Why the marathon?

Yesterday someone bluntly asked why I love running when I’m obviously so bad at it.

I cracked up.

I’ve always been bad at it. Fred Lebow once shook his head in exasperation and declared that if I ever broke four hours in New York (elevating me to the high altitude status of “average”), he was going to have me drug-tested. I worked hard for years to earn his demand that I pee in a cup. But it never happened.

I’ve never been good enough to finish in average time. Not then. Not now. Possibly not ever.

So why cling so ferociously to the marathon when I know I might never finish with a respectable time?

Simple. Not all the gifts of the marathon are measured in time.

The marathon, whether you break the tape or drag in at dusk, is generous. The gift at the finish line is clear knowledge that quitting was never an option. This isn’t something you can learn with your intellect. It has to be delivered to your soul through decision. When pain, exhaustion, hunger, thirst, cold, and fear take hold of you (maybe around mile 20) and everything in you tells you to hail a cab, the marathon teaches you to dig down and find the will to take the next step … and the next … and the next … all the way to Central Park. When you tap into that wellspring of resolve, it stays tapped forever and translates into all aspects of your life. Once you’ve crossed the finish line of the marathon, you become a formidable human in every way. It doesn’t matter where in the pack you finish. It matters only that you do.

There are other gifts. I’ll tell you about them someday. But this morning, I wanted to begin to answer the question, “Why?”

Why, indeed.