My big, fat, fall marathon

It’s Thursday – four full days after I completed The Bay State Marathon in Lowell, Massachusetts, and the first day this week that I’ve found myself able to walk fully upright, and with a stride befitting the 39 year old that I am, rather than the 79 year old I’ve been impersonating. That sounds bad, but there’s a stubborn kind of pride that I– and I think most marathoners — feel in the post race humiliation of  knotted calves and thighs, sore knees and dislodged toenails. We ran 26.2 miles, after all. People die trying to do this, and all we have is some sore muscles!

Finish Line at Bay State

I won’t bore you with the details of my race, which was the second marathon I’ve run. I won’t talk about how fast I ran; what miseries I endured or what my race day strategy was and how it succeeded or failed during execution. Marathoners are inclined to ruminate about things like this and I’ve already waylaid close friends and even casual acquaintances with my race day debriefing — watching as the wide eyed “Wow” of their shared enthusiasm fades into a glassy eyed stare as I prattle on about my pace and split times and the effects of the (albeit sucky) weather on my performance. Who cares? Really? I ran as hard as I could and left nothing out on the course — my body’s been telling me that all week.  And as a fellow Bay State runner, blogger and media guy Ernesto Burden has pointed out: its not about the marathon — its about the training. You run so you can finish the marathon, yes. But also to stay in shape, and because it puts you in touch with your body and with your environment…and because running  alone and listening to yourself breathe is a weirdly spiritual thing to do.

In the days leading up to the race, I struggled to push work and other worldly cares out of my mind. I was thinking of the things that lie on the other side of Sunday: deliverables and late night meetings and projects to start. There in a light rain on Sunday morning, pressed together like Emperor Penguins with a couple thousand other runners, I took a deep breath and exhaled all that stuff. For those moments, I thought only of the task immediately in front of me and what I needed to do to accomplish it. In this multi tasked world, that’s a rare thing.

At the finish line

When I crossed the finish line a little more than three hours later, I was goggle-brained, wet and cold. Spasms started shooting up and down my calves immediately, causing me to pause in fits of agony every couple feet. Two of my three daughters, who had been waiting dutifully in the rain, burst into tears, recoiled from my battered frame and demanded to leave. When my wife held her iPhone up to take pictures a minute or two later, it was only my middle daughter, Shira, who didn’t miss a beat: walking over, giving me a big hug, then posing for a picture with dad. It was a telling moment, but I’d like to think that my being there at the finish line sent a message to all three of them: about the thrill of the event, yeah, but also about the need to endure, and to devote yourself entirely to whatever it is that matters to you. This was my big, fat, fall marathon and I ran it for me, not them. But I’m hoping that my accomplishment registered with them, too — opening a door of possibility or, at the least, knocking over some perceived impediment that might some day stand in the way.

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Tags: Fatherhood, inner life, Kids, Sports, stress