The Roxbury Marathon in 2016 was a race I’ll never forget—not because of triumph, but because it marked my first-ever DNF (Did Not Finish…or perhaps more fittingly, Did Nasty Fall).
That morning, I woke up feeling unmotivated and told Kim I didn’t want to run. But I had convinced some friends to sign up, and the sense of obligation outweighed my reluctance. So, there I was again at the start line, bundled against the colder-than-usual December weather.
The race started well enough. The out-and-back section on the dirt road felt smooth, and I settled into a nice pace. But then, disaster struck. My sneaker caught on a rock, and before I could react, I went flying face-first onto the rocky dirt road. It was the kind of fall every runner dreads. Other runners immediately stopped to help, urging me to sit on the side of the road. I assured them I was fine and told them to keep going. I was determined to shake it off and see how I felt.
At first, I managed to get back to walking, and then even resumed a steady pace. My friend Angie was running beside me, and the look on her face when she said, “Wow, you have a bump on your head,” gave me pause. Concern began to creep in, especially when I felt a warm sensation on my leg. Looking down, I realized my calf was bleeding through my tights.
At the next water stop, I decided to check the damage. Lifting my tights, I saw the extent of the injury, and the volunteer’s gasp said it all. “I’m not a doctor, but I don’t think you should be running,” she advised. My calf had swollen to nearly triple its normal size. Still, stubborn as ever, I asked how far it was to the next water stop. “Three more miles,” she replied. I decided to push on.
By the time I reached the next stop, the swelling had worsened, and the bump on my head had grown. The race director took one look at me and made the call. “You’re done,” he said firmly. “Either we’re driving her to the hospital, or you are,” he told Kim. And that was it. My race was over. I cried—not from the pain, but from the heartbreak of my first DNF. Adding salt to the wound, this was the one year Roxbury gave out medals. I had to leave without one.
Despite the disappointment, I couldn’t let that be my final Roxbury memory. By summer, I found myself signing up again. I wanted redemption—and that medal. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about running, it’s that every setback is just a setup for a comeback.
The Roxbury Marathon in 2016 was a race I’ll never forget—not because of triumph, but because it marked my first-ever DNF (Did Not Finish…or perhaps more fittingly, Did Nasty Fall).
That morning, I woke up feeling unmotivated and told Kim I didn’t want to run. But I had convinced some friends to sign up, and the sense of obligation outweighed my reluctance. So, there I was again at the start line, bundled against the colder-than-usual December weather.
The race started well enough. The out-and-back section on the dirt road felt smooth, and I settled into a nice pace. But then, disaster struck. My sneaker caught on a rock, and before I could react, I went flying face-first onto the rocky dirt road. It was the kind of fall every runner dreads. Other runners immediately stopped to help, urging me to sit on the side of the road. I assured them I was fine and told them to keep going. I was determined to shake it off and see how I felt.
At first, I managed to get back to walking, and then even resumed a steady pace. My friend Angie was running beside me, and the look on her face when she said, “Wow, you have a bump on your head,” gave me pause. Concern began to creep in, especially when I felt a warm sensation on my leg. Looking down, I realized my calf was bleeding through my tights.
At the next water stop, I decided to check the damage. Lifting my tights, I saw the extent of the injury, and the volunteer’s gasp said it all. “I’m not a doctor, but I don’t think you should be running,” she advised. My calf had swollen to nearly triple its normal size. Still, stubborn as ever, I asked how far it was to the next water stop. “Three more miles,” she replied. I decided to push on.
By the time I reached the next stop, the swelling had worsened, and the bump on my head had grown. The race director took one look at me and made the call. “You’re done,” he said firmly. “Either we’re driving her to the hospital, or you are,” he told Kim. And that was it. My race was over. I cried—not from the pain, but from the heartbreak of my first DNF. Adding salt to the wound, this was the one year Roxbury gave out medals. I had to leave without one.
Despite the disappointment, I couldn’t let that be my final Roxbury memory. By summer, I found myself signing up again. I wanted redemption—and that medal. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about running, it’s that every setback is just a setup for a comeback.
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