For my 30th birthday, I’ve decided to take on the toughest race of my life: a 48-hour, 104-mile ultramarathon. I’ll be sleeping in a tent, fueling on gels, quesadillas, and pickle juice, and pushing my body beyond its limits. To be honest, I’m terrified. You’ve probably heard that only 0.01% of the population has completed a marathon, but only 0.0003% have finished a race like this. It’s not just the distance; it’s the toll these races take on the body. From stomach issues to hallucinations and stress fractures, it’s a full-on battle, mentally and physically.
I didn’t start the year with a plan to run 104 miles. I had a different schedule in mind, but life had other plans. The day before the San Diego Marathon, I found out my grandfather had been diagnosed with stage four cancer. My world shifted. I knew I had to be with him, and I stayed by his side until the very end. It was the hardest week of my life. Watching him pass was more painful than any race I’ve run.
In the months that followed, I gained 15 pounds, stopped running for two months, and cried every day. I had to grieve, and that meant stepping back, even though it disrupted my entire year. But I wouldn’t have changed it for anything. My papaw was my biggest fan. He always asked about my races, always believed in me.
When he passed, I went through his things and found a book, Codependent No More, which must have been from his tough days. It showed me how deeply he cared about the people in his life. I also found some of the shirts I’d given him over the years—shirts he wore all the time. Tomorrow, I’ll be wearing his favorite shirt as I run. This race is for him—Alfred Paul Brandimarte. The man who always supported me, loved me, and cheered me on. Tomorrow, I’ll carry his strength with me, and I know that, with him by my side, I’ll once again be able to do the impossible.
