It’s almost universally accepted that there is no part of our planet that we don’t know about. Humans have already walked on the moon and have peered into the enormities of the human genome. Small electronic devices do not need to be switched to the off position before takeoff anymore.
Basically, what I’m saying is that my completion of a half-marathon won’t be an accomplishment for human civilization. A 13-mile jog through Downtown Denver on a Sunday morning is relatively commonplace — despite the enormous medal draped around my neck at the end — and represents no significant milestone of achievement that would require a celebration. It hardly deserves brunch at the end.
And yet, like anyone else will tell you who has completed any kind of grueling race like this, it doesn’t feel that way. At the end, it doesn’t feel like you’ve spent the last two hours pounding pavement; it’s closer to two lifetimes. The very name of the race, “half marathon” suggests that something is left undone.
“You could run a half marathon tomorrow,” I say to anyone who’s becoming a runner. As if becoming one of the thundering herd of tank tops willing to part ways with a $100 or so and two hours of their day isn’t really an accomplishment. “Anyone could do it.”
So I decided to put into practice what I dismissively preach. Can I run a half-marathon in the figurative sense “tomorrow?” (To be fair, I signed up for the Denver Rock ‘N Roll half marathon about a week before race time. And my entry fee was waved by the good people at race-sponsor Mazda because stupidity invites spectators.) I had run approximately zero miles to prepare and my pre-race meal the night before was remarkably normal. No carb loading. No pre-emptive hydrating. No cleansing. No idea what would happen.
There are many runners who will say this is remarkably stupid and I’m among one of them. Yes, I can run a half-marathon tomorrow, but no, I shouldn’t. Running for any stretch of time, I’ve learned, is slow-motion torture. Joints are abused, muscles are stretched and dehydrated, and my mind wanders further and further into active insanity as miles roll by. It’s possible that others feel the same way about their running routines, but I won’t know because I’m just too scared to tell anyone else what goes through my mind when I run.
Training for a half marathon includes a slow buildup to the full distance, incremental improvements in length and time to assure the body and mind is sound for a two-hour physical and mental drain. Smart runners even taper before the run to get their bodies “hungry” for the distance. At times in the last year I’ve run 13 miles or more, but only after weeks of small increases in distance. I’ve almost immediately stopped every time because although I enjoy running and being outdoors, but I don’t enjoy being a big man with sore joints at the end of the morning. I’ve refined my stride to minimize impact over the years, but like a bulldozer driving down the street to get groceries, I’m fully aware that there are better vehicles suited for this type of travel.
I don’t mean to make excuses, rather to outline the inherently absurd plan I laid out for myself. To prove that a perfectly average human could run long distance with little to no preparation, I would offer my own body as a study. To risk limbs in a selfish plan to prove myself right isn’t noble, it’s downright dangerous. Let’s get started.
Corrals. Traffic. Waiting and jostling for restrooms.
Anyone who’s ever ran in organized events can tell you that pre-race is the only thing keeping them from running events every day. As I make my way to the corral with two-hour runners like myself (an ambitious guesstimate considering my relative laziness) it’s clearly an equal mix of seasoned runners and relative newcomers to the race. There is genuine anticipation that the 13 miles will be some sort of reaffirming life event from the newbies — evidenced by the nervous anxiety in their faces — and grizzled vets just want to get out of traffic and away from the excessive energy. I figure I’m probably an impediment to both, a selfish experimenter figuring that everyone’s joy at the end of the race is misguided: “Anyone can do that.”
I prefer to listen to the sounds of runners footsteps on the pavement, but I’m not brave enough to run without music. The regular footsteps and breathing are like drumbeats, pounding your pace into a rhythm, which is crucial for any race. But like I do when I’m consistently running at home, I plug in to tune out: soul music — an equal mix of steady beats and interesting vocals to concentrate on anything other than the punishment I’m putting my body through.
My mind wanders to create milestones and scenarios to the finish: If I can make it to mile 3 without any issues, I can make it to mile 5. If I can make it to mile 5, I can make it to halfway. And if I can make it past halfway, it’s all downhill from there.
Each mile along the way, my phone updates me with my relatively slow pace piped in through my earphones through a female voice that sounds unexcited about anything: “Nine … minutes … per .. mile.” My pace is a flimsy construct that I’ve concocted the night before with approximately no idea where my body or muscles would take me. Imagine making a family budget without knowing if there’s $1 or $1 million in the bank. I knew my moment of truth would happen along the way, and I know what that moment feels like too.
It’s the first wall — the moment your mind has figured your body has depleted it’s actual resources and it begins to rationalize hopping of course and calling a cab. (The second wall is when muscles actually depletes their resources and bodies begin collapsing.) The slow and steady march up Broadway toward 14th Avenue, around mile 10.5 is where my moment of truth happened.
Doubt crept in as I reassessed my selfish endeavor: “No one cares that you did this.” Normally, a times like these, I usually agree. Very often I don’t even care that I’ve completed a task; I’m not setting a world-record time; I’m not overcoming significant physical challenges to run 13 miles — I’m merely overcoming recent laziness. No one else cares that I’ve run the whole way today — but now I care.
And my view of the experience changes from there. I’m fully aware that humans have scaled mountains before, but I’m not those humans. I have my own mountains to climb and this run was a way of scaling that.
You can climb a mountain tomorrow too. I’d just suggest getting some work in to prevent being sore the next day.