Goals

Chicago Marathon, October 11th, 2009, just before 9:30 AM. I'm in South Chicago, moving along at a 7:15 per mile pace. After two-and-a-half hours of racing, I've covered 22 miles. There are four more to go. Though it's barely forty degrees, I'm quite warm. Sweat pours out of me, creating a crust of salt around my neck and on my shorts. My legs are aching, victims of miles of unrelenting pounding. My stomach shut down a half-hour ago; my fuel tank is emptying with each passing step, and lactic acid building up in my overstressed muscles. Slowing down is not an option. In the next thirty minutes, one of two things will happen: I will cross the finish line or I will physically fall apart.

Believe it or not, I'd worked quite hare to get to this very unpleasant spot. Years ago, I'd set a goal of qualifying for the Boston Marathon. To do this, I need to run a 26.2-mile marathon in three hours and ten minutes, a pace that puts you in the top two percent of all those who take on the distance. It seemed to me that making this mark would mean that I'd really become a runner. No one qualifies for Boston on a whim. At the time, going to Boston might have well been going to the moon; I was too heavy and couldn't run a single mile at the pace I'd need to make for the 26.2 miles of the race. To call this a long term goal would be understatement.

Three years pass. I make a plan to improve my diet, my sleep habits and my training schedule. More importantly, I follow this plan- not exactly, but pretty closely. I begin racing, gradually increasing the distances I tackle. Forty pounds of excess weight come off. Most importantly, I train everyday, adapting my body to the same stresses I will feel in my attempt to qualify.

Finally, after four marathons of steady improvement, I judged myself ready to make a legitimate attempt to qualify. I make another plan for the final push. I select a race that best suits my requirements and devote 10 months to race-specific training. I will compete in only one race. In ten months of preparation, I run 2,100 miles.

People say that you can do anything you set your mind to. This is partially true. Indeed, few things of significance are accomplished without the mental ability to push yourself to the absolute end of your limits. The first 22 miles of racing has shown me I can do that.

With four miles to go, however, that doesn't mean shit. In that ragged edge where biology meets force of will, how bad you want it won't make your legs turn over any faster. At this point, your success or failure has been decided. The base has been laid, the hay's in the barn - pick your metaphor. People talk about the race as if that's it; no one mentions it on early Saturday morning runs.

2,100 miles for two-and-a-half hours of work. Three years for the last 30 minutes.


Unrelated addition: While this may weaken the above message substantially, I am becoming increasingly convinced that dental cleanings are a scam. Having your teeth professionally brushed once or twice a year will somehow prevent cavities arising from 363 days of regular abuse? Seriously?