I called my kids to tell them I finished and they anxiously asked, "Were you DFL?"
"DFL?" I asked.
"You know, Mom. Dead F---ing Last!"
"No," I said. "But close."

French fries on a plate with ketchup, hot fudge sundae with mint chocolate chip ice cream, Jumbo Chicago hot dog with bright green pickle relish, and a Daily Bread Bakery cinnamon roll with melted butter. Midway through my suffrathon I promised myself if I finished I would give myself 30 days to eat all the forbidden foods I had deprived myself of for years. I was desperate.

My first marathon was going to be the antidote for my empty nest syndrome. My youngest son had graduated high school and went to join his older brother at college on the East coast leaving me behind in Colorado. Sure, I had their Dad to keep me company, but his cure was to work long hours during the day and coach high school basketball at night. And Chili, the family dog, well, she wasn't much help, since she seemed exceptionally content to embrace her advancing old age by sleeping away her waking hours.

That signaled a very long lonely winter for me, da Mom. Its funny, you're employed at that job of momhood your whole career only to be demoted to the entry level just when you think its time for the big bonus. With my boys moving on in their lives I decided I needed something to help me move on in mine.

And a marathon it was! My partners in this therapy would be three other 50-something women all in various states of A.O.A. (adult onset athleticism). It was the ideal plan. I could train all winter, be too tired to pine away for my kids, not complain about being a serial basketball widow, and have some serious girl bonding time in the process.

With our respective partners in mind, we picked the Napa Valley Marathon, on March 7, 2004, for our marathon debut. We knew nothing about marathoning but a lot about wine drinking and olive oil. It seemed like the perfect place for support crew and first timers. And we heard the course was beautiful and pointed downward.

All winter we trained. Why was it that every scheduled Saturday long run coincided with an email from the Emergency Weather Center warning of a pending storm for Garfield County? Inevitably, we would wake to frost on the windows and a fresh layer of blowing snow.

We learned to run in the rain, the snow, the wet and the cold. Layering took on a whole new meaning. We looked like Matriushka Nesting Dolls each with one more insulating layer on top of another.

Sometimes, due to bad weather, we'd postpone our Saturday long run to run on Sunday. Only to wake up regretting that we hadn't embraced the "snow" in hand and run yesterday as we stared in shock at both the falling thermometer, the whistling wind, and the rolling eyes of our husbands.

But no amount of weather posturing was going to intimidate us. Like cars on a mountain pass we simply "chained up" with our shoe stabilizers and in single file took turns at the lead. And with our silent agreement of "no woman left behind" we would cajole, support, and coax each other through our respective meltdowns. And for four winter months we served in our own 50 First Squadron, covering every last mile in our meticulous training plan.

When the marathon weekend finally arrived we were four finely tuned mama machines. We were well prepared, well fed, and well versed in all the local gossip.

We arrived in Calistoga on race morning with a forecast of "unseasonably warm weather". We welcomed the warmth. We used a black magic marker and proudly tattooed "First timers at 50" on the back of our legs. As predicted, our personal billboards promoted lots of laughs and comments.

I armed Paul with a secret cheat sheet race map. Like a metro bus schedule, I calculated our ETA's for each spectator cross street along the closed 26.2 mile route. With this in hand Paul, could bike to each intersection and cheer us on as our "little street car" rolled down the Silverado Trail.

My friends and I stood on the starting line in awe of the breathtaking view in front of us. Our minds feasted on fields of yellow mustard plants, rows and rows of vineyards, pastoral meadows with horses and cows, and a light fog burning off as the sun rose slowly in the horizon.

I wish I could say that the rest of the race was that idyllic.

We took off together chatting and feeling strong and invincible. But then our paths diverged. My fantasy of a "clean race" went down the drain or should I say porta- potty. Something just wasn't right.

My stomach had a weird bubbling and gurgling feeling. A faint feeling of nausea began to creep in. I tried to ignore it. I tried to deny it. Like a virus protector on a computer my mind fought hard to resist the infected message.

But between miles 12 through 18 I found myself knocking on the door of every available porta-potty. Sitting in my bright green think tank, I tried desperately to figure out what was going wrong. I had been hydrating well. I had been eating conservatively. I had demurred from wine tasting. I had slept like a baby. Yet the rumble in my stomach jungle continued. Time in the tank was increasing. Nausea turned to dry heaves and gagging. And my pace continued to slow.

