Blog 7.Crash Course in Life: The Marathon

The marathon is a harsh teacher, dishing out those vital life lessons we (mostly I) still need to learn.

Your race result tells a story. Everything—your training, race strategy, pain tolerance, the weather—funnels into that neon number ticking away as you cross the finish line. Runners never forget their times. Absolute joy for some, dejection for others. But a curious phenomenon kicks in shortly after the race is complete. Everyone second guesses their result, believing their posted time does not accurately reflect their true potential. If only I had…

As for me, I deserved the time I got, melting across the line in 03 hours 40 minutes 08 seconds, good for 812th overall (just off the podium), 100th in my age group, and a respectable third place among the Dustins. WTF? That’s fantastic. It is not.

Last December, a friend asked me to race the Vancouver Marathon. Barely running and twelve years out from my last one, I stupidly agreed.

For some background, if you haven’t read What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami, stop everything and go read it now. In it, he states a fundamental truth: DO NOT half-ass marathon training. I half-assed marathon training.

The Body Comes Around, Eventually

No matter how I spin it, what I’m about to say will not sound good. From the get-go, I somewhat dared myself to race under-prepared, mainly to see if I could do it. Dude, you disrespect the marathon (and Murakami). Quite the opposite actually.

To be fair, I’m lucky. Running comes easy. My body naturally falls into the gentle rhythm needed to cover longer distances somewhat quickly. Compared to the true racers, I’m slow, but alongside the masses I’m a freaking gazelle.

Going in, I had zero motivation to train. Don’t get me wrong I wasn’t completely sedentary, but my love for running had evaporated. To my mind, the people who dedicate months to marathon training get it right. Yet, at some level, I knew I could pretty much show up, and likely even squeak in under four hours. Tough, but doable.

And I did train, sometimes hard and fast even, just not enough. For anything less than 60 minutes, my body and mind held a truce and got it done. Anything longer, and I padded my workouts with other endurance pursuits like sweeping the deck or arranging furniture. The reality is not far off. I was bummed out.

I blew off two 18 milers along with other ‘key’ sessions. The joy wasn’t coming back. Finally, three weeks out from race day my body said ‘hey, this isn’t bad. Let’s go.’ About time.

Dude, Slow Down

Race day started out swimmingly. Amidst a sea of beautiful, sculpted legs in the start corral, I’m tucked between the 3:15 and 3:30 pace bunnies. My inside voice whispered 'stick with the 3:30. Remember that detail. The start gun fires and off I go, burning matches like a fool, swept up in the collective swirl of thousands of lunatics chasing marathon glory. Yet my mind—always the wet blanket—screamed: Slow the F%&k Down. Hell no, I shouted back, slow is for losers.

Thirty kilometres in, my early bravado looked pretty good, on pace for a 3:23 finish. Then I hit the wall. Notorious among marathoners, the 30km mark is when the proverbial wheels fall off, sparing no one. It’s bizarre. Without warning your entire body quits working, but for some reason, continues to trudge forward. It’s similar to watching a train wreck on ultra slo-mo. Check the vides, at 6km I'm smiling and keeping pace. Along the back twelve, I've nearly melted into the pavement.

Forget Jesus, Elvis Saves

I must address the elephant in the room: my deliberate lack of training. Here’s the screwed up/not screwed up explanation. I wanted the race to be as difficult as possible. I was curious. At the point of maximum anguish, would I quit or carry on? It’s a risky experiment and not recommended for obvious reasons.

Here's the secret, nobody cares. Even those who really love me, could care less about my time, my training, or if I finished the thing. But I do. Not quitting, it seems, is more important to me than salving my tattered ego and cramped legs. Don’t get me wrong, I was miserable and nearly called it quits many times.

At my race day rock bottom, I came to understand something of great value. I chose it all. Up to that point, whatever I had done or not done had coalesced into the exact experience I wanted. It was so simple and brilliant. Quit or Don’t. Still wavering on the decision, I happened to lock eyes with Elvis—apparently he's alive and singing at kilometer 34. Through whatever magic he still possesses, he helped project my vision past the finish line. Regardless of which path I chose, I’d soon be scarfing down a greasy burger with my feet on ice, the pain fading into memory. Only, one option was preferable. Your choice D. Thanks Elvis.

Post-Race Epilogue

Completing this marathon helped me grow. Maturity, ehh, is a bit much. I’m grateful because my love for running has returned. Maybe it was Elvis, but the most unexpected side effect was the brushing away of the apathetic cobwebs that had been collecting, almost unnoticed, along the fringes of my day-to-day experience. I’m more clear-headed now, and I’m excited to see what’s up next.

The next day I woke up bright and alert. Except now I’m pissed. Know this. Despite everything I shared above, had I raced smarter and started out slower, I would have ran a faster time. Damn you 3:15 pace bunny. There I go, if only I had…