Marathon Recap

            As some of you may know, either from knowing me personally or through reading previous posts (most likely the former), I ran in the Philadelphia Marathon on November 21st, three short weeks ago.  For one of my classes, I was asked to keep a "running" diary of sorts about my experience before, during, and after the race, this is what I came up with.  This, I try to explain, is what it is like to run a marathon, and the insane emotional and physical roller coaster you endeavor while running it. Enjoy:

            Twenty six point two miles. 

            One hundred thirty-eight thousand, three hundred thirty-six feet.

            It’s almost double the distance between Florida and the Florida Keys.

            I ran that distance nine days ago. 

            On Nov. 21, I ran in the Philadelphia Marathon for the second time in my short life and marathon career.  It was the fourth overall marathon I have competed in, but one thing stays the same.

            It doesn’t get easier.

            Sure, I may have dropped my time 41 minutes so far, from the marathon fledgling I was in 2009 at the Lake Placid Marathon where I ran 3:23:17, (an average of 7:46 pace per mile) to the runner I am now with a personal best of 2:42:52 (an average of about a 6:12 pace per mile). In reality, however, times don’t matter. 

With a race of this magnitude, this difficult, this daunting, it’s more about the adventure and how you get there than your actual finishing time. 

Marathons have experienced an exponential increase in the last five years due to the most recent running boom that has expanded the sport of running (and, in particular, marathoning) to a new, never-before attained level. 

Yet, still, less than 1% of the American population run a marathon each year.  And, understandably so.  Marathons are asinine to even consider attempting, as it asks for your undivided mental capacity and focus, as well as your best day physically, for all to go well and not hit that disdainful wall, to not pass out at mile 18, to just plain survive.  Excruciating mental pain, physical agony, or both, isn’t just likely.

It’s inevitable.

Perhaps the toughest part mentally is waking up at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m.  Or, maybe it’s the waiting around before the gun goes off, thinking, just thinking, about the wild ride you’re about to go on.  You start to question everything, from what you ate for breakfast, to your training, to the guy next to you.  Did I eat too close to the starting time? Am I in good enough shape? Can I beat this guy next to me?

            Boom.

            That’s the sound of the gun.  All previous thoughts are tossed aside from the brain and all focus is now upon the 26.2 miles ahead.  Adrenaline is so abundant and ubiquitous in the body, in the atmosphere, that you try to start out slowly so that you don’t burn out at mile 22, when you still have four miles left to go. 

            The first mile was a little too fast, as it always is.  About 25 seconds too fast.  At least it felt comfortable, I thought.  Maybe this isn’t too bad after all.  Let’s try to hold this pace for now.

            That pace stayed consistent for the first 11 miles or so with no real variation.  Perfect, I thought. I’m feeling great.  This will be a piece of cake! 

            Mile 13 saw me go into the halfway point at precisely where I thought I could be on a flawless day.  Could I be flawless for the second half? Maybe. Hopefully. 

            My coach Pete Colaizzo left me with a valuable lesson before I left for Philadelphia.  Colaizzo, the director of cross country and track and field at Marist College, a venerable marathoner in his own right with plenty more experience than I, told me not to “crush” miles 12-18.  That’s the point where you would get into a “groove” he said, and perhaps burn out before the most important part of the race which begins at mile 20.

            He was right.

            Around mile 19, I felt myself starting to slow down as I was approaching the final turnaround to head home.  Each step seemed to just take double the amount of energy it did before.  The blisters on my toes and heels became unavoidable.  My thighs felt like cinderblocks.  I was out of breath.  My 20^th mile was the slowest of all.  It was clocked in at 6:39, over 30 seconds what it should be at this point and no sign of recovering. 

            “Let’s go Luke,” random benevolent spectator said. “You’re on your way home!”

            “Okay 344,” said a kind runner who was dually experiencing the pain I was feeling. “You look great.”

