Half Crazy

Last year's Nashville half marathon was the most painful experience of my life. So why am I doing it again?


Somewhere around the 10-mile mark of my last long training run, as I gave in to exhaustion, I reminded myself that I didn't have to do this.


That was a lie.  I was still two miles away from my house, and given how much I was sweating at that moment, no stranger was going to have the courage to offer me a lift. So if I wanted to ever get home, it was up to my feet.

That's a snapshot of how my training has gone this year for my half marathon on Saturday. A monster sinus infection and a pinched nerve combined to wipe out a month of my training, so I'll be lucky to be coherent at the finish line. Or to make it there at all.

A few people have asked if I'm still going to run Nashville's big race this year given those setbacks and that no one else I know is running with me.

I realize I don't have to do it. But in a way, that's exactly why I do.


I'll come back to that thought, but let's remember: I really didn't have a choice about running last year's half.  That's how it goes with inspirational quests--they are inspirational precisely because the one undertaking it doesn't really have a choice to quit.



For my brothers--one of whom had gotten cancer the year before--and me, overcoming a half marathon through one of the most arduous courses in America was the perfect symbol for overcoming the daunting obstacles in life. The allegory worked out perfectly, with the thirteen miles of the course representing his twelve chemotherapy sessions and the operation to remove his tumor.


At mile 11, when I wanted someone to shoot me, I looked down at my copy of our blue colon-cancer-awareness wristbands. "Hope. Faith. Courage," it says. "If my brother can beat cancer," I thought, "I can run two more miles, and I can beat all the other challenges in my life."

And for that day, at least, we all did.


Notwithstanding the pouring rain through which we ran (and my devoted wife and niece--two separate people, let's be clear--waited), it was a triumphant day. My brothers and I all met our time goals, and after we dried out and warmed up, we went away with sore calves and broad smiles.

But that was last year.


This year, assuming I survive, there will be no similarly big emotional payoff at the end of the race. My (hopefully) finishing the race doesn't obviously symbolize anything more than a guy in his mid-30s fighting an unwinnable battle against middle age. What's more, I'm running this one on my own, and I already even have one of those pretentious "13.1" stickers, a one-time reward proclaiming my fitness street cred to a world that isn't actually all that impressed.

Still, I'm just as excited about this race as I was for last year's. And given what I've just written, you might appropriately think I'm at least half crazy. (A full marathon is another level of crazy I'm not delusional enough to try. Yet.)


But here's the thing: no one signs up for inspirational quests. They come from the refusal to let the world's negativity get the best of you, so by definition, they only come after being exposed to some form of involuntary suffering.

Life isn't made of inspirational quests, though. Inspirational quests are joyous and empowering, but they don't comprise a large percentage of our existence.  Most of us only have occasion and emotional energy to tackle one or two per decade, if that.

It's easy to get motivated to run to fight to cancer, to sacrifice greatly for those you love, or to soldier on for your life's passion. But most of life isn't spent directly engaged in some grand pursuit, it's spent fighting with the alarm clock on Monday morning, organizing files and responding to dumb emails, or forcing yourself to get to the gym on a Thursday night when your favorite TV show is on.

For me, last year's race was so symbolic, failing was never an option. This year, I need to succeed when it is.


It's easy to do great things when you're inspired; it's harder to do great things when you aren't. But if you only put forth total effort when inspiration hits, you end up with a life that doesn't reach your dreams. (On a totally unrelated note, my book is still nowhere near complete.)


If last year's race was about overcoming the impossible, this year's is about pressing through the ordinary, boring, sometimes unpleasant stuff that makes up daily life in the hopes that the sum of my effort accomplishes something. The only difference is that Saturday, unlike every other day, a bunch of strangers will be cheering me on.


I barely finished last year's, and deep down I believe that despite the speed bumps in my training this year, past experience will help me not only survive but conquer--that I'll prove that the course that seemed so insurmountable a year ago can become routine with a long period of disciplined practice, even when it feels hard.


That story might not be a compellingly inspirational one. But when I see the thousands of people line up to cheer all of us who are running to defeat something, I have the feeling I will look down at my blue wristband and smile.
 
Hope, faith, and courage, after all, never go out of season.