the cheering crowd. 10/10.
  • Best sign: “WORST PARADE EVER.” Giggle-snorted.
  • Most high-fives per square mile: Indian Village. They could run their own race.
  • Best aid station: The crew near Belle Isle cheering my name like I was Beyoncé.
  • Grossest thing on the course: A fish carcass dropped by a seagull onto another runner. Nature is rude.
  • Most potentially dangerous thing: Hundreds of loose M&Ms at an aid station, like running on treacherous pebbles.
  • Song that made me run faster: “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey. Not because it inspired me — but because I needed it out of my head ASAP.
  • Funniest overheard quote: “Good job, relay! We hate you.” (Spoken with love… mostly.)
  • Best on-course acquisition: Mardi Gras beads to wear, because why not?
  • Best post-race food: TACOS. And BEER. With FRIENDS.
  • Best day-after treat to myself: A glorious day off work to recover.