Originally published June 1, 2015.
About nine months ago, I had marvelous idea. Just for fun, I would shoot myself repeatedly in both feet, then bludgeon myself in the gut with a mace, and maybe round things off with a good pummeling from a mafia thug. Or to avoid the hassle of finding medieval weaponry and mob enforcers, I’d just run a marathon.
I was going through a period in life where I really needed some kind of personal triumph, and for some reason I thought that inflicting unwarranted pain upon myself would be a good idea. I had done a half marathon before, which had overall been a pleasant experience. Half marathons are probably the best kind of race. They’re long enough that you feel a sense of accomplishment but short enough that you don’t spend the last few miles cursing the parents who dragged you into this cruel existence.
But I wanted to try something a little crazy. And so, in a fit of reckless ambition, I elected to try running a full marathon.
I ran a few other races during the year in preparation. Prior to the marathon itself, the most miserable I’ve ever been came during the 2014 Zion trail Ragnar relay race, during which an unexpected spring shower became an unexpected spring blizzard while most of us were still realizing we were underdressed for the rain. I only managed to finish two of my three legs of the race before the officials called it off and sent out search and rescue for the runners who were still staggering through the snow; I expect that they're still finding the frozen corpses of the stragglers. I also did Bone and Back, a relay near Idaho Falls; a 5K in Puerto Rico, which felt like a 10K due to the humidity; and a half marathon in Pocatello.
Three to four times a week I ran laps around Liberty Park in Salt Lake. Occasionally, I ran a different course that included some hills, but for the most part Liberty Park's predictability and regular access to running water suited me fine. I also appreciated it because no matter how far I ran, I was never more than half a lap away from my car. Three runs a week were four laps each—or about six miles—but my final run every week was a bit longer. At the beginning of the summer, my long runs were only about 7.5 miles, but by the end of August my long runs had reached a torturous 18 miles. If you add up all the laps I completed that from about March to September, subtracting a few laps here and there to account for the days I missed, I figure I did 380 laps around Liberty Park in 2014. This means I achieved a level of intimacy with Liberty Park that is usually only attainable by squirrels and homeless people. Around and around and around I went, usually accompanied by the complete works of Brandon Sanderson on audiobook.
The fateful day of the race dawned. Technically, I suppose, the day dawned at some point during mile 8 or so, because the race started at an hour when sensible people would be blissfully unconscious. I and a bunch of other aspiring masochists shambled onto a bus, which deposited us at the starting line like load of unwanted puppies on the side of the highway.
At the beginning of the race, we are all shivering, clad in our jackets and tights and happy to crowd into a heat tent with a hundred strangers. The race began, and people began to shed layers as the temperature rose. This resulted in a course littered with more discarded clothing than a Hollywood romance movie.
The first pain to manifest itself was an ache in my abdomen, as though my long-removed appendix had come back full of vengeance. My feet soon ached in throbbing harmony with my abdomen, and then my legs and lower back gleefully joined in. Somewhere past the halfway point, my original abdominal pain was eventually subsumed into my body's general agony.
After a while, though I was listening to a favorite audiobook, it made more sense to shut off my brain and retreat into some secluded cavity of my mind, letting reflex govern the incessant thump-thump of my shoes on pavement.
Over the course of the last mile or so, my legs and knees staged a mutiny, threatening to falter unless I acceded to their demands, which basically included resting. But I kept on, mostly because I was pretty sure if I stopped my legs would lock up completely, possibly never to move again.
There is no sweeter sight than the giant blow-up arch that served as the finish line, bobbing gently like inflatable gates to paradise. If there had been luscious maidens waiting there wearing hula skirts and holding plates of barbecued spare ribs, the sight couldn’t have been any more welcome.
For half a week afterward, I hobbled on stiff legs that never quite forgave me for putting them through that ordeal. Most of my toenails turned black and fell off. A pain in my abdomen re-emerged every time I ran for the next few months.
But do I regret running? Of course not. Because while you’re still running a marathon, your body feels sorta like this.
But when you’re done, you feel a bit more like this:
