A good friend recently gave me one of the most thoughtful
gifts I’ve ever received. It’s one of
those “runner stickers” that you put on the bumper of your car. You know the ones; they are oval and say
13.1, 26.2, or even, God forbid, 70.3.
(One of the funnier ones I’ve seen says “0.0 I don’t run”.)
The one she gave me says “26.ish”.
My friend was apprehensive handing me the sticker, concerned
that perhaps it would offend me given my conflicted feelings surrounding my almost-finish
at the Boston Marathon this year. To the
contrary, I thought it was just perfect.
In fact, that one “ish” says more than I have been able to say in all of
the words I have written since the marathon.
And as I face the impending “registration period” (when those of us who
did not finish but crossed the half-way mark are permitted to sign up for next
year’s Boston Marathon), and find myself wishing I did not have the choice to
make, I am starting to wonder whether perhaps I need a little more “ish” in my
life.
Growing up, a common refrain in my house was “almost doesn’t
count, except in horse-shoes and hand grenades.” In other words, you generally don’t get any
points in life for “almost” succeeding. This
is not to say that I was not permitted to fail; to the contrary, it was
encouraged as an important learning experience.
It was more a caution against using “almost” as an excuse for not trying
your hardest. Notwithstanding the
unfortunate image that saying conjures in the context of the marathon bombings,
I think it’s fair to say that my general approach to life has been consistent
with its philosophy. I don't believe in
short cuts. I am not one to take the
easy way out. I believe (rightly or
wrongly) things are worth more if they are harder won. I don't believe in mulligans (ok, maybe
sometimes I believe in mulligans…). I am
someone who keeps score, who keeps track.
I catch typos. I don’t like when
people use the word “fortuitous” to mean “fortunate”. I am not a sophisticated cook, but I am a
decent baker (the former requiring a sixth sense for estimation I lack, the
latter requiring close measurement.) I believe
that for the most part, almost doesn’t actually
count. Those characteristics are
fundamentally part of who I am, and that’s ok.
They have served me well. I am,
in most regards, precise. I am, in most
regards, a “.2” kind of girl.
When I was preparing for the marathon, Spaulding
Rehabilitation Hospital gave our team a training schedule to follow. For each day of the 18-week training program
it showed a suggested range of miles to run (1-3, 3-5, 4-6, 6-8…19-21), all
culminating in “The Big Day!” (an implied 26.2). Using the Garmin running watch my husband gave
me for Christmas, I would clock my mileage each time I ran, making a note on the
schedule of the exact amount, down to the second decimal point. No “range” for me! I wanted to know exactly how far I had gone. Some weeks I would add it all up, and reflect
with amazement on the distance my legs had traveled. It was really one of the most meaningful
aspects of the entire experience; seeing the proof of the transformation that
was occurring in my body. My strength
and my endurance increasing, almost beyond my control. I was living proof that really anyone can run a marathon; that if you
put in the time and clock the miles your body will learn how to sustain that distance.
We had a particularly grueling New England winter last year,
and for many of our long training runs my partner and I would head off to a
local state park where the main access road, always plowed, provided 5 clear miles
of hills. We would run up and down this
road, sometimes three times as we got closer to the race, talking about everything
and anything. One Saturday morning after
a particularly large storm I remember the tree branches, frozen with white ice
and heavy with snow, arched over us with the sun glinting and ricocheting between
them. It felt like being in a snow globe
filled with glitter. Our shadows
stretched ahead on the white ground, the two of us, side by side (me always on
the right, my friend on the left). I
reached for my phone, hoping to preserve the amazing moment. But it was about 30 degrees and my phone was
frozen, rendering the camera non-functional.
So instead I just looked around at the stunning beauty of my
surroundings, breathed deeply the cold winter air and felt the contrast of the
strong sun on my face, and thought how lucky I was to spend a Saturday morning
with one of my best friends in this peaceful place, running.
Not too long ago I was commuting home from work with my husband
and another friend of ours, who has run Boston before. I was expressing ambivalence over whether I
would run again, next year or ever. He
assumed I had run Boston prior to this past April, and when I said that this
was my first marathon attempt ever, I admitted to feeling that I cannot
actually say I have run a marathon.
