Over in my Purgatory I have a post that outlined my goals for the year. One major goal was to complete a half-Ironman. Another major goal was to slice my marathon time in half. I accomplished the first. A few weeks from the marathon, I came to the grim realization that accomplishing the second was nowhere within the realm of probability. Possible? Yes. In the furthest realms of theory and imagination, I could run the NYC marathon in under 4, but I had no legitimate reason to believe I would actually do so. At that point, I dropped the idea of a sub-4 marathon as anything but the realm of the supernatural and aimed at a sub-5 marathon. It injured my pride to do so but I thought that was more reasonable. The night before the marathon, I changed my expectations to "I just want to run the whole way this time.", an obvious thrust at the injured Aloha walk I did in Hawaii.
I made none of those goals.
But I took an enormous step forward and can't wait to get back to running. I don't feel the least bit of sadness for not making my goals for a few reasons. First, neither my ilio-tibial band nor my posterior tibialis barked at me the whole race. The calf, hamstring and groin on the other hand, firmly lodged their complaints. Cats and dogs. Big muscles are like dogs. They gripe and whine but if you master them, if you make the situation plain to them, "This is the task I have set for you. I will only expect more from here on out. I will care for you and feed you. Obey me." then they will comply and be your best friend. The tendons and ligaments on the other hand hiss at you and will simply have none of your bossy-ness. Tendons, catty to the extreme, must be coddled and coaxed, and even then, will only come along when the mood comes upon them.
They came along yesterday. And I felt as if they were on my side now. That's huge.
And I finally came to grips that I cannot run marathons much longer with a powerlifter's training regimen and physique. 220 lbs. is just too much to carry that distance. That weight about doubles most pro men. Doubles. I knew this of course, but I played chicken with the truth. I lost. I acknowledge my defeat. Next year, my goal is to drop 40 lbs. or to 5% bodyfat. I'm going to respect running now. I love the activity too much not to.
And that's something else. The love. I'm a man high on love. With what? I can't quite articulate the affect at the moment. The euphoria swells and flows too strongly. I loved yesterday for sure. I remember running... no, flying, I can't recall the footfalls, the strides, I recall the surge of the crowd, the surge in my heart, the strength in my arms pumping powering me down 5th Avenue, I remember flying down the street thinking "I love this." I remember the muscles fibers fraying, tearing, shredding. I remember a cable, taut and angry, pull in my groin, I remember my mind's eye seeing myself collapse to the ground in an elephantine heap a thousand times and I remember a thousand times shouting back at myself "NEVER." I remember thinking that this is not the Half-Ironman. This is a marathon. This is New York City. Respect the moment for what that moment is. I am pushing myself to my very limits. Limit break.
I am in love with overcoming. I lifted my chin higher than I usually do after the race. I had every reason to do so. I conquered myself. And yet, vast tracts of myself remain unbowed to myself. They too will soon become vassal states. I unified spirit and body to a greater extent than I ever had before, yesterday. My ability to visualize and mentally prepare took a massive step forward. And most importantly, I came to a visceral understanding of a theological truth that gave me fits the past few years. God is most glorified when we are most joyous. And what was my run, my ecstasy, my euphoria, my agony and pain, my aufhebung and victory than worship?
I am in love with New York City. This city, this amazing city, this city I love and have always loved, will always love, came out to support me. I saw several signs that day "Hey, I don't know you but I'm so proud of you." "I am cheering for you even though I don't know you!" and many others of a similar type. Bay Ridge, Fort Greene, Park Slope, Williamsburg, God, I love Brooklyn, son or daughter, I want to name my first child Brooklyn, Queens, 1st Avenue, you were wonderful, I hope I made your day just as wonderful, Bronx, Harlem, Central Park, New York, I love you. Your spirit, your energy made this more than a personal benchmark. I brought my iPod, but I never used my earphones once the gun started. I wanted you, your energy, your passion to fill me completely. I sprinted to give out high-fives and receive pats on the head, shoulders, arms, back, and somewhat awkwardly the butt, way too often but I regret none of it. New York, I love you.
So tell me brethren, should I be disappointed that I fail to achieve some benchmark based on an arbitrary hour marking? I feel no disappointment, no regrets. Instead, I know what my final goal is: Ironman World Championships. Am I impossibly far at the moment such that my goal may as well be a dim star on the horizon? Yes. But at the same time, aren't marathons testaments to achievements that have to be earned by putting one foot in front of another? No. In fact, I think getting a sub-4 marathon time this year would be disappointing. I wouldn't deserve it. I haven't earned it. That might make me hate marathons. I'll get that time when I earn it. That's how it should be. I'll realize my dream when I've earned it. That's how that should be.
Now, back to building this dream brick by steady brick.
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