            I am positive that I did not look great, for I did not feel even good and guarantee I didn’t look it, either.  Maybe it was the endorphins.  Maybe I was hallucinating.  But I had no tangible evidence to the contrary.

            So I believed them.

            Mile 21 was a little faster, at 6:17.  Better, I thought, and I’m not dead yet! I push a little harder with only five miles to go.

            Mile 22 was much quicker, 6:01.  I’m back, I thought.  Only four more miles left!

            Mile 23 was the same at 6:01.  Yes! Only a simple five-kilometers left to go. In the midst of my second wind were cries of, “You got ‘em kid! Stay strong!” said runners as I passed them.

            Mile 24 was a tad slower at 6:11.  The blacktop felt like quicksand as my legs were getting sucked into it.  My brain tried to distract me, but the pain was too difficult to overcome.

            I hit the wall.

            Mile 25 was when the crowd started to formulate and cheer the runners on the home stretch.

            “Pump those arms,” spectators said. “You’re so close!”

            I was digging, digging, like I was using a shovel, to get my legs to move quicker, to bounce off the blacktop to no avail.  My arms fell asleep from being in the same position for hours on end.  Each step was as if spears were stabbing the bottom of my feet.

            But, at mile 26.2, with steps to go, I limped across the finish line with a 15 minute personal best time, a smile on my face that travelled from ear lobe to ear lobe, and blisters the size of a quarter on each foot. 

            Even my legs, my indispensable legs who carried me and worked ever so valiantly for those two hours and 42 minutes, could not take any more, as they developed a pulse of their own, with each beat shooting an influx of pain that viscously simmered for hours.

            Yet, all of it did not matter, as satisfaction, and personal glory, were both attained. Which, I suppose, begs one, final question to everyone else.

            Want to run one?

           

Luck

What is it, exactly?

This is a question that I have been venturing out to answer for quite some time.  It seems like a simple question.  At least I thought it was.  But, the reality is that it is so far from simple. In fact, it just may be impossible to answer such a question.

Luck, I guess, by definition, is the fortunate, (or unfortunate) occurrences in your life that just happen, well, because.  I would have to say that it is a phenomenon that is borderline inexplicable. We truly do not know why one has good or bad luck in particular instances, but we do know that it is poingant and always with us.

But can this omnipotent facet of life be as powerful and free-falling as is generally suggested? Is that even humanly possible.

Know what I think?

No.

I consistently labor over such questions as these ad nauseam.  My friends will tell you that I am a victim of consistent over-analysis of just about everything from a text message that ends in a period to why I ran 30 seconds slower on my 10 mile run today than when I did it three days earlier.

But this luck thing, I have concluded, that for the most part doesn't even actually exist as this spirit.  Truth is, luck is synthetic. It's man-made.   We all are responsible for our own luck.  People that are primarily considered to have bad luck have it because they put themselves in situations that will be unlikely to engender good luck. Therefore, they will have bad luck.  Whether that be not exhibiting healthy practices and eventually paying for it down the road, or being painfully unprepared to the point  where you could humiliate yourself publicly. 

On the contrary, those that have "good luck" are progressive. They're confident.  They do not fold at those tumultuous times.  Nothing phases them.  They have the gall and patience to see things through and make the right decisions when necessary. Those with good luck will downright refuse to just let life, the intimidating adversary it can sometimes be, come to them. They go to life. Thus, producing their own good luck.

Now, of course, there are outliers.  The mother of three who succumbs to vicious breast cancer after beating it decades earlier.  The dedicated man who works three jobs to support his family, and gets fired from one of them so he can't pay the mortgage.  The family who wins the lottery. These are just a few examples that just illustrate that there are some moments in life that have no explanation. There's no use in even trying to look at those examples because you'll drive yourself up a great wall looking for an answer. 

Instead, go make your luck.

You

There are acquaintances. There are coaches. There are friends. There are adversaries. There are "friends".  There are teammates.There are family members. There are brothers and sisters and parents.  There are friends that are as close as family.  There are housemates.  There are roommates. There are associates.  There are outsiders we will someday meet, have met, and never meet.

