1. Introduction
You never get a second chance to make a first impression— or so the saying goes. Likewise, you never get a second chance to run your first marathon. I ran my first marathon in New Jersey last May, and I ran my second last Sunday in Chicago.
"I don't care how long it takes me. I just want to finish." I told myself. "I don't have any specific time goal, I just want to enjoy it" I told my friends.
Lies. All lies.
Of course I cared. I cared deeply. I wanted to run faster, better, and stronger than before. I wanted to achieve bigger and better goals. I wanted to show improvement and surpass my previous accomplishments. I wanted to conquer the problems of yesterday and succeed today, here, now.
2. The Marathon
When all was said and done, I staggered across the finish line in Grant Park after five hours and ten minutes— 25 minutes slower than my previous marathon.
In a state of delirium I wobbled my way down the finishers’ passageway, exhausted— feeling only relief that it was over; hearing the sound of my racing heartbeat and chaotic celebration surrounding me. "Congratulations" said a smiling woman as she raised the medal above my head and placed it around my neck. I uttered a soft, shaking "thank you" as I fought back tears and struggled to breathe.
It just wasn't my day.
I sensed it early on. The first ten miles were fine– fun, actually. There were crowds cheering and bells ringing. There was energy and excitement in the air. My friend Elliot was by my side. We had perfect weather– cool and sunny with a slight breeze. But I felt tired early, and I was struck by nausea starting at mile ten.
I can run through fatigue. I can run on tired legs. I can run through moderate pain— but running while feeling the urge to vomit— sorry folks, but no. It's impossible. I am frustrated beyond words that this issue reared its ugly head once again. Not enough salt? Too much food? Not enough food? The wrong food? Anxiety? Who knows. It's all too fresh in my mind right now to start searching for answers. I'll do that tomorrow.
Throughout the last ten miles or so, I set arbitrary and tiny goals for myself. "Just run to that bridge, then you can stop and walk a little." "Ok, there's the 20 mile marker. I can run to that." "Just run until I get to that shadow, that water station, that building over there, that traffic light…" and on and on. Small steps, manageable goals, constant progress. It was the best I could do.
3. Reflection
So as I sit here, now 48 hours after the marathon, I'm left with a mix of thoughts and emotions which I'll try to describe to you.
I feel incredibly lucky to be alive. Not now and not ever will I take my healthy body for granted. I own a body capable enough to run 26.2 miles. Team in Training (The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society) reminds me every day that life is fragile and that I'm blessed with good health and good fortune. I urge you all, runners and non-runners alike, to remember this every time you get out of bed and lace up your shoes.
I feel proud that I finished the race. Unlike in New Jersey where I seriously contemplated dropping out, I never let my mind go there in Chicago. "I will finish this race" I told myself continually. While my body was weak, my mind remained strong. Where my legs stumbled, my brain forged ahead.
Now the storm has passed. As the pain and exhaustion melts away, I'm left with an undeniable force pulling me back to the marathon. This fact, I think, is the most difficult for the non-runner to understand.
4. Why do I do this?
I do it for the medal.
I do it for the tee-shirt.
I do it for the free beer at the finish.
We've all heard those replies to the seemingly unanswerable question. Then we laugh and change the subject.
I'll try to explain it as best I can.
A marathon isn't fun. And it sure isn't easy. It's hell, sometimes. It pushes us to the edge of sanity and beyond. It hurts. As endurance athletes, we endure it all. We open the door and invite it in. We count the days until our date with New York, Boston, Chicago, or wherever 26.2 miles of road lies waiting.
I no longer need to prove to myself that I can run a marathon. I've done it twice. The finish line was no dream– it was a reality. I saw it. I was there. I traveled across it on my own two feet.
Yet I feel compelled to return to the marathon because I can't stand losing. I won in New Jersey, but Chicago got the best of me. I can't tolerate it and I won't accept it. I have a vision of myself running a great race, and I'm not there yet. Next time I'll be stronger, tougher, faster.
I love the challenge. I love facing the impossible and proving that it is possible.
I love the journey, and I love the people who've surrounded me throughout that journey. Although we are painfully aware of the presence of sickness and death, this group of runners embraces and celebrates life. And the marathon itself is very much a celebration of life.
So as the great carousel of life turns autumn into winter, I will return to the starting line. I will run again.
Epilogue
On September 10th we stood in darkness in Prospect Park. A hundred individual runners formed one huddled mass as we stood in the shadow of moonlight on that late summer night. Salty sweat clung to our faces under a cloud of humid air.
And on we ran, one mile… one mile back to our home base.
But this time it was different, because this was a silent mile. A mile of thought and reflection. A mile in commemoration for those we've lost. A mile of memories of mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, sons and daughters who will never run again. Taken from us far too soon by illnesses which one day will cease to exist.
As we rounded each corner, I heard the clip clopping of feet on pavement. Not a word was spoken. Just breathing. The rustling of leaves from up above. Row houses of speckled light in the distance and dark angular shadows in the foreground. The occasional car horn… the whirring of a cyclist speeding by.
And as we made that final turn to the west, we all saw it. In the distance a pair of twin beams of light shined brightly into the sky, into the clouds and beyond the infinite.
There's only us
There's only this
Forget regret
Or life is yours to miss
No other road
No other way
No day but today
—Jonathan Larson
