Nine days before the Quebec marathon, I decided to enter the race. I had not planned to run a marathon this summer nor did Quebec have an elite runner program. I was already entered in October’s Chicago marathon and I had set my sights and training on that goal.

                Those close to me were surprised by my decision. I would be going alone without assistance from the marathon organizers. I had never run a marathon without my husband, John, or my coach, Gary. For that matter I had never traveled anywhere on my own. Gary claimed I was going through a mid-life crisis and John was completely confounded.

                Admittedly, I had a lot going on in my life. Training was hard during the hot and humid summer. I raced more than I should have. Work was busy. And my grandmother was slowly slipping away. I decided to tell very few people about my decision to run because I did not want to hear their reactions or hesitations. I didn’t even taper for the race. In fact, I ran three races the week before the marathon. But, somehow, I felt ready for the race and confident that I had a good chance to run the sub-2:48 I needed to qualify for the Olympic Trials. 

                Thursday before the race, my mother called. My Grandmother had passed away. Surely, I could not go to Quebec now. I called John and told him to cancel my trip. Unfortunately, the trip couldn’t be canceled because I had booked it as a last minute travel promotion. My grandmother’s funeral was already planned for the following Tuesday to accommodate my aunt traveling from California and my brother’s leave from service in Iraq. I struggled with the decision about whether or not I should make the trip. “You should go,” my friend, Steve, told me. “Your Grandmother would have wanted you to.” He was right. She had proudly hung a photo of me running my first marathon on her refrigerator and years later it was still there. During one of my last visits with her, even though breathing and speaking was difficult for her, she wanted to know if I had gone out for my run that day. 

                I traveled to Quebec with a heavy heart and great uneasiness about what lay ahead. The flight to Quebec was uneventful and I made my way to my hotel without any trouble. But I soon learned this trip would not be easy. I never realized how “French” Quebec truly is. My inability to speak French would soon become the biggest hurdle in my adventure.

                I left my hotel to travel to the race expo by bus, but I couldn’t figure out the bus route and opted to take a taxi. It was cold, windy and rainy. The bad weather frightened me; the marathon was the next morning. At the expo I picked up my number and worked on finding out how to get to the shuttle to the start of the race in morning. My attempt to get directions from the information desk was a bust. The woman had no idea where my hotel was and told me I would have to take a taxi. I couldn’t figure out whether she meant I had to take a taxi to the start of the race or to the shuttle bus. I was frustrated and made my first frantic call home. If I made it to the start at all, I thought, that will be amazing. 

                I even abandoned my customary pre-race rituals but not by choice. My usual hour-by-hour monitoring of the weather channel was out, since the broadcasts were in French and I hadn’t yet figured out the Celsius conversion to Fahrenheit. I did manage to order my tried-and-true pre-marathon meal of rice and a beer. Try ordering that from room service—it is always a challenge even when you’re not in a foreign country.

                On marathon day I rose early and picked the warmest clothes I had brought with me: one long sleeve t-shirt and one short sleeve t-shirt on top of that. I had forgotten Canada is so much colder. I ran to shuttle bus pick-up to work off pre-race nerves. On the bus I met three Americans—strange, because I only had run into one American on the trip so far. “Mike” from New Jersey was interesting, having run 75 marathons all over the world, including one in Siberia. Another guy described the course to me; that was a help since I hadn’t even bothered to check it out myself at the end of the bus trip after much discussion of marathon times and our expectations, New Jersey Mike said, “I think you’re going to win today, Barbara.” I brushed off his comment as I exited the bus.

                For an August day it was windy and cold. I decided I would wear my long sleeve shirt at the start and wished I had brought a pair of gloves. I tucked just behind the 3:00 pace group, intent on my pre-race plan of four minutes per kilometer provided by my coach, Gary. The race started and right away two women were ahead of me. I let them go. I was a little ahead of schedule at the first kilometer and was determined not to try to catch the women in front of me. As the early kilometers ticked away, I noticed someone from the marathon organizers riding a bike close by me. I also noticed I was gaining ground on the second-place woman, but could no longer see the first place woman. Somewhere around 5K I ditched my long sleeve shirt and my water bottle and set my sights on catching the woman in front of me. I passed her. The guy on the bike now rode alongside of me. I was happy to have someone to talk to. 

                We chatted a bit. Just before 10K he asked me if I wanted to know how far ahead of me the first place woman was running. “That would be great!” I told him and off he went. “She’s 42 seconds ahead of you,” he told me when he returned. I didn’t think that was a good sign but my pace still stayed below my goal of four minutes per kilometer.  At the next time check my biker said the woman was more than a minute and forty seconds ahead of me—that hurt, but I was comfortable and got to thinking that second place would be fine with me. 

