I ran my first marathon one week before turning 50. My friends and family see a direct relationship between these 2 factors—I remain unconvinced.
I am a slow runner and usually (the operative word here–usually) I am okay with this state of being. It is not a life philosophy, merely, a physical reality. At least, I can run the distance—I lived in Boston and joined the carefree marathon spectator party each year. It was Patriot’s Day after all- a state holiday! I never imagined that I could or would run it. This year, my distance friends and I decide: It’s time to run Boston.
I would have to maintain my current marathon pace until 65 years of age in order to qualify. Highly unlikely. So, in the midst of a worldwide financial crisis, the severity of which has not been evidenced in decades, Jean and I decide to run Boston. For charity (The Cystic Fibrosis Foundation). $3,000 must be collected. A piece. By the end of April. Or our credit cards will be charged. Bloody brilliant!
Contributions come in dribs and drabs. The utter humiliation of soliciting a donation is tempered by the prospect of paying the entire amount. People that I would never have considered asking to contribute in January, have received my please donate entreaty by March. I find myself rifling though dusty, old work and school phone books. How far can I dig? How low can I go?
I’ve learned something during each marathon. Philadelphia Marathon 2007: I have the fortitude to finish a marathon. And this awful secret: middle-aged woman don’t lose that much weight during marathon training. The gods must be crazy!
Vermont Marathon 2008 (mile 20): Technology fails, bring a back up ipod. Philadelphia Marathon 2008: The Bermuda triangle of marathoning exits at mile 17. And it resides in my brain. It is the soul killer that attempts to drown out any remaining good marathon karma. It screams, “Come on, just slow down.”
This year I am planning for that moment.
