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.