The 18th Mile

So, I ran another marathon. I looked back at what I wrote about my last marathon (See Crippled, May 2005). Most of what I said then is just as true today.

Still, this 26.2 had its differences. It was mostly flat instead of hilly. It had 34,000 participants rather than 50. It was exciting and entertaining rather than boring. This time around, I ran on a sprained ankle and ran my marathon in 4 hours, twenty-one minutes.

26.2 miles seems like something that should be fairly uniform. Yes, there were the differences I listed, but honestly, for the most part, it was pretty similar. I ran, I finished and I felt like crap. Not-to-mention, there was Mile 18, where everything changes. From now on, I am going to tell runners, “a marathon isn’t about running 26.2 miles; it’s about running 18 miles and then running 8.2 more.”

So, when is a door not adore?

For many yesterday, the marathon was not just a marathon. Sure, a marathon can have its dimensions and runners discuss them ad nauseum. There’s the course- its incline, the sites, the weather. There’s the runner and his or her condition. Yesterday, though, there was another dimension that I never considered before- the symbolism.

(Well, I suppose that’s not completely true. I understand that marathons are arbitrary symbolic measures of one’s own self-worth to boost one’s ego. I got that.)

Yesterday, there were plenty of people running >for< something. There were runners for causes like cancer and autism. There were runners running with flags of countries and branches of the military. There were Vietnam vets, POWs and Virginia Techers. And there were tons of people running “in memory of” a loved one who died in Iraq.

For all of them (including me who wanted to boost his ego), 26.2 miles was more than just 26.2 miles. Honestly, though, its not. No one is a better person for having run 26.2 miles, no cause is really advanced and no amount of honoring is going to fill the void when someone is gone. 26.2 = 26.2 = 26.2.

There were a few people for which 26.2 miles was less than 26.2. Some people were dressed in ridiculous costumes and had a good time. They weren’t running for times or causes. They just wanted to be assholes. Glorious assholes.

I wonder what Mile 18 is like for all of them. Do they think about their causes or their costumes? Does it help them through it?

Somehow, I doubt it. For me, I just thought about pain and how much it sucked. It is an interesting thing, that long and drawn out painful moment of reckoning. One imagines it is be filled with something meaningful, but instead it is very empty.