I ran my first marathon in 1993 at age 33 and hobbled around for weeks afterward. Friends and doctors suggested it be my last. Two years later, when I finished my second, I told my boyfriend at the time to “cut off my legs” if I ever threatened to run another.

In 2008, when I finished my 18th, I thought, Now you really can stop. It wasn’t that the thrill was gone; I cried after every one. But I had been at it for 15 years. I’d run some of them relatively fast (sub-3:30), at least for my age. I’d conquered the bridges and canyons of New York and Heartbreak Hill in Boston. I’d run one in nor’easter-like conditions and one in 85-degree heat. I’d run them as far afield as Berlin and Sydney. I went to more than one high-school reunion and heard lines like, “Didn’t you used to be a large person?” Now I could scale down my running and maybe finish my novel, learn Italian, write songs.

Image Credit... Illustration by Holly Wales

But I found it hard to quit. Marathon running had become an inexorable part of my identity. I was often introduced to people as “Rob, who runs marathons.” At one point in the mid-2000s I realized that more than half of my closest friends were marathoners. And I liked being skinny. So in early 2009, I found myself re-upping for my 19th.