Beyond the shoes, and the early mornings, and the dew soaked grass lies something transcendent of sport. It is the humidity that dampens one’s shirt before they have exceeded their anaerobic threshold.
All of these lie deep within the history of the distance runner. He is unlearned in staying in. For he knows not what failure is. He drives himself the back door of his dorm, when the tenants recover. He runs the trails behind his townhouse when no one knows, and even he can’t see where he’s going. He runs through the unknown darkness of cities to ring bells as if he were in Jerusalem. When he has been devoid of sleep, hydration, nourishment and even a good friend, he knows he must carry on the struggle.
The very root of distance running is one of continuous effort. And therefore, the most frustrating of endeavors is when this effort is met with cessation, largely attributable to pain.
Compartment syndrome is a monster of wickedness. It heals, and then inflames while you sleep, waiting to make you fall down stairs when you try to get up the following morning.
Through it, I have come to loathe cycling. For my bike now is an instrument that serves as the manifestation of my failures. I try to run, end up walking back, getting back on the damn saddle, only to get off hours later; Wishing my shoes, and not my cleats, were affixed to my wings. I loathe the bike.
I survived six days off. Then ran on Sunday, only to be met with 4 miles of pain-free bliss. Then I slept. And the demons re-surfaced Tuesday. Bastards.
When I say “survived”, I say it earnestly. For what it is not merely the day that makes my life worth living. For without the demarcation from work to play, life is not worth living.
I’ve faced these mignons in both legs twice before, and I now meet them on the road. The proverbial field of battle for the distance runner. For I clad myself in the righteous and noblest of purposes, illuminated by the purest of loves, and driven by the forged steel of my own will.
And time after time, these armaments are overrun the war machine of pain, and agony, but not defeat. For I continue to fight. Not imprudently, but building, strategizing, and organizing my tactics to gain the advantage.
I’ve changed the oil, drained out the impurities, and shifted. I force my body to like it. For when the purest of endeavors cannot be met, alternatives must be sought. So I ride. I swim. I hike. I kayak. All in pursuit of the one endeavor I would choose over all others.
At some point, everyone begins to crack. Their nerves, their emotions, and even their bodies. Yet in these difficult times, in this difficult place, one must work a little harder to bind up the wounds within himself. As they heal, the irony of the press captures a brighter era.
As of late, I find myself featured in the Firm’s quarterly corporate newsletter, as a 4x finisher of the Boston Marathon. The space between the interview lines are hardly verifiable, when the subject can’t run more than 2 miles without his lip quivering.
But the pages of said testimony stand not for the event itself, but what we did to get there.
Beyond the page, and beyond the spectacle of The Boston Marathon, lie the freezing white outs in February. The 4:30AM runs with a United States Marine home on leave, and a best friend. The handshakes of re-found friends, on old fields of endurance combat. And an irrevocable lust for the purest of human mechanics.
I may be breaking, but I’m not broken.