When you meet marathon despair in the face you can do several things: eat humble pie, just quit and claim "this just isn't my day" or you can fight back, dig deep, and proclaim "this is just a different day!" And put one foot in front of the other, summon all those weeks of training runs, all those mental visualizations, and all those smiling faces waiting for you at the finish line and just keep going! And I did.

My buddies were no longer anywhere in sight. I felt like a refugee caught in an evacuation. Every time I stepped out of the porta-potty I was forced to fall in line with an even more desperate group of evacuees. Farther and farther behind.

At mile 18, I met Paul. "What's going on?" he asked incredulously. "You looked so good at mile 10!" I tried to buck up and say I was fine. But like a child coming home after a bad day at school I just couldn't keep it together. I teared up. He reassured me, "You don't have to do this, you know."

"I know," I insisted, "but I want to. Let me go!"

After a quick mental status exam from Dr. Paul including serial 7s, time and date, he took both my wrists in his hand, shook them up and down, and proclaimed me fit to continue. Ding. Round 20. "Ok, NR, get back out there!"

And I continued on with my private agony. Suddenly, at mile 20, I found myself walking with the other walking woundeds. I was next to a "knee pain kicking in" and a "my back is just killing me" and an "I think I went out too fast." We were all walking. And talking. And for just a few minutes we were enjoying each other's company, the beauty of the course, and our mutual tales of woe. And one by one, each of us at our own personal moment, would pick up the pace, jog out of the walk line and say, "Good luck. See you at the finish!"

By mile 24, the nausea had abated and I continued to pick up running speed. My husband spotted me and I saw the relief on his face. I think my normal color had finally returned to my cheeks. He bid me adieu and shouted jubilantly "You got it now, NR, I'll get the finish line photo ready!"

I knew at this point I was going to finish my first marathon. I knew that I was certainly closer to the finish than the start and I was still breathing. I knew that I had 20 minutes to run two miles to beat the race cut-off time of 5:30 and to get my finisher medal. And I wanted that finisher medal! Piece of cake.

So, I began running and passing people, smiling to myself, "She's back!" I skipped the sorbet aid station and rounded the corner, watching expectantly for the finish line banner to appear. Suddenly, it happened again. Rumble in the jungle. Pace slowing down. Pace walking. Hands on stomach. Sweat on forehead. And a dive for a rock wall on the curb where I heaved like a teenager driving the porcelain bus after a night on the town.

I was a half mile from the finish line. I was so close to making the course cut-off time. A race volunteer, named Mike, crossed the road to help me. He started making small talk to get me on my feet. When the sag wagon came over and offered to take me to the finish line he became my personal bouncer. Like a bodyguard to Oprah, fending off the paparazzi, he proclaimed, "You will not! She's just needs a minute and she'll be fine!" I felt thankful, relieved, and inspired by his words.

I dug deep again and willed my stomach to stop retching. And willed my legs to run. I bargained with myself. Finish and you can eat anything you want for a month! Finish and you can call your sister in Europe for 30 minutes. Finish and you can be done!

For 2,640 feet I ran to the finish line where my cheering husband, running buddies, and clapping spectators waited for me. My son always said he wouldn't mind finishing last but he just wouldn't want the sympathy claps and cheers. But today, it was music to my ears.

I missed the course cut off by 10 minutes. The timing clock was unplugged and dark. But a sweet surprise welcomed my fatigued body. A bucket full of finish line medals still hung on a volunteer's arms. "One for me?" I asked in disbelief. And like a king knighting a subject he slipped a shiny one over my head and smiled. Weary and jubilant, embarrassed and triumphant, laughing and crying, I hugged the teenager like he was one of my sons.

I found my euphoric running buddies and we jumped up and down and cackled like a bunch of schoolgirls each interrupting the other with stories of our day. We joked and cracked up as we posed in a million combinations for our photographer husbands. What's the lesson in this? Would I do it again? How will it change my life? Was it worth it? What words of wisdom can I impart?

The questions deserve answers. The same answers I struggled with when my weekend 5K's turned into 20 mile training runs. Or the response I tried to give when my baffled mother rightfully asked, "Why do people do this?"

But I must say, at this point, the only question I can answer with complete certainty, is the question I'll be happy to answer with the window rolled down and a guiltless smile on my face; "Would you like to Biggie size those fries?"

Dedicated to my 50 First Squadron buddies: Karen Knudson, Susan Laws, and Carol McCurry

Nancy Reinisch, LCSW, works and recreates in Glenwood Springs. Following this marathon she decided to return to her roots of short course triathlons where she co-coaches a women's triathlon group and guides a blind triathlete.