Getting "right" with the marathon
An errand today took me past the finish line of the Big Sur Marathon. The welcoming tents are going up, the Big Sur flags are waving in the breeze. I hadn't planned it, but I took the turn south on Highway 1. The highway mileage sign on the side of the road says Big Sur 26(.2) miles. For some reason it made me remember a scene from one of my favorite movies.
Ray Kinsella and his wife are enjoying an evening picnic on the lush outfield of their baseball field. Kinsella gets up, and gazing off at something in the distance says wistfully, "I have just created something totally illogical. ... Am I completely nuts?" His wife joins him at his side. "Not completely," she says. "It's a good baseball field Ray."
I am about to do something completely nuts, attempt to run 26.2 miles for no real good reason. Maybe that's why I felt at that moment when I made the turn down Highway 1, I needed to get "right" with the marathon.
The final miles through the Carmel Highlands are the worst. At that point last year my toes were battered and blackened, there were stabbing pains going through my kidneys each time I attempted to run, and I was quite nearly overwhelmed with a feeling of failure, not just in the race, but in my life. As I've written before, my spirits were picked up by the man who hugged me at one of the last aid stations and told me "everything is going to be alright," as well as the runner in the last two miles who patiently listened to me complain and then moved past - on the back of his shirt it said "No whining allowed." A good kick in the pants for me.
As I drove down and back through the Highlands on Wednesday, one thing kept echoing through my brain, "this is doable." The hills, which a year ago had seemed like cruel stepsisters of Hurricane Point, seemed, through sober eyes, more like swells, things I am strong enough (through training) to ride out. The descents, though steep, won't have to beat me up as much if I stay disciplined and maintain my form (don't brake by hitting toes first, don't lean back. My mantra, lean forward, roll the feet through, work with it, not against it). Even the final "da minor hill at da major time" seemed achievable, similar hills at similarly tough times I've conquered (better word, survived) in my training runs.
The last two weeks, the question I'm most asked by friends and co-workers has gone from "how's the training going?" to "are you ready?" I haven't had a straight answer for them, but today, visualizing myself through those final miles - just, I don't know, getting right with it - I feel a whole lot closer to saying, "Yeah, I'm ready."
I'm sitting at the finish line Sunday of the Big Sur Marathon, leaning against one of the big dumpsters sipping a beer. "I've just done something completely illogical," I say to my wife. "Am I completely nuts?" She picks up the cue, knowing I've watched that movie about a thousand times, going through a box of tissue each time. "Not completely," she says. "You ran a good race Dave."
Ray Kinsella and his wife are enjoying an evening picnic on the lush outfield of their baseball field. Kinsella gets up, and gazing off at something in the distance says wistfully, "I have just created something totally illogical. ... Am I completely nuts?" His wife joins him at his side. "Not completely," she says. "It's a good baseball field Ray."
I am about to do something completely nuts, attempt to run 26.2 miles for no real good reason. Maybe that's why I felt at that moment when I made the turn down Highway 1, I needed to get "right" with the marathon.
The final miles through the Carmel Highlands are the worst. At that point last year my toes were battered and blackened, there were stabbing pains going through my kidneys each time I attempted to run, and I was quite nearly overwhelmed with a feeling of failure, not just in the race, but in my life. As I've written before, my spirits were picked up by the man who hugged me at one of the last aid stations and told me "everything is going to be alright," as well as the runner in the last two miles who patiently listened to me complain and then moved past - on the back of his shirt it said "No whining allowed." A good kick in the pants for me.
As I drove down and back through the Highlands on Wednesday, one thing kept echoing through my brain, "this is doable." The hills, which a year ago had seemed like cruel stepsisters of Hurricane Point, seemed, through sober eyes, more like swells, things I am strong enough (through training) to ride out. The descents, though steep, won't have to beat me up as much if I stay disciplined and maintain my form (don't brake by hitting toes first, don't lean back. My mantra, lean forward, roll the feet through, work with it, not against it). Even the final "da minor hill at da major time" seemed achievable, similar hills at similarly tough times I've conquered (better word, survived) in my training runs.
The last two weeks, the question I'm most asked by friends and co-workers has gone from "how's the training going?" to "are you ready?" I haven't had a straight answer for them, but today, visualizing myself through those final miles - just, I don't know, getting right with it - I feel a whole lot closer to saying, "Yeah, I'm ready."
I'm sitting at the finish line Sunday of the Big Sur Marathon, leaning against one of the big dumpsters sipping a beer. "I've just done something completely illogical," I say to my wife. "Am I completely nuts?" She picks up the cue, knowing I've watched that movie about a thousand times, going through a box of tissue each time. "Not completely," she says. "You ran a good race Dave."
posted by dave kellogg at 12:56 PM
1 Comments:
Have a terrific run Dave! I wish I could be up there with you (though I expect I'd be quite a ways behind you). Unfortunately, I had to pull my entry after a bad ankle sprain a few weeks ago.
May the Taiko drummers carry you right up Hurricane Point!
Barb
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