There are girls. There are girls we love. There are girls we have loved. There are girls we wished loved us.  There are girls that will never know of our love. There are girls we now loathe.  There are girls we lament loving.  There are girls we will never love. There are girls that we'd enjoy nothing more to see them again one last time. And, of course, there girls that we implore for their disappearance from Our earth. 

There are those people. There are those we don't know. There are those we do know who they are.

They are friendly. They are supportive. They are covetous. They are malevolent.  They are supporters. They are biggest fans. They are haters. They are haters. They are sometimes both. They are not good, not evil, just them.  They are capricious. They are fasitidious. They are understanding, but disappointed. They are fascinated, but apathetic. They are conscientious, but oblivious.

It's an enthralling concept to sit around pensively and think about, like I have for the past 4 to 5 days.  Everyone we have encountered has shaped us as a human being, for better or for worse.  Each interaction we possess, each hardship fought, each triumph experienced, each nonchalant "Hello, how are you?" to strangers has meaning.  Those family members, friends, the malevolent, haters, and teammates all have such an impact on my life that I have difficulty putting it into words. I'm not talking about how I'm so close with them and they mean a lot to me. They do. I'm talking about more than that.  My reality is a concoction of all of their realities. And, without all of them, I would have no reality. This reality I have now would just be imagination.

Same goes for those haters, those role models, those girls we'll never love and the ones we will forever love. Even those associates, the fascinated and apathetic each have driven to what I have become.  If one of my endeavors was just, say, effaced from my memory, I very well could be an entirely different human being than I am right now.  If it weren't for you, all of you, those friendly strangers, those that understand, but are disappointed, and even the conscientious, however oblivious people all have direct responsibility to my personal outcome.

And for you, all of you, I say only what I can:  Thank you.

Home Stretch

Note to self: a monthlong hiatus in between blog posts is not good. I'll make sure to remember that for next time. But, alas, I digress from the beginning.

It is October 25th. A Monday.  The beginning of another week, and six days until the childhood wonder day that is Halloween. For me, though, it marks something else.

Four weeks away.

Four weeks until all of my hard work since early June is put to the test in one day.

Four weeks until I aim for my goal that I've been striving for manically.

This day I am speaking of is November 21st, which so happens to be the running of the Philadelphia Marathon. It will be my 4th ever marathon, and my last race of 2010.  And, the last four weeks are of the utmost importance to a marathon runner.

At this point out is when the zenith of all the hard work starts to finally ease up and crest downward, to give the body a rest, to "taper" to use some running jargon. More sleep is of the necessity and racing strategies are beginning to be thrown around between my coach and I. Different goals are cogitated, different possibilities of how to start and end the race are debated, but one thing stays the same.

Focus.

Ever since my last marathon in May, I have circled this date on my calendar. I have ran about 1,000 miles since with all of them focused toward a strong time in Philly.  I have never worked harder in my life toward something and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Determination, motivation, et. al teaches you many things.  Staying the course (no pun intended) and working through poor weather, laziness, and all the elements has taught me something spectacular.

That is, we all have this lupine energy within us to perform the extraordinary, the asinine, maybe even the impossible.  It doesn't necessarily have to be running or athletic related, but the thing is, it's there. You may not have experienced it yet. Perhaps you have. But there is some intrinsic mana within all of us to outwill the doubtful, and outwork the others. And the best part of it all is...?

You have it too. 


I'm the last person running would come too easily. I could not run more than 2 miles at a time at seventeen years old, which is flat-out lamentable for someone who is supposed to be in the prime of their life and health. I battled my own issues of being overweight for most of my life. Until about three years ago, this was me.

But not anymore.

I know now I am both physically and mentally ready for what is ahead. I can envision myself beating my best time by 5, maybe even 10 minutes. I have never possessed such focus and motivation before.

