The Conversationalist

Yesterday was a big day for this skinny-legged blogger. I ran my first marathon.

But perhaps “ran” is a bit of a generous term. If I were slightly more enchanting in my storytelling, I would paint a picture of myself stoically pounding the pavement on a quest for the ultimate runner’s high, that, when achieved, produces a direct porthole to the essence/meaning of life. There was certainly some running involved, but I also hobbled, farted and whimpered my way through the 42 kilometers.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Over the past few months, as I’ve trained, many people have asked me the reasonable question, “Daniel, why are you running a marathon?” My responses have varied:

• I’m turning thirty this year, and I wanted to do something grandiose to mark the changing of a decade
• A marathon was placed on a list of dreams I once made when I was an earnest 17-year-old boy
• My father ran marathons, and I’ve always wanted to put myself through the same challenge
• If I lose my ability to walk tomorrow, I will be able to say “I used my potential while I had it”

There have been many motivating variables in my decision to tackle a race of this nature. But the quintessence of my marathon motivation is this: I’m running because I can.

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THE PRE-RACE PLEA

Those who are silly enough to tune into my ramblings on a regular basis know that in late September I struggled with some debilitating knee pain (self-diagnosed as Patellar Tendonitis), which caused me to doubt if I might be able to accomplish this lofty physical goal.

I’m not a religious man, but I do believe there is something about explicitly stating one’s desires to the universe. This being said, on Saturday evening, with the reality of the next day’s demands weighing heavy on my psyche, I curled into my hotel bed and wrote a letter for help… a spiritual SOS.

Dear God,

I know you’ve been quite generous with me in the past, but here I am, asking for a bit more fortuitousness. Tomorrow is a big day. As you’re aware, I’ll be attempting to run a marathon – I know, what a self-involved ambition! – and I’m a bit nervous about the whole thing. You see, I’ve had some knee pain in the past, and I’m wondering if you could take good care of the old leg joint for me tomorrow. I’m not looking to break any marathon speed records; I’d just like to finish the race. I know you have bigger and more pressing things of which to take care, but if you could just help me through, it would give me a slice of confidence as I tackle taller mountains. As you know, I’ve always been a bit of a cheerleader for folks chasing their dreams. Help me reach this one.

Til soon,

Daniel

PS: Thanks for red wine and Leonard Cohen!

I went to bed feeling excited and unsure of what the next day would bring.

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THE RACE

(Welcome to the present tense…)

Shortly before the 7 AM race start, I arrive with 20 000 other people to the preparatory area. We are corralled into groups based on our predictions of when we would finish the race. I had forecasted a finishing time of four hours, so I am in the Grey group and on my bib I see that Greyhound Bus is a sponsor. I assume they’ve not mistaken me for greyhound speed.

The elite runners, who will finish the race in less than three hours, are released after the national anthem is played. My group is fourth off the line, so by the time I arrive to the start line, thirteen minutes have already clicked by on the official time clock. But the late start doesn’t really matter; all runners have a chip embedded into their race numbers that monitor their personal times.

With the theme from Rocky blaring from the stereo, and the famous steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art at my back, I set forth – feeling nervous about my knee, but also on sensory overload with the thousands of people and sounds around me.

The first half of the marathon is a loop through the city core of Philadelphia. We pass along Arch Street, salute the Liberty Bell, and smell the animals at the Philadelphia Zoo. The race feels buzzing with people. Kylie Minogue’s “Get Outta My Way” plays in my head, and I’m content to reach the halfway 21 KM marker, as the Half-Marathons to split from the pack to conclude their own run.

In my head I say, “Daniel, the race begins now.”

The second half of the race is an out-and-back route along the Schuylkill River. I move forward strongly. At around kilometer 24, I see the elite runners racing towards me in the opposite lane; they’re just a few short minutes from crossing the finish line. I see the man in the lead, and I wonder what he ate for breakfast. Perhaps I will buy the same shoes for the next race. He’s clearly doing something right.

I feel strong and pick up my pace a bit. Finishing times begin to swirl in my head – maybe I could break 3 hours, 30 minutes if I push myself hard enough! I pass a person dressed in a full green lycra body suit, I wonder how they could handle having their whole body, including the face, covered. Ahead of me a woman is dressed as wonder woman. She might be a superhero, but I pass her, too. In ya face wonder woman!

