Marathon Man

Singin' in the Rain; Jamie Cullum

I couldn’t understand my friend Sam during my college days. He went for a run every day. Voluntarily. This abstraction stood outside my field of understanding. The only practical use I ever had for running involved a charging bull or a particularly smoochy aunt. Sam must have sustained a deep-seated fear for either or both of these two, admittedly, remote situations to feel the need to train for such an occasion.

Why do you run? “I like to run,” Sam said. The question I asked and the answer he supplied didn’t add up to anything that made the least bit of sense. The only inspiration I could think of to run was that it would feel so good to stop. “Funny,” said Sam. “That’s the inspiration I use to listen to Joan Jett.”

On the last Sunday morning of October in 2001, I had a job at the Market Inn, a restaurant that offered a champagne brunch on Sundays just a few blocks southwest of the Capitol in Washington, DC. On the way to the job, the man on the radio reminded me that the annual Marine Corps Marathon had just started and that some road closures might interfere with local traffic. Oh, no!! The marathon route wound its way around the Capitol building, dangerously close to the Market Inn.

I arrived twenty minutes late to the job. My friend M. stood at the door waiting for me. “That’s okay,” he said. “It happens every year. I should have reminded you about it. Don’t worry about it.”

On my way back to the Durango after the job, I had this evil, diabolical, mischievous, pernicious, inimical, nagging thought: Wouldn’t it be funny if I ran the Marine Corps Marathon one year from now? I laughed, I think audibly, at the notion and moved on to other thoughts. But the idea returned a few hours later. Usually when I laughed hard enough at a silly idea it went away and never came back. But this ridiculous scheme simply wouldn’t go away. Of all the farcical ideas I ever had, why did this one have to be so heavy-duty? It sat there – smoldering – glaring its beady little eyes at me – defying me – frustrating me – daring me – and mocking me.

Six months later, I found myself standing in the “running” section in the sports aisle at Barnes and Noble. What am I doing? I thought to myself. Don’t you remember how much you hate running? But I kept looking. Looking. Looking. Both for a training book and a way out.

“The Non-Runner’s Marathon Trainer” by David Whitsett, Forrest Dolgener and Tanjala Kole fell into my hands. Guaranteed to condition you to run a 26.2 marathon by training only four days a week and no runs over eighteen miles. Part of me said, Well, this is perfect. As long as you’re going to be ambitious, you might as well do it with the least amount of effort. The other part of me said, Rats. Rats, rats, rats, rats, rats. Rats.

On the first Monday in July of 2002, I ran one mile. I hated it. The next day, I ran two miles. I hated it. On Thursday, I ran one mile. I hated it. On Saturday, I ran three miles. I hated it.

On the next Monday, I ran two miles. I hated it. On Tuesday, I rant four miles. I hated it. On Thursday, I ran two miles. I hated it. And on Saturday, I ran five miles. I hated it. Over the next several weeks, I maintained this sensible training plan and remained consistent with my outlook.

On the second Sunday in September, my training plan called for a sixteen-mile run. During the entire week leading up to my Sunday run, the misery mounted by the hour. Black Saturday came and went and I think I even whimpered as I went to bed that night.

On Sunday morning, I stepped out from under the eaves. It was raining. The temperature was fifty-six degrees. Hmmmmmmmm. What will this be like? I started out. Things went fine for a while. And just when things should have gone downhill … they didn’t. I was soaked to the bone. I was winded. But I wasn’t tired. I saw other runners out on the path with me. As I looked up at them, I noticed … they were smiling. Not just a few people here and there. Everybody that was running … was smiling. People who weren’t running … they were scowling. But everybody on my team, the running team, was on the inside. We knew the punch line to a joke we didn’t need to hear. We were wet. We were cool. We were smiling. And we weren’t tired.

When I reached mile sixteen, I realized that I had forgotten to take a breather during my entire run. I had gotten so caught up in not being miserable that I forgot to stop. And, to tell the truth, I felt like I could have gone further. But, BOY, was I glad I didn’t have to.

Credits: To Sam, for adhering to a principle that I can’t understand. But thank you for adhering to it. You inspire me.