The Quest Continued

...So my girlfriend told me she was going for a second lap. As I considered the implications of this absurd statement, she ran on ahead, while I stood incredulous with my hands on my hips. Being the the competitive person that I am I couldn't just stand there and let her show me up, so I ran on. I eventually caught back up, but by that point, the cold was really getting to me. My skin was almost as cold as the air and my core was beginning to cool down. By the time I finished the second lap I was pretty exhausted, and spent the rest of the day feeling sick, with hot spells and chills. I think I had a mild case of hypothermia.

To that point, this was the longest I had ever run in one go, and my foolishness for attempting such a distance having not run in months, with improper clothing, only reinforced my dislike for long distance running. My dad had once run the Boston marathon before it was a race where you had to be a fast runner to qualify--sometimes he'd ask me if I ever wanted to run one, and I had whole heartedly rejected the idea my whole life. It seemed pointless. I knew I could do it if I had to--I could rip out three sets of 20 pull ups--a lot fewer people could do that than run a marathon, I thought. A couple months later, my girlfriend registered for the Twin Cities marathon. I just shook my and kept hitting the weight room.

Over the summer while she was training for the marathon, I ran with her fairly often, but never anything longer than seven miles. I wasn't lifting any more, and my upper body was starting to slim down a bit. When the marathon day came, I took out my bike and followed the runners from about mile four to the finish. I had never watched a long distance race before; I was struck by the courage and determination of the runners, and also the huge amount of supporters that lined both sides of the course. I suddenly felt extremely stupid coasting along on my bike, while the runners struggled onward, because I knew I would rather be among them.

The next year, I was among them, and for a good part of the race, I wished I wasn't. I did everything you're supposed to do training for your first marathon. Worked up with short distances to longer ones. Ran a half marathon, and at least ten runs over 12 miles. I even did one run of 21 miles before race day. Then, two weeks before the race, I sprained my ankle--a fluke accident while playing disc golf. I had broken the ankle before, had problems with it ever since, sometimes spraining it four times in a single year, but it hadn't happened for at least a couple years till then. As the pain throbbed in my ankle I cried out in pain, but not because of the pain caused by my ankle. Heck, when I broke it I didn't even make a sound. I cried out because I knew all the training I had done was for nothing. That once again, I'd be coasting along on the sidelines...