Although many people have since told me “of course you ran a marathon,
you were right there near the finish”, or “everyone knows the last .5 mile is
nothing at that point”, his words were slightly different and much more
poignant. He said that he always felt
that for Boston the marathon happens over the winter. In other words, the marathon is getting up
early in the cold dark and running. The
marathon is running up and down a plowed road in a state park, over and over
and over, until you’ve hit your miles.
The marathon is running in the rain and wind, with soaking shoes and
numb toes. It’s doing the final long
training run on the race route and seeing—and conquering—the hills for the
first time. It’s learning how to drink
while running, how to eat GU Chomps while running, how to get rid of a cramp
while running. That’s the marathon. Race day, he said, is your reward for all of
that hard work. From his perspective, I
ran the marathon; I just didn’t get my reward.
When I got the email the other day notifying me that
registration for my category of non-finisher would open in the near future
(next week in fact), my heart sank. 99%
of me knows it is just not possible next year.
Physically. Emotionally. Timing-wise.
But I also know I’ll probably register, leaving the door open and also
dragging out the decision process uncomfortably. It has forced me to really think about why I
ran in the first place and whether the same, or different, motivations would
push me to ever try again. A large part
of why I ran had to do with my running partner (and good friend) subtly
suggesting that maybe I wasn’t up to it; maybe I didn't have the time or the
dedication to join the Spaulding team. This
was brilliant reverse-psychology on her part because she knows me well enough to
understand what motivates me. I don’t
like being told I can’t do something. (And
she was right; I doubted whether I could do it.) I prefer to think that everything is in my
reach and it’s up to me to decide where I put my energies. And so I put my energy, all of my energy,
into training. And I clocked my miles,
and I wrote down my distances. I
followed the recipe for marathon success like the meticulous baker I am,
because I know that if you measure carefully and add the exact right amount of
salt, baking powder, vanilla, flour, eggs, cinnamon, and sugar, you will get a
coffee cake. And if you run X amount of
miles in the right order over 18 weeks, you will get a marathon.
Obviously all the training in the world won’t prepare you
for a terrorist attack. But what I got
that I didn’t expect were weeks of hard (very hard), but also enjoyable,
preparation. Moments like the snow globe
(and countless others) that I won’t forget.
A perspective on my town and its beauty by foot, a new view of all the
various roads and routes we ran that one doesn’t see while driving. An education in fueling and hydrating long
distance running. Hours and hours with
my good friend that no one can take away.
My own marathon.
It has been said, “life is a journey, not a
destination”. Even Miley Cyrus agrees,
singing:
There's always gonna
be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna
make it move
Always gonna be an
uphill battle
Sometimes I'm gonna
have to lose
Ain't about how fast I
get there
Ain't about what's
waitin' on the other side
It's the climb
Oh Miley. So young; and
yet, so wise. In truth, I’m probably
somewhere in-between. It’s not only about
the climb for me. I do actually care
what’s on the other side of that mountain.
So maybe what drives me is the .2; but I’m learning that what stays with
me is the “ish”. Even if I originally agreed
to run the marathon to meet the challenge put to me—to cross that finish
line—there is some truth that what truly transforms us is everything that comes
before that point. And that transformation
can be blurry. It is not really amenable
to being defined or measured. That is
the “ish” of life (to me at least). And
in that regard, although I will likely continue to be motivated by what I
perceive to be the reward, I am beginning to understand that the gravitas of
the experience has already occurred long before the medals are handed out.
As simple as it sounds, maybe it's time to leave my running
watch at home for a while and just run as fast as feels good, until my body
wants to stop, enjoying the views instead of tracking my distance and pace. To make my next goal, my next mountain, the
challenge of being motivated solely by the “ish”. To run another marathon, if I ever do, not so
much for the finish but for the random beautiful moments along the way to the
start. Or at the very least to get
comfortable with a decision not to run next year because I know I’ve already been
transformed. Who knows, maybe I will find
I’m more of an “ish” girl than I thought. Heck, I may even try cooking without a recipe…
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