Ihave often wondered how other couples handle their relationship when both of them run and one is more talented and accomplished than the other. Does it depend on temperament established as a child, or does the natural competition involved in running bring out the worst between two runners?

This question was never a problem in my 23-year relationship with my husband until five years ago when I found that a simple change in shoes had ended my 20-year running drought. I was sure my IT band would never allow me to run again. Then one day, I was told there was a running star who worked at our local running shop who might be able to help.

That same day I went to see John, bought some new shoes, almost broke some speed limits going home, and that night ran five miles on a treadmill that, until that day, I had never set foot upon. What a joy that was! I was off—into the gym, on the trails, meeting new running buddies, feeling fantastic. Until the decision to try a marathon, that is. And that is where this story truly begins.

Like many new runners, I considered myself to be pretty good, and I had the demeanor and attitude of a religious convert. I ran as often as I could, frequently pushing myself as hard as I could for days at a time. I got to be what I considered fast, especially when I didn’t measure myself against the truly talented people at my club.

So, after six months of constant training, I got ready to enter my first race—a half-marathon. Yes, that’s right: not a 5K or a 10K but a half. Keep in mind that I really did think I was invincible. Truth be told, the race was much more difficult than I had thought it would be, and without the support of another runner to encourage me in the final miles, I am pretty sure I would have walked. But I finished in 1:50, and one of the really fast guys at my club who was there said: “Hey, that’s a pretty good time for your first half. What’s next?”

THE CURSE OF A GOOD IDEA Then it came to me, like a bolt from above: I would run a marathon. How hard could it be, after all? I had just finished a half, right? It’s only a mere half over

that, right? Oh, how I deceived myself, and how life would get much more complicated over the next few years because of that decision. I couldn’t wait to tell my husband and my kids about my decision to run a marathon. This was my new thing, the thing that would set me apart and make me more than a wife and mother—which, at that time, I felt was not sufficient.

The reaction I got from my husband was not exactly what I had expected. “Great idea, honey. I’ve always wanted to run a marathon, too!” What? He was taking my idea and stealing it! Worse than that, he was really good, and that would mean any effort I made would be small and of no significance at all. Well, we both started to train for the Portland Marathon. At Portland, I finished in 4:07 while he hurt his leg and could not finish. Secretly—although I truly was sorry for him after all his training—I felt like I was queen of the hill again and he would give up while I would go on to run more marathons alone.

Not exactly the nicest or kindest attitude. I guess I should have known better, knowing my husband’s competitive and determined nature, that this failure would just make him 100 percent more determined to complete a marathon.

Flash forward four years. Because of recurring digestive problems, flexor strength issues, and hamstring weakness, I have dropped out of running completely, and my husband has just continued to get stronger and faster. He has run Boston twice (a truly bitter pill for me to swallow) and Las Vegas, Seattle, and Portland numerous times.

We have now become a marathon family, as we make plans regarding where we will vacation based on where my husband will run a marathon. We looked on www.marathonguide.com and determined that the San Juan Islands Marathon looked beautiful and would be a great place to vacation.

I reluctantly agreed, as always, and prepared to be what I considered the cheerleader spouse. “So what brings you to the San Juan Islands Marathon, Mrs. Hersh?” “Oh, my husband is running the marathon.” “

Oh really? That is so wonderful. What an amazing thing to do!” “Um hmm,” I agree, wanting to shout: “Hey! I used to run them, too!”

COULD THAT HAVE BEEN ME? I look back now and can’t believe how selfish I was and how awful I must have sounded. So we drive the six or so hours up the coast of Washington to Anacortes and board the ferry for San Juan Island. I cannot believe how beautiful the islands are and how peaceful it all seems. Beneath it all, though, the green-eyed monster continues to gnaw at me.

We arrive at San Juan Island and immediately see why people make the financial and logistical sacrifices to live there. It is magical. The race would be run on a course that twice circles the island before returning to the main area of downtown. The terrain is rolling with beautiful 70-degree weather for good measure.

The half-marathon would start at the same time as the marathon but would take only one loop of the island. My husband is very excited, as he always is in the days prior to a marathon, and the kids are having a great time. I am certainly enjoying the location and the time with the family, but my negative attitude does not improve, even in such a lovely setting.

It is so very sad to me that it took five years to truly look at myself and realize that the problem in the marriage was not running or my husband; it was me and my terrible jealousy. It’s the morning of the marathon. My husband gets up, goes through his normal prerace rituals, and leaves for the 7:00 A.M. start, although I thought it was at 7:30.

The kids and I sleep in until 8:30 or so, have a leisurely breakfast, and walk to the finish line, arriving at 9:55. I am just thinking that the kids could go play for another half hour before coming back to watch Dad cross the finish line when I look up and see the motorcycle leading in the lead runner. “

Great,” I think to myself. “It’s always fun to see the first-place finisher.” I look up and notice that the man behind the motorcycle is wearing the same color shorts that my husband was wearing when he left this morning. “That’s interesting,” my brain says to itself, half interested in the chances of that coincidence. But a nanosecond later I notice that the runner’s hat is the same kind my husband usually wears. My eyes move to the leader’s face. “

Oh, my word!” I say out loud to the race official next to me. “That’s my husband!”

A MOMENT TO CAPTURE FOR POSTERITY I quickly grab for the digital camera in my pocket and . . . the battery is dead. Naturally. So I can’t snap my husband’s picture as he crosses the finish line first. Still somewhat dumbfounded and unbelieving, I turn to the race official and ask the obvious question: “How many people are ahead of my husband?”

He looks at me as if I’m an alien just landed on earth and says, “Your husband won the race.” I look back at the race official in absolute astonishment and say, “What? My husband won? That’s amazing!”

The man looks at me and bursts out laughing. “Lady, I have been officiating races for 20 years, and that’s the funniest response I have ever heard.” I ran into

Photo by Ian Byington / SanJuanUpdate.com

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The Hersh family at the San Juan Island Marathon awards ceremony after Craig’s first-place finish.

the official later at the awards ceremony, and when he saw me, he was still laughing. I can’t adequately explain what happened in my head over the next few days and weeks, but much like the Grinch in

Dr. Seuss’s book, I think my heart just grew and grew until it broke through my anger and jealousy. I had to tell everyone about my husband’s accomplishment, which he would have never done on his own. I found myself truly happy for him as the past jealousies slowed

to a trickle and finally vanished, never to reappear. The point of my story is to tell my husband how proud I am of his tremendous race and how much I appreciate his sticking with me during my bad times. I see

now how difficult I must have been to live with. No longer. Just think of it: I have a husband who won a marathon! Truly amazing. Thanks for the memories, San Juan Islands Marathon. I won’t forget you.

POSTSCRIPT I am now running again, certainly without the intensity or the need to prove anything to myself or anyone else. I accept my slower times with what I hope is grace, and I take time to run with my son, who is 12 years old. We have a great time together, and I am grateful that we discovered that we could share this great sport. Whenever I feel the old green-eyed monster rearing its ugly head, I think about how things were and whether we were better or worse off with an annoyed and bitter mother and wife. The answer is pretty self-evident. Keep running!