Retrospectives on races

Two weeks ago I was in a very small hotel room in Chicago, fighting a cold and cursing not-so-softly under my breath about the curious temperature spike that had the city-dwellers shucking their coats and frolicking in short-sleeved shirts. I was nervous as all hell and trying really hard to summon up the excitement that I usually feel before a road race. I didn't sleep well the night before, I could hardly breathe through my nose, and nothing seemed to put down the awful fear that I had trained for six months and would not be able to finish this race. I set out all of my stuff - shoes, socks, shorts, shirt, sunscreen, hat, sunglasses, gu, race bib, bodyglide, slept like absolute crap, and awoke at the crack of dawn with my friend Robin, who promised not to leave my side for the whole race. I ate some cereal and a clif bar and we made our way to the starting line at 6:30am, along with 38,000+ other runners. Richard went off to the seeded start corrals (read: speedy people) and Rob and I went to the open start where we could chill, stretch, and I could contemplate my almost-certain demise over the next 26.2 miles.

I'm not used to preparing for something this long and being so incredibly fearful about the outcome. My other road races were daunting, to be sure, but somehow that word "marathon" inspires a whole new level of fear, reverence, awe and straight-up madness. There are people who put "running a marathon" on their bucket list, and here am I, at the age of 30, crossing that off the list and putting another marathon ON the list. Did I finish? Of course I did. Robin kept her promise and, despite a minor emotional meltdown at mile 23 that had me in tears, we had a pretty good time. The route was fun and flat and shady for the first 17 miles, and then the last 9 were in full sun and I wished for death almost continuously. Yet we had fun. I have two weeks' distance from that race and I feel no regret. Did it hurt like hell? Yes. Did I have blisters? Oddly, no. Why am I training for another one? Why not? I've heard marathoners say, "the pain is temporary, the pride (or glory) is forever." I'm inclined to agree with them.

So to all of the nay-sayers who continue to tell me that I'm a crackhead or that I'm nuts or crazy or suicidal for keeping on with this running thing, I say this to them:

When I exorcise my crazy, I do it in public with thousands of other people and, when it's over, someone puts a medal around my neck. What does your crazy get you?