                The kilometers ticked by pretty easily although I noticed I was slowing slightly with each kilometer—a runner knows that’s never a good sign. At the halfway point I was slightly off-pace with a time of 1:24:11—only 12 seconds behind my goal pace. That would mean I would have to run a negative split for my time. I couldn’t see that happening, as I recalled the guy on the bus telling me about a large hill around the 30K mark. My bike friend approached a female race volunteer on a bike. After exchanging a few words, the guy rode off and the new biker was my new friend. I was talking a lot at that point, since I was pretty much running alone. I talked to her about the area and where she was from and about marathons—pretty much anything. I had slipped back under my goal pace until about 25K. I’m not sure exactly when, but the woman told me "The first place woman is five minutes ahead of you. To which I responded, “I hope she has a good race.”

                The big hill loomed ahead. I think it is the biggest hill I’ve ever run in a marathon. But this day I climbed it pretty well. Up next was a long bridge. I hate bridges. This one was okay since I caught a guy that had passed me a few miles earlier. That felt good. When we hit 30K, my pace had slowed considerably. The hill had taken more out of me than I realized.  Just then my friend on the bike told me the whereabouts of the first-place woman, though I can’t recall her location. She also told me that number three was about one minute behind me. Now I was concerned. I didn’t want to lose my place. I quickened my pace and starting gaining on another man that had passed me on the bridge. 

                I never did get back on my pace so I didn’t look at my watch as much. As the 20 mile marker approached a cyclist wheeled by and talked to my biker. The exchange was in French but I was told that the first-place woman was slowing. Good news, but the bad news was that I was slowing as well. 

                At twenty miles, with my watch reading over 2:10, I knew a sub 2:48 finish was impossible, and that even a personal record would be a challenge. I was beginning to tire but my cyclist urged me on. The course had few spectators at that point although I did have occasional well wishes in French. As the 5km-to-go mark approached a man caught up to me. I stayed with him for a bit but at the marker he just pulled away. I wanted to walk so much, but my cyclist urged me on. I had stopped talking to her except for the occasional “I’m slowing down.” But I never stopped. I was excited that I might finish second. Then I got more good news: the third-place woman was three minutes behind. I couldn’t stop now. 

                Around 38 or 39km, I reached a chip control checkpoint. As I turned into the parking lot the first-place woman was exiting. I couldn’t believe it even though she still had probably had a good 45 or more seconds on me. I thought I would be second for sure, but that it would be close. As I turned out of the checkpoint the screams from the sidelines intensified. We hit 40K and the volunteer told me “One minute to go!   I knew she was wrong; I had about 10 or so more minutes to run.

                Just then, two more cyclists passed by and said “She is finished.” I didn’t know what they meant. Had the first-place woman finished the marathon? How could that be? Then my cyclist said “There she is! I can see her up ahead of us!” I looked ahead and sure enough, I could see her too. But, could I catch her?

                We were past 25 miles. People starting screaming “Allez, Allez!” from the sidelines, which, from watching the Tour De France, I know means: GO!  I was annoyed in a way: I hurt so much. How could I catch this woman?

                I ran. And somehow, slowly, I was gaining on her. Finally, my cyclist (regrettably I never did ask her name) said, “Barbara, you have to go for it. You have to really want it.” So I dug deep into my soul, to a place that I scarcely knew existed. I ran as hard as I could.

                The noise from the crowd seemed deafening. Several feet shy of the 42 km mark (the marathon is 42.2K long) I passed her. I barely saw her. The finish was around a corner. I turned and ran. I could see the finish line. A guy appeared alongside of me, running and screaming something in French. I had no idea if the woman was right behind me or if she would pass me. I just ran for the finish.

                About five feet from the finish line I saw them lifting up the finish tape for me. My god, I thought, I’m actually going to win this thing. I crossed the line and began to collapse. Volunteers grabbed hold of me and asked me if I was okay. Of course I was okay—I just won the Quebec Marathon! I began blabbering about how my friends would never believe that I out-sprinted somebody. People looked at me and just smiled; they couldn’t understand what I was saying. Here I was surrounded by hundreds of people I didn’t know. I was all alone yet having the best running day of my life. They whisked me off into a special tent asking me if I needed anything. Boy, I felt important!             

                After the finish several newspapers and one television station interviewed me.  Next I took the podium. The Mayor of Quebec presented me a trophy. I was on top of the world and I still didn’t even know my finish time was. I thought I had seen 2:51 on the clock as I crossed, but I wasn’t sure. Heck, at this point, I didn’t really care.  

                I got down off the podium, ate a little food, and walked over to check out my time. My time was 2:51:47, a 59-second personal record! I finished as first-place woman and 15th overall. What a day! As I walked back to my hotel, I clutched my trophy to my chest. Tears welled in my eyes. The past week had been so emotional, with great highs and lows. But I knew: I had not been alone after all.