The muted satisfaction of kind of reaching a goal

This is and isn't about running.

***

I ran a marathon a little more than a month ago. Actually, scratch that. I completed a marathon. There's quite a difference between the two. 

I'd resisted it for almost two decades. I've run ever since tenth grade when I went out for my high school cross country team. (Given my average athleticism and slight build, I wasn't going to make any other team at my high school.) I was a mediocre runner, staying firmly on the junior varsity squad for the next three years. To give a sense of my place on the team, the coach described me this way during the end-of-year banquet when I was a senior: "Wilson — he brought a lot of people to practice." 

I did not enjoy cross country at the time, and I'm not quite sure why I stuck with it. I did, though, and one of the hidden benefits is that I ended up enjoying recreational distance running. It's kept me in reasonable shape and somewhat sane for more than 20 years. 

But races did a number on me. I'd throw up after every meet. I'm still not sure why, but I think it has to do with the weird way in which I'm competitive. That is, it's pointed almost entirely inward. I don't get upset about things like winning at board games or pickup soccer, but once I set a personal goal, I really, really like to meet it — to a sometimes unhealthy extent.

After my final high school meet in November 1999,  I didn't run in any sort of race for more than a decade — and even then, it was a Thanksgiving turkey trot where a good chunk of the field ran in a costume.

***

This time last year, I was having a rough go of it. Some trends you might recognize. Plans and projects I crafted were going sideways. I felt caught in a cycle of reaction. It was hard to see solutions.

During the holiday break last year, I needed some positive momentum. Something long-term and within my control to reach. Something that would force me out of a rut. 

Running for an hour or so at a time, especially in cold weather, is oddly therapeutic. It forces my attention on the here and now and clears out mental space. It's the next best thing to sleep in terms of making me feel better. Setting the goal of running a marathon provided the motivation necessary to consistently get out of bed early and get a few miles in. (Well, mostly consistent.)

I originally wanted to run a marathon at the end of May 2018 as a way to mark the end of the school year. That didn't work out because I forgot that May is a crazy month for educators and I was super tired. 

Then the brutal Nashville summer set in. If I didn't get up by 5 a.m., it would soon be too hot to run any sort of distance. So I got out of bed...most days. 

Then we had a baby girl in July. 

I ended up delaying the marathon until early November. It was a small one in downtown and East Nashville, appropriately called the Nashville Marathon. (Not to be confused with the massive marathon in Nashville held in late April. Many still call that one the Country Music Marathon, though it's now known as the St. Jude Rock 'n Roll Country Music Marathon. It's the one with band stages along the route and tens of thousands of runners.)

***

The mileage is the intimidating thing about a marathon, but what really separates it from shorter races is "the wall". It's what happens 20 or so miles in when all of the glycogen is gone from your muscles and your body transitions to burning fat. Glycogen burns faster than fat, so it creates an unusual physiological effect. The upshot is that a bunch of unpleasant stuff happens at that point. The most common is sudden exhaustion, though cramps or other muscle pains can occur, too. 

The wall is one reason training for a marathon is weird and hard. In most races, you train at the distance you plan to run. Quite a bit more, actually. But repeatedly running 26.2 miles (or beyond) will take too much of a physical toll, so most training guides max out at a run of 20 to 21 miles a couple weeks ahead of the marathon. 

I wasn't able to block out enough time to run more than 17 miles at a time before the race. Nevertheless, I figured that at worst, I'd just be extra exhausted at the end, but I could gut my way through it. 

Ha ha ha. 

What actually happened to me during the race was a typical story: felt OK for most of the race, then some leg muscles began tightening. I paused and stretched. I felt better for a bit, then the pain started, especially around my left knee. Running through mild tightness or tiredness is the part of distance running; your muscles adjust over time. Discomfort comes with the territory. 

It didn't help that the temperature at the start was a few degrees below freezing and didn't warm up until a few hours later.

So a cascade of problems started in my left leg. It felt like a boa constrictor slowly choking my knee with pain. It increased until I worried I would tear something. I stopped to walk. The pain subsided after a couple hundred yards, so I started jogging again. Thus began a cycle of pain/walk/jog/pain in ever-shorter intervals. My walking breaks were longer and longer. 

At this point in the race, I was geographically as far as the course would take me from the finish line (and my car). I wasn't carrying a cell phone and N was at home with the kids. Short of having a volunteer call an ambulance, the only way I was getting back to my car was on my own two legs. 

So for the last six or so miles, I walked. After about two miles, the weather and lactic acid buildup in my muscles caused a steady diet of pain. Not so much that I couldn't walk, but enough to make each step unpleasant. I kept thinking of the saying: "The only way out is through."

I managed to run the last quarter-mile and cross the finish line. My vanity — what was left of it — demanded it.

***

I write this because I don't think my experience is unique when it comes to goal-setting. That is, we often reach a version of a goal. There's the end and it's not quite what you thought it would be. 

Now my knee has mostly healed and I'm considering running another one. In a lot of ways, I feel like I had to run one in order to understand the scale of the challenge. Like many things — marriage, raising children, careers — it's impossible to understand or appreciate the challenges and rewards until one is neck-deep in it.