Think of a moment that is central to your identity. In a personal narrative essay, explore how this experience has shaped who you are and reflect on how it has defined your role in the world.
I've never been much of a creative writer, but personal narrative has always appealed to me. So in an attempt to do rather than just teach, I thought I'd take a stab at it. My word count requirement was a max of 650 words -- a nod to the Common Application essay prompts, for which I hope some of them will be able to repurpose their essays. My first draft came in at 895 words. After two revisions, I was able to pare mine down to 623.
I haven't decided yet if I'm going to share mine with my students or not. It's fairly hypocritical of me not to; I spoke to them yesterday about the importance of vulnerability in good personal narrative writing. I guess I just don't feel comfortable making myself vulnerable to two classes full of teenagers who already judge me on a daily basis for everything I do.
At any rate, for your reading pleasure, here is my personal narrative, along with accompanying illustration.
Going for the Goal (lame title, I know -- I'll work on that ... suggestions welcome)
At mile 26 of a marathon, even a slight incline can feel like Mount Everest. My breath came in short, desperate puffs as I pushed toward the finish line. As I turned the corner and began my final sprint, every muscle in my body screamed out as I demanded it to push beyond the pain.
I first started running right after college as a way to lose weight. Other than playing a bit of tennis, I was completely non-athletic. Team sports had always intimidated me; I feared that my poor performance would someday cost the team a game. But in running, I only competed for (or against) myself. Running also appealed to my Type A personality, allowing me to set tangible, achievable goals and, once I checked them off, to set more.
After a few years of shorter races I decided it was time for a bigger challenge. In January 1998 I signed up for my first marathon: Marine Corps, held in Washington, D.C., in October. After surviving my 26.2 debut, I was hooked. In the years that followed I ran marathons in Nashville, Buffalo, and Madison, Wisconsin; as well as closer-to-home races in Potter County and Johnstown, Pennsylvania. In all, I ran six marathons in five years. I was in my early 30s with few responsibilities. I had a job I could leave at the office and a boyfriend (eventually my husband) I could drag to the race. Never again would circumstances allow me to devote myself to achieving such a self-gratifying goal. I decided to train and qualify for the Boston Marathon.
Age and gender worked in my favor: As a 33-year-old woman I needed to finish a qualifying marathon in 3 hours and 40 minutes. Men my age needed a 3:10 or better. With a marathon PR of 3:55, I was confident that with training, discipline, and the right race I could do it. I increased my mileage from 20 to 30 to 40 miles a week and introduced speed workouts, which I had never done before. I picked a small marathon at the end of November on Maryland’s Northern Central rail trail, a flat out-and-back course I hoped would offer the best chance to reach my goal.
So as I rounded that last corner, I could just make out the numbers on the clock: 3:35:38. I had more than four minutes to cover the last 300 yards. Even if I crawled on my hands and knees I could still make it. But I pushed on right to the end, oblivious to all else. My husband tells me that I looked him right in the eye in those last few yards but didn’t register any sign of recognition. The professional photographer’s shot of me crossing the finish line captured a look of determination on my face I barely recognize. The clock over my shoulder reads 3:36:50.
Five months later, I lined up in Hopkinton with 20,000 other runners on an unseasonably warm April day. Throughout the afternoon as the temperature rose into the 80s, the first aid tents filled with dehydrated runners unable to finish. At some point around Heartbreak Hill, I abandoned my pace chart and slowed down to ensure I could finish. As I hobbled the last quarter mile down Copley Street, I managed to high-five my mom and my husband as I passed, mumbling an incoherent phrase of thanks as I forced my cramped, exhausted legs back into motion. I crossed the finish line, exhausted but exhilarated, at 4:10. The professional photographer’s shot that day captured the hint of my triumphant smile, but with my eyes gazing off into the distance, already thinking ahead to my next goal.
