Nickerblog
Jan 20, 2012
13.1
As I ran through the starting gate, I took inventory. Shoes felt good. The new shorts with spandex liner felt snug and secure in all the right spots. The iPhone on my arm was tight, with no obvious chafing points. The white, stock iPhone headphones probably weren't the best choice for a long run, but I could live with the jostling cord, I decided. Breathing was good. Air was cool. Knees felt pretty strong. I looked ahead at the pack of other fools running for fun, and tried not to think of them as competition. The urge to catch all of them was strong, but I maintained a steady, comfortable pace. Long road ahead. The adrenaline gave way to resolve, although nagging doubt seeped in and I began to wonder how I would do this for 13.1 miles. A half-marathon with very little long run training. I focused on a point in the road two steps ahead of me and let Travis Barker and DJ/AM drown out doubt with their music. One mile at a time. One breath at a time. One goal at a time.
It's not usually fun for me while it's happening. Half of running is having faith that the way it feels when it's over will make it all worth it. As I passed the first mile marker on Venice Boulevard, I settled into a rhythm that I hoped I could sustain for 12.1 more miles. I breathed. I drowned out doubt with a mantra:
"This guy is better. This guy is better. This guy is better. This guy is better."
Is he? Even the mantra requires faith.
Better than I was last year. Better than drinking every night. Better than being late to everything. Better than finding excuses not to be active. Better than being a fat dad. Better than resenting my own laziness. Better than wishing I was healthy. Better than ignoring problems. Better than eating crap. Better than dampening emotions with a vaporizer. Better than coasting through days. This guy is better. This life is better. It's a daily exercise in faith, and each run parallels my daily struggle with self-doubt and too much indulgence.
Mile two, three, four whisked past me, and I knew I would make it. At mile five, supporters and cheerleaders and music and a last look at the streets of Marina before a long stretch of beach. I ran faster, and I struggled with my iPhone strapped on my shoulder to take a picture of the moment. It was one of the magical moments during a run that you know you will remember. The breeze hits your face and your lungs fill up and you smile and enjoy the feeling, for perhaps only a minute. I fumbled my phone out of the armband and clicked a photo as I ran. Mile five. 8.1 to go.
Lots of times, stopping would be easier. The temptation to quit becomes intoxicating, and the thought must be nipped early before it begins to threaten the peace that comes from a steady heartbeat of footsteps against the ground. One step at a time. One mile at a time. One goal at a time.
I ran past a sewage treatment facility in El Segundo, and tore the top off a packet of GU. The jolt of carbohydrates and the small percentage of caffeine gave me just enough spark to round the corner for the last three miles of the race. I passed mile 10, again scrambling to wrest my phone from its spot on my shoulder, and snapped a photo of the mile I dreamed of passing for most of the race. From here, a mere 5k.
The last 3.1 miles were mostly downhill. Doubt gave way to relief, and though I was averaging a sluggish 9:45 mile, I felt like an Olympic athlete. I crossed the finish line, dreaming of the Michelob Ultra tent on the other side; realizing again that our goals can merely be things we decide to accomplish, and temporarily replacing my "This Guy is Better" mantra with an updated, post 13.1 mantra:
"Earn Your Beer."
I did. I will. This guy is better.
