We’re still a story without an end, though the denouement
is close…
I’ve been following Sweder’s
forum diary with self-flagellatory envy. We have marathons
booked for the same day, April 9; his in Paris, mine in Zurich. I
suspect that the two tales, when they eventually appear, will exhibit
markedly different endings. The string of hard-fought, non-stop, hilly
20 milers he can proudly pack for the journey will be more than enough
to see him through. I’m sure he’ll get the return his painful
investments merit.
My story isn’t so impressive or as reassuring, but I’ve strewn enough
gloom on this path already, and will resist the temptation to rake
through it again. We’ll soon know just how short I was on preparation;
further speculation is pointless. The fact is that partly through bad
luck, partly bad planning, and partly a disruptive work schedule, the
middle stretch of my training hasn’t matched the pre-Almeria promise.
I’ve got just over 2 weeks left before the race. Not long enough to
salvage the missed training and the failed long runs, but enough to try
to ‘get my head right’ for the race, or at least better than it has
been, and is at the moment. Maybe I can think my way towards hitting
the modest goal I’ve set myself. As I’ve mentioned ad nauseam,
the race has a 5 hour cut-off. Won’t sound much to most, but to me it’s
an Alpine mountain; a benchmark I’ve not reached in my 4 previous
marathons. To add a fistful of spice, if I’m behind the required pace
at any point in the race, I’ll be forced to leave the course. If that’s
what happens, so be it. To paraphrase Winston Churchill, it’s not the
end, or even the beginning of the end, but it will be the end of the
beginning. If I don’t hit this target, I’ll have to rethink this entire
running lark. At worst, I’ll hang up my hairy, manly marathon shoes and
stick to giggly girlie half marathons or wailing kiddie 10Ks.
I don’t think I’d be able to stop running, There are too many mysteries
to explore. The central, head-scratching paradox was never better
illustrated than by two of this week’s outings. On Sunday, another
unsatisfying, stop-start 18 miles. Cold, lonesome and, to be frank,
boring. This was a plod undertaken from duty, and from a sense of
fear… a fear of nothing more than not
doing it. I came away wondering what the point of it all might be.
Then early this morning, two days into spring, scattering rabbits on a
sunlit, rural English track. In my headphones, some early, uncluttered
James Taylor. For a few minutes I was running on that stupendous edge,
high above and far beyond my physical location. This was the joy that
has no name. A point of both confluence and separation, like a
partition wall that connects two lives yet keeps them apart. It’s the
point where a runner’s yin and yang meet; the fragile ribbon that
divides all that has been, from all that is yet to come; all that could
have been, from all that could yet be. The sale
that determines profit and loss; success and failure. I was astride the
barrier between my Zurich medal and that seat on the sweeper bus. For
those few minutes, high above questions about training plans and
hydration strategy, I could see it all, with clarity. That brief period
was the mirror that showed both sides of the coin, simultaneously.
Anything and everything was suddenly truly possible, and it must remain
so.
My plan is to write nothing more until after Zurich. I love this
distraction, but it is just that — a distraction. Sometimes I wonder
if the enforced navel-gazing is a contortion inadvisable for marathon
running. It’s my last chance to get this right, and I have to try to
take it.
Next time I’ll see this page will be in the days following the race. I
suspect there’ll be a beer by my side and a distant look in my eye.
Most important, there will be a story to tell. Who knows how it will
end, but I have to believe that it’s still in my power to choose. I
don’t want to be the passive historian, just recording what happened.
I’m the storyteller, the creator of the tale, so I have to be able to
decide the ending I want on the day.
If I can convince myself that I have that power, I may yet have a
chance.