The same is possible for everyone. We all have what drives us to be better, to be stronger, to strive for the very best and nothing less. It's some internal lightswitch that once turned on by some resplendent memory or event (for better or worse) is impossible to turn off.  It's a robotic, recalcitrant even, sense that refuses to be ignored.

And when it finally turns on, you'll never be more ready.

Resplendency

My past weekend could only be described in one world which would perfectly accentuate the past 60 hours or so: disaster.

But don't stop reading; I promise that there is a reason behind my complaints and me telling you why my weekend was so abominable.  A good reason, in fact.

So where do I begin? I guess I shall do so in chronological order:

Friday night is the night before my second race of my cross country season. Those that know me well are highly aware of the fact that I take it as seriously as can be, and that running is my life. It's given me more pleasure than I can imagine, and has shaped (for better or for worse) into who I am today. Because of this, I slept minimally the night before. And minimal sleep for a runner (or anybody, really) makes you cranky, especially before an important day.

The aforesaid race went just awful for me. My arch nemesis, the heat, of who we share a brutal enmity, got the better of me and led for my race and time to not be what I worked for. I beat my personal best time by 19 seconds, but did not succeed in reaching my goal for that race when I put in the required effort my goal. Thus, a major letdown on my part, especially because I have been working as hard as ever, running more than ever, and the result was not what I intended it to be. When you put so much energy into one specific thing, and you fail at your goal, it's quite disheartening.

So, I come back from Fairfield University dejected, exhausted, and legs full of lactic acid.  Atleast, I think to myself, I can look forward to a Saturday night with my teammates and housemates, which never ceases to cheer me up.

Yet, it didn't. Painful nostalgia appeared, instead.

We all have it. There is no denying it. Some arbitrary spoken word from somebody sparks a memory of something, or someone, that is no longer there. And, likely, you miss them. You miss the old version of them (or in my case, her).  You miss the person you fell for so much that it's physically exhausting, and the thought of reality makes you feel sick to your stomach.  You hope, pray, that she feels the same way. And it's selfish that you plead that she thinks about you, but you can't help it. But you also hope she's fantastic because you want nothing but the best for her, because she deserves so much. She deserves it all. And, yes, you miss the good, the bad, the everything. You miss it so much, and it tears you apart from the whole you're trying to regain. It's a sickening Sisyphean cycle that you go through constantly, with seemingly no end, no matter how hard to try to move forward.

Sunday morning rolls around, still feeling discouraged by it all, and I have to run 20 miles. Typically, this is not such a big deal for me (as I am training for my fourth marathon in November), but my mind was just not with it that morning. All I yearned for was to lay in bed and sleep off my recent struggles. Instead, I ran for 2 hours and 15 minutes, wishing that every moment I was sleeping. Nevertheless, I did finish the run, and had even more lactic acid in my legs that forced me to waddle like a duck when I had to walk due to extreme soreness

When I return from my run, my cell phone kicks the bucket. So how do I celebrate its untimely demise? By waiting at the Verizon Store for three hours to buy a phone I'm not used to, do not like, and charges me $ 9.99 a month for the Internet when I didn't need it in the first place. They say it's mandatory. I say it's asinine.

That evening, while preparing for my radio show (which YOU can listen to at icecast.marist.edu on Sundays from 8-10 p.m.!), my computer freezes right when I'm about to save and even finish the outline, thereby leaving my partner and I bitterly unprepared.  As always, "the show must go on" and we did our best, at least salvaging a semi-entertaining two hours on college radio...if that's even possible.

Now, why do I mention all of this?

Listen, I promise it's not to just complain, to have you sympathize for me, so I can say, "Oh, woe is me, I had a terrible few days! My life sucks!"

No.

That's not it at all. Because this entire tumultuous weekend has taught me that it could have been just as likely that I had the best weekend of my life than the worst one. What I realize (and I hope others do, too) is that we have these resplendent memories of awful times, like these. There's no denying our loathing of these moments. But what about the good times? Don't those cherished memories and moments have an even more resplendent recalling in your mind? A foiling example for each awful moment of my weekend:

My first cross country race of the season was a moment to remember, as I beat my recent personal best time by 90 seconds for the 5K and outkicked three other runners in the last 100 meters. That's something to be proud of. That's a special memory, as is when I ran my third (and most recent) marathon under three hours. These are resplendent memories.

