Yeah, I yelled.

I thought about calling it a scream, but no, it was definitely a yell. A scream comes from the top of the throat. A yell comes from the chest.

That was a yell.

A lot of Thanksgivings went into that yell. A tradition started by Mom, running a 4.748-mile Turkey Day race in Manchester, Connecticut since the ‘70s, when women were inexplicably not even allowed to officially participate. For 40 years now, she’s shown them.

A lot of high-school runs through the backwoods went into that yell. Through the mud, through the leaves, through the broken twigs. Except Stryzmenski’s hill. I don’t think I ever did actually make it up that. I was told once in high school, “If I’d been running as long as you, I’d better at it.” They never tried that hill.

A lot of laps around the Palmer High School track went into that yell. Three miles preparation for a two-mile race. Every day. Ad nauseam.

A New Year’s Eve went into that yell. A random resolution blurted out in a Brooklyn kitchen that needed to be said out loud to be believed.

A St. Patrick’s Day went into that yell. A drunken decision (three whiskey gingers in by noon) to enter a lottery to run the world’s biggest race. And the congratulatory email that came nine days later. (Lucky.)

A route from Bushwick to Union Square went into that yell. Around Maria Hernandez, down Knickerbocker, down Johnson, down Meserole, over the Williamsburg Bridge, up Forsyth, across Houston, up Bowery, around Union Square. Roughly 6.2 significant miles.

One (1) 20-miler went into that yell. And a feeling of triumph for breaking through the 2 wall, and a sense of worry that that wouldn’t be enough.

A lot of wind went into that yell. They were predicting gusts of up to 40 mph. It felt like the predictions were right. Bibs whipped along the first two miles along the Verazzano Bridge, like sails in the harbor. Every few steps, a hard push from the right by Mother Nature, who didn’t think 26.2 was enough of a challenge. And that was just the first mile.

A lot of love and support went into that yell. Texts, calls, general You can do it’s, genuine all. And a playlist filled with messages that I’ll cherish forever. I love you’s from Grandma and the rest of the family. (And I love you’s that were returned, whether they were heard or not.) A welcome distraction of a six-minute podcast filled with “Would you rather?” questions. The surprise news of a friend moving from London to New York. Inside jokes about (and from) a Muppet and a Glass Shark. A discussion on muffins. Much-needed advice about putting one foot in front of the other. Motivational quotes from Presidents. Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” or, how it shall now be forever known, Grandpa’s Favorite Song.

A 20-mile scare went into that yell. Every step after that mark was a personal best, and a reminder from the legs that they had never gone this far before. A stop would have been the end — there was no coming back from that sense of giving up — and the stride shortened. But it went on.

A lot of anticipation (and a bit of lack of planning) went into that yell. The turn at Columbus Circle into the Park is a spot for thinking. What to do? That thought lasts for a second, maybe two. Just worry about when to do it. Just finish.

A lot of relief went into that yell. A couple thumps of the chest. A point to the heavens and…

It wasn’t a scream. A scream comes from the top of the throat. A yell comes from the chest. From the lungs. From the heart.

That was a yell.