Around 29 kilometers, I come around a bend in the river, fully expecting to see the turn-around-point ahead of me. Instead I see a sea of runners still moving further and further down the road. The distance is becoming more real.

At the next water stop, I give up my romantic dream of running an “organic marathon” – no music, no sports drinks, no gel-ish energy performance supplements – and slam down a cup of Gatorade. It gets me to the turn-around-point at 32 KM.

My knee is increasingly irritable, but it’s the pain in my hips that grows excruciating. I’m no anatomy specialist or pyro-technician, but if feels as if my bones are rubbing together like sticks hell-bent on achieving combustion. My soundtrack becomes: breathe, breathe, whimper, breathe, breathe, whimper.

I think about my family, and how they continually cheer me on; the sentiments swell inside, and tears well in my eyes. But my breathing becomes affected. The emotion gets caught in my upper lungs and causes me to wheeze a pathetic sob. I cannot become emotional; it requires too much energy. I switch to thinking about other things.

I wonder, is this the same degree of pain as childbirth? I mimic the breathing I saw my sister performing in her late stages of labor. It provides a brief comical distraction, but no sustainable pain-management strategy.  I tell myself that if I endured planting trees in northern British Columbia, I can certainly suffer through this. But the discomfort of a marathon is entirely different.

At 39 KM, it hurts like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I briefly stop and bend over to touch my toes, stretching out the back of my legs and briefly relieving the tension in my hips. Sweet bejeezus, my legs throb. I recommence. The process of forcing my body to run again makes me question whether pausing was even worth it. I swear on my grandmother’s grave that I will NEVER do this to myself again.

Wonder woman breezes by me.

Finally at 41 KM, the Philadelphia Museum of Art comes into view. This is the end. The crowd is now huge, alive with people cheering on the runners as we reach our conclusion. People see my name on my race bib and call out, “Come on Daniel, you’re almost there!” and “Keep going Daniel, you’re doing great!” Who are these people, these strangers who show up, simply to encourage? They don’t know how their words affect me.

I hear my Dad’s voice, the familiar intonation of his supportive coaching yell, channeled through one of the men that are cheering me. My eyes swell up again. This time, I don’t fight it. Tears start pouring down my cheeks.

In my pre-race visualizations of finishing my marathon, I had imagined that I would pick up speed and bolt strongly across the line. But I don’t go any faster. I can’t. Instead, I simply continue with my limpy pace, and cross the line anticlimactically.

The official time clock reads 4 hours, 10 minutes.

The most pressing sensation is that of relief. The bliss is simple – it is a state of not running. I drink a bottle of water with the voraciousness of a man who has crawled across the Sahara. I get my participant medal, of which, unlike other acquired athletic medals, holds immediate value.  I am, again, over stimulated by the massiveness of the crowd.

I ensure that the official marathon photographers take my picture. I want to remember this moment – burning skinny legs, tearstains and all.

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POST RACE/POST SCRIPT

After the race I return to the hotel. I sit on my bed, and phone my family. First I speak with my Dad, who has run many marathons before, and then my sister and my mom. They all express congratulations, and state they’re proud of me. I determine, once again, that there are few words in the world sweeter than hearing one’s parents expression their pride.

I surf over to the Philadelphia Marathon website, curious to see my official time. When my lag-through-the-starting-gates is considered, I discover my race was completed in 3 hours, 57 minutes. That’s lovely. It proves that I am three minutes faster than the four hour race I had initially predicted. I greet the news with a certain indifference.

By completing my first marathon, I’ve already completely destroyed my “PB” (Personal Best), which was never having run a marathon before.

And now I sit with a sense of satisfaction and gratitude. I didn’t know how the race would unveil itself, and I am grateful that I was able to even finish. Heck, I’m grateful to be at a place in my life where it’s even possible to attempt such a feat. From the random strangers cheering me on, to the lovely expressions of encouragement from friends and family, if I am to accomplish grandiose things, it is because there are people who have stepped forward to encourage a dream. And I have discovered that God might just be personifying herself in those who cheer other people onwards and upwards.

And, speaking of God, I’d like express interest in collaborating again in the near future. In fact, I’ll be contacting you soon regarding tackling those taller mountains.

Mountains that I’ll be ascending simply because I can.

xoxo

Daniel

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