Last weekend I completed the NJ Marathon [1]. People want to know how it was, and I feel like I gotta tell it straight: It was awful. It was a grueling, physically brutal experience, and the physical part was nothing compared with the mental torment which itself paled in comparison with the emotional torture. It was bad. When I got home, stunned and wounded, my youngest, the little guy, asked me, “Were you happy when you crossed the finish line?” My answer?: “No.” I wasn’t. But now, after a recalibrating week, I’m finding some peace and a few lessons.
Alas, I didn’t share in the finish line euphoria so many revel in. When I finished, I looked at a woman who crossed about the same time. We were both like, “My god, what have we just done? Why?” But the lessons about myself would come.
For one, I learned about preparation. I should have trained more. I’m busy in the winter. I was traveling in Jan-Feb-March. The weather was bad in the Northeast. But the marathon accepts no excuses. The days, weeks, and then months flipped by, and I simply wasn’t getting the raw mileage on these 46-year-old legs. The facts were staring me in the face, but I felt I could survive. While that ended up being literally true, the last 90 minutes almost had me following the call of the Coyote Spirit because of the sheer agony, the obvious result of putting in fewer than half the required miles and weeks of recommended training regimens (like Hal Higdon’s [2]).
I also gained great insight into my own sphere of the possible: physical, mental, emotional. I wanted things to be over so badly during the last few miles. What you are about to read is all true. I had many fantasies/hallucinations. I wanted to get hit by a car or crushed by a rogue wave lashing impossibly from the nearby ocean. As I ran across a low bridge, I thought about toppling into the water, bobbing along pathetically until someone fished me out. I wanted a drunken cyclist to barrel into me. I saw this ugly red-headed duck at one point and wished, prayed, that it would waddle out and bite my Achilles in two. When I saw other runners lying in the grass, writhing in pain, one thought would emerge: “Lucky!”
Can I recommend to others, to my own kids, to take on an event in which the mind turns on you so? Every good soul who yelled “Looking good runner!” spurred a reactive anger in me during the run. I thought of leaping off the course and pummeling them, which became another early exit strategy I cooked up. I could see the headline: Struggling runner jailed after (weakly) assaulting fans.
Afterward, even with the medal and awareness of the accomplishment, even after reading great marathon pieces (like this one [3]), I wasn’t coming around. But the week passed, and I started feeling better. What changed? Why could I start telling my little son that I was glad to have done it? It wasn’t just because I started to realize, “Dammit, you ran a marathon. Stop sucking your thumb!” I think it was largely because the marathon became a lens through which I saw anew some of the great people around me. I saw in them the joy and pride that one of their friends, me, had done this thing. And I realized through that just who it is I’ve been lucky enough to have around me.
My wife has been so purely excited for me, bragging to everyone about her marathon-running husband. She supported the whole endeavor without a word of complaint.
Stan. If it weren’t for Stan, I wouldn’t have done it at all. He got me going (after he got me drunk) last year about the prospects of running a marathon with him – his second – and his structured, serious approach over the past four months were inspiring. As I approached the finish line, there was Stan, waiting patiently — he ran an hour+ ahead. Afterward, he sent me a great text: “Thanks again for running the marathon with me today. I had a great time, except for the running part. It was fun sharing our stories on the ride home.”
Then there’s Jim B., who drove 1.5 hours to see me and ended up in an unexpected role. My first 13 miles were great, but at mile 17, my tank was already running dry. Out of the crowd popped Jim B’s bald head – “Yo, Scott Warnock!” He jumped in and started plodding along. We were talking for a couple miles, and I said, “How long are you going to go here, Jim?” He looked around and said, “I’ll run the rest with you if you want.” So he did, as a great coach. He offered the best encouragement to my deflated spirits when during a portion of the course that doubles back we saw some miles behind a runner who juggled during the whole race. Jim said, “At least you’re not behind him!” Also, in an effort to distract me, he got on the phone to talk business during miles 24-25. Of course, no one knew this guy was just helping a friend, and people exclaimed, “You’re about to finish a marathon and you’re on the phone?!” This of course was instead of them providing “Looking good, runner!” to the near-weeping blob of humanity next to him.
[4]A friend in need. A friend indeed.
And then there are the two Js, to whom I dedicated the run. My one J continues to lift me every day in her own fight against cancer. It’s well beyond any marathon. My other J… ah, what can I say? He passed away last week from the disease after a long, heroic battle. I linked them with this challenge not to buoy me or motivate me but to say I’m going to do this and I want you and your families to know that I’m with you all. I wish it were more.
I don’t know. Sitting in my comfy chair at home now, a marathon looks better. But it took so much from me. While I didn’t pump my fist when crossing the finish line, it taught me some things, I ended up telling my little man. But have I learned my lesson? Now Stan’s talking about running another one…
In memory of Jimmy O, 1963-2014.
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[7]Latest posts by Scott Warnock (Posts [9])
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