The reminders I have of you, who I miss, are to be cherished forever. Those moments of my life with that person are indispensable, and of which I will never forget. Some of the best times of my life to date were spent with that special someone. And for that, I will always be grateful and remember those times of invincibility, that felt like I could fly across the world when I was in your company. These are resplendent memories.

The opportunity I had to call live soccer games with my friend on campus is just simplisitcally satiating. I sit at a pristine campus, on a gorgeous field of grass, watching the game I adore the most, especially with such a close friend of mine. These are resplendent memories.

See? Just as easy as it is to get caught up in the awful and unfortunate, we instantly forget the powerfully special times that are right there, too.

Life is a cycle. We have these weekends where they cannot end soon enough. We have the weekends we never want to end. We have moments that are painstaking, but they are replaced with memories of sheer joy. It's all a cycle, and what I know is that coming up are more sublime, blissful moments that I will soo never forget.

I knew there was a reason for complaining about my weekend.

The Good

So I went to a wedding this weekend.

Weddings are fun. Families coalesce in celebration of the bride and groom starting their lovely life together. People dance, talk, laugh, and drink (all in excess) in joy of the occassion. 

But, for me, this wedding wasn't just a symbol of "eternal love" and all of that fun stuff. It was something else.

My cousin got married on perhaps the most beautiful place imaginable, Lake George, on one of the more beautiful days imaginable. Don't believe me? Maybe you will now:

Here is the view from which Sara Pfau and Worth Russell exchanged their vows. See what I mean by perfection? Sure, it wasn't a wedding of ultimate grandeur, with thousands of people. But the important people were there. It was at the location that meant the most to them. That's what mattered.  It was perfect for them. 

Perfection, of course, is relative. Frankly, some people believe perfection is impossible.  I just don't buy that. When you see two people vow to dedicate themselves to each other forever, till death do them part, with the sublime setting of a lake behind you on the sunniest of days, with family and close friends around laughing and smiling, not everything in life is awful and stressful. There are those bright spots that trump everything else.

Like Danny Vinyard says in American History X, "Life is too short to be pissed off all the time."

When you have unique moments like these, how can you be pissed off?

Making Sense

Normalcy isn't normal. It's better.

Really? That can't be right. Normal, everyday life being spectacular and special? Why would that be such a celebration? If anything, why should we be so exuberant over our daily, banal routines that only become fun at 5 p.m. on Fridays?

I find myself without a true, definitive answer myself but a certain feeling that I know it's true. Let me see if I can even figure this out.

This summer, my father, a supportive, good dad (who, like all men, have their own faults), suggested I read a book titled Not Fade Away by Peter Barton. Before Mitch Albom's Tuesdays with Morrie and Randy Pausch's heart wrenching swan song The Last Lecture, Barton wrote his story right before succumbing to stomach cancer at 51, leaving his wife and three young children behind.

I won't give away the entire book or spend hundreds of words reviewing it, but the message is clear; there is a simple, intrinsic beauty in the everyday world.  There is so much we can achieve, appreciate, and understand if we just pay attention once in a while and look around our surroundings.

Now, I'm not, in any circumstance, talking about the narcissistic, self-serving motto of "living life to the fullest" with "no regrets" that so many people possess today.

Or am I?

Well, kind of. I guess what I'm trying to say is that with the right outlook on life and motives and just passion, we really can pack in so much into our daily lives. That ferocity of taking calcuated (but not dumb!) risks and truly working towards something we feel strongly about makes that supposedly mundane so special, and makes your overall life that much worth living.

That's how Peter Barton was able to die content and happy at 51 years old.  That's how Randy Pausch was able to do the same at 47.

That's how you and I can do the same, too.