Hartford Marathon #12 – Marathon #107

I knew this marathon would be unlike any other—physically, emotionally, and mentally. Just one day earlier, I was in Columbus, GA, at my son Paul’s "Turning Blue" ceremony and his final Army OSUT graduation.

The past two days, watching him, standing tall in uniform, brought a lump to my throat. The Army band lifted the heaviness with their energy and invited us to dance on the field. They offered the mic to the first six people to get out on the field to announce their soldiers' names.

Kim asked me if I was going to do it and I said, “Hell yeah!” Finally, we got to the queue to run out on the field.  I took off like a bullet!  One woman even dropped her phone but kept running. We linked arms, kicked our legs, and when it was my turn, I grabbed that mic and yelled with all my heart: “PAUL LOPES!” Later, I asked if he heard me. “Yeah, Mom,” he said, “and so did everyone in my platoon.”

Paul had only slept 30 minutes the night before. On the ride to Atlanta, he passed out, and we thought we might get on an earlier flight home. But delays began rolling in—first Air Traffic Control issues, then plane availability. Eventually, we boarded our flight that was delayed 6 hours.  We didn’t leave until after midnight. We got home at 3:30 am, only to set alarms for 4:30.

That one hour of sleep before a marathon? Not ideal. I scrambled to get us ready. I hadn’t laid out my race gear like I usually do, and to make things worse, my pacing shirt was way tighter than past years—tight enough I worried about chafing. But we had a mission: Paul was going to run his first marathon, and Kim and I were going to pace.

As I drove us to Hartford, I asked Kim if the traffic lights seemed off or if I was just delirious. Turns out, the entire area had lost power—Route 44 was shut down, fire trucks everywhere. Kim yelled, “Do a U-turn now!” We rerouted, shook our heads, and asked, “What else could go wrong?”

Finally, we made it to the Fleet Feet group photo. And just like that, here came the lump in my throat again. I started to introduce Paul to my Fleet Feet family, the same incredible people who had listened to me talk about him on nearly every run for the past six months. It was hard to hold back the tears. Honestly, I felt like most of them already knew Paul.

The Race:

The race began, and Paul and I ran side-by-side. We made it through the West Hartford stretch—always a tough one—and crossed the Founders Bridge. Somewhere in the crowd, I lost sight of him. I hoped he was okay. As Kim and I continued into Windsor, my feet cramped. I took salt, realizing with dread that I had all the salt tabs—Paul had none.

Then, suddenly, there he was beside me. He told me he was cramping, and I handed him tabs. He bounced back and ran strong until about mile 22, when I realized I’d lost him again. The lack of sleep was catching up to both of us.

The marathon doesn’t really start until mile 21. That’s when the mind takes over. My goal was to finish at 4:15 and to cross the finish line with Paul. I channeled the rhythm of the Army band’s music in my head and pushed through the final miles. My legs wanted to quit—but my heart and mind refused.

As Kim and I neared the end, I saw our Fleet Feet crew on the bridge cheering us in. I shouted, “I’m worried about Paul!” and they reassured me they’d look out for him.

We crossed the finish, not even sure of our time—my watch had shut off when I took my arm warmers off. We found Josh Miller, president of Hartford Marathon Foundation, and told him Paul was still on the course. Josh said we could wait at the finish line. Kim ran to the announcer and gave him Paul’s bib number, telling him he had just graduated from basic training the day before.

The Moment That Will Stay With Me Forever:

I stood, scanning the runners. My heart pounded. And then Kim said, “I see Paul!”

I walked into the finish chute. The announcer’s voice boomed: "Here comes Jeanne Marchand’s son, Paul Lopes, who just completed basic training yesterday—and today, he’s finishing his first marathon!” The crowd cheered for him!

He looked up and met my eyes as he crossed. I hugged him tight, and in that moment, time stopped. I wish I could bottle that feeling.

Later, Paul told me that my dear friends Patty and Fernanda had seen him struggling and ran him in to the finish. He said he was so grateful for them, and so was I. Knowing he wasn’t alone out there—that he had our community literally lifting him to the end—meant the world to both of us.

As we picked up our gear bags, Paul turned to me and said, “That was tough, Mom.” I looked at him and said, “You are the toughest, strongest person I know.” He wore his medal with pride—and I’ve never been prouder.

This day—this marathon—was unlike any other. It wasn’t just #107.It was Paul’s first. It was our first together. AND it’s one I’ll carry in my heart forever.