How a disappointing marathon gave me a little perspective

Months of training only resulted in a decent run and I’m fine with that. I think.

Along with 6,426 other people who enjoy feeling miserable, I recently ran the 2014 Portland Marathon. It was my third full marathon. While it wasn’t a failure, I didn’t like how I finished and didn’t feel like I had any fight left in me for the worst part, which for me is usually everything after mile 19. To be fair, I knew I hadn’t trained the way I intended and didn’t expect a PR. Life and fatigue got in the way of the extra little things (there are so many extra little things in running) that might have helped me power through to the end rather than shuffle. But, still, I wasn’t happy with my time. To be clear, my time was nothing to be embarrassed about, it just wasn’t what I thought I was capable of based on the effort I put in.

This third race was different though, not only because I performed worse than my second race (after improving noticeably between the first and second) but also because I realized it was OK to have a bad run. I got a lot more comfortable with the fact that not every run will be great— even the runs that come after months of training. In the end it was one day, a great day in fact, just not the one I had pictured. I left Portland with some observations that while admittedly running-related, could apply to any endeavor.

It’s about the journey. Really.

The training program for a marathon requires somewhere on the order of 18 weeks of preparation. 18 weeks to get ready for an event that will last a few hours. That’s a beautiful thing, but it’s also ridiculous. For most people, those 18 weeks are comprised of runs squeezed into the early morning or late evening to accommodate days filled with stuff like work and life. Those weeks also include many early Sunday runs during which one sweats away a decent chunk of a weekend while sucking down energy gel and being tortured by the aroma of bacon wafting out of normal people’s kitchens.

There are runs when you have a weird pain in your foot or your knee or your hip. There are runs when you just want to be home with a cup of coffee or a beer (or one right after the other). Runs that just never feel right and never get any better. And there are runs when nothing hurts and everything works. Training is a process, a journey with ups and downs, so you have to try and enjoy the ride because, honestly, it pretty much takes over your life.

I’ve learned to love the process and the preparation. I find it immensely satisfying to check off each run on my training schedule—in fact my wife makes fun of my commitment to that ritual. But each crossed-out run represents something accomplished, represents sweat and effort and getting out there. I love the particular exhaustion you can only get from a long weekend run. I love the feeling of building strength and surprising myself by constantly changing the definition of what seems “too hard.” The point is to work on something every day, slowly and steadily, mile by mile, until your body is ready. That’s not to say I never have a run that I want to fast forward through or just give up on. Or that I never think, “Why am I doing this to myself on a Sunday morning?” I get sick of having to consider what I eat before a run and it can be annoying when the calculation around every social outing or event has to include a slot for “my run.” And let’s not romanticize this thing too much. Marathon running isn’t for everybody and I sympathize with those who would rather have a tooth pulled than train for one. Ultimately, though, I’ve learned to enjoy the experience of training far more than I enjoy race day.

Be present and embrace the crazy.

Race day, of course, is one day, and like any other day, it could be a bad one. So you have to try to enjoy what you’re a part of, even if you’re struggling. My dad likes to remind me that the hardest part of a marathon is not the race itself, but just getting to the starting line uninjured. If you’ve made it there, then just be there. Even if you think you might barf, try to enjoy the spectators’ crazy signs and the fact that a bunch of people have lined the streets to encourage you because they know it’s hard and because they respect the effort. A marathon is a crazy, stupid idea. But it’s also a beautiful celebration of achievement, of doing something hard, of the fact that we humans are actually pretty tough.

So many things can go wrong and some definitely will.

There’s a seemingly endless list of things that can just plain go wrong with a run. Runners know that it can be hard to figure out the cause of a bad run or race—to understand why you’re ten miles into a twenty mile training run that you thought you were prepared for, wondering if you have the juice to make it back home. Maybe you didn’t fuel up enough. Maybe you ate too much fat, or not enough. Maybe it was hydration. Or not enough sleep. Or you slept fine but you just had a really stressful week. Maybe you overexerted yourself the day before. Or you spent too much time sitting.

While it’s possible to limit those variables, eventually you get comfortable with their existence and embrace the fact that some things won’t work out. In Portland, I was determined to avoid some issues I had with under-hydration in the past. So I drank too much water, a realization that conveniently dawned on me as the starting gun went off, and I consequently lost time making a pit stop a few miles in. I never really get side stiches anymore—but I sure got them in Portland. To minimize variables, I brought the energy gels I trained with for four months instead of gambling with what was provided at the aid stations. The gel, which had worked fine on countless Sunday mornings, made my stomach cramp every time I “ate” some. You can only do so much. Some things aren’t going to work out. In fact, some things will suck pretty bad. So give it hell and let the rest happen.

Disappointment is relative—there’s always somebody faster.

While any marathon experience that doesn’t include a visit to a medical tent should be considered a victory, I still wasn’t happy when I finished Portland. I lost just enough time towards the race’s end that I kept wondering if maybe I would have done great if only I’d stopped less frequently along the way, or if I’d only had the grit to push through the last few miles just a few seconds faster. But as I was walking back to our hotel, I passed under a bridge over which hundreds of runners were still shuffling (and in some cases, sprinting) through their last brutal miles. I’m sure many of them would have been overjoyed to have finished with my time, some of them likely trained as hard as I did, if not harder, and were dealing with their own disappointment.

That’s the thing that running won’t let you forget: there is always somebody faster than you. There is always somebody who trained harder or who has more natural ability. There’s always somebody who doesn’t look like they should be able to beat you but who just did. But you’re usually faster, better prepared or more mentally tough than at least one other runner too. Somebody’s always having a worse race day than you, medical tent or not.

Give yourself some damn credit every now and then.

I’m trying to remind myself that, no matter how far off those big yellow numbers at the marathon’s end were from the goal I had in my head, I still crossed that finish line. And even if I’d been injured and had been unable to finish, I still showed up. I put the work in and gave it hell. I plan to keep doing this running thing until I can’t anymore, so there will be more races. For now, I’ll take these lessons and get ready to cross out the first of many runs on a new, unmarked training plan.