All You Have To Do Is Start

I’m going to try to explain what it’s like to run a marathon, but I can pretty much guarantee that you won’t take pleasure in it. That is because the effort it takes to go the distance of 26.2 miles is excruciating. As far as that sounds in your head, it is even further under your feet.
I’ve done the math on this and can tell you that, boiled down, running a marathon is as simplistic as putting one foot in front of the other, and then repeating that motion about 35,000 times in rapid fashion (depending on your stride length). So why then is something so basic so difficult? I can’t answer that. The very nature of the question requires some semblance of levelheaded clarity and I’m not convinced anyone who attempts to run a marathon has that.
Being that I was one of the 380 crazy people who crossed the Ocean Drive Marathon’s finish line, you’d think I would have a better gauge on what it all amounts to. Indeed, this was the second time I’ve partaken in one of these feats of madness; therefore, I should have some insight into the overall experience. Shouldn’t I?
All the emotions I felt while running from Cape May to Sea Isle City March 29 do not translate well into words, only because I can’t quite harness the memories either. It all went by as a fast blur in a slow burn. As I try to recall what went through my mind those four hours and 38 minutes of my life, I can remember a host of distorted images of serene Cape May County beaches, rolling bridges connecting cities, patient boardwalks waiting on summer’s guests, and a sprinkling of race volunteers and well-wishers here and there, all sporadically jarred by the ever-present harsh breath of brisk winds and a running, persistent mantra in my head: You’re doing fine. You’re doing fine. You’re doing fine.
For the first 14 miles or so, I believe I was doing fine. Most runners who train well can do well, up until a certain point. For me, my training began way back, just before Thanksgiving. During Week One (of 18), the race was so far off I couldn’t even spot it in that current year’s calendar, but still, I could visualize the finish line as if it were right in front of me.
Training in and of itself can be exhausting, exhilarating, debilitating and life-affirming all at once. Throughout this arduous process, if you don’t injure yourself, you slowly begin to realize, through a series of satisfying personal achievements, that those initial doubts you once harbored were conquerable after all. In choosing to spit in the face of doubt and clamber toward your goal, the weeks go on and the mileage you put in goes up and up, and that little engine that could is chugging along inside you. And then the grueling long runs begin.
My only peeve with the Ocean Drive Marathon is that it is held in late March. I can understand the timing of the race from an organizer’s (and county’s) perspective, as any later date runs the risk of overlapping with tourist season. However, from a runner’s point of view, training during the dead of winter has the potential to crush your confident spirit. Thank God for Under Armor. That’s all I have to say.
On a handful of frigid winter weekends, I was out there, running 12 miles through the zoo and on the bike path, 16 miles from Court House to Stone Harbor to Avalon and back, 18 miles through the back streets of Dennisville and Clermont, and the dreaded 20 miler run from Cape May through Wildwoods and on… and on. That last one was the run that floored me. The crosswinds being as brutal as they were that morning forced me to stop and I wound up walking five miles home on legs that no longer wanted to move after 15 miles of running. You know you’ve lost your mind when you run 15 miles and feel like you’ve failed because you couldn’t suck it up for the 20. Who thinks like that? Runners.
It’s a mind game. That’s all it is. Early in the training, I had music to accompany me but three quarters of the way through, I opted to lose the headphones and keep to my thoughts and the sweet nature that surrounded me. In hindsight, I can’t be sure what I was thinking during those long periods of solitude. I suppose I was randomly passing over moments of my life, being thankful for what I’ve experienced so far, and eager for what’s to come.
What came was the big day and as I passed Mile 14, Herald Editor Al Campbell took my picture and I felt like a superstar. My pace was perfect and everything was going exactly as planned. Two miles later I started to slow and began to wonder how anyone could run an entire marathon and … dear Lord, how would I?
By Mile 19, I was beginning to break down and one of the few remaining inspirations keeping me going was the knowledge that my beautiful bride Holli would be waiting with a smile and encouragement soon. At Mile 21, there she was, cheering for me, despite the fact that I must have looked pretty sad, sloppily shuffling along the streets of Avalon, barely staying the course. With a rejuvenated heart, I pushed onward, knowing quitting was not an option and thinking there was a lesson in here somewhere that I could share with our (as yet) unborn child, someday. “I love you, baby.”
With less than five miles to go, I carried on. Mostly alone. Running is an individual’s sport and you are reminded of that the hard way when the pack thins dramatically in that final, long stretch. It was like a ghost town heading into Sea Isle City and despite my decreasing, depressingly slow pace, the mile markers kept magically increasing and eventually, at long last, I turned a final corner and spotted the finish – a lonnng way down the boardwalk. I trudged along, going a little faster now as the end was so near. And somehow, some way, by some miracle, it was done and someone handed me a medal, and people were applauding and everyone seemed happy around me… but I wasn’t there.
Holli was next to me, telling me there was food in the tent and we should go there; but all I knew was one word: sit. I just had to sit. There was a bench nearby and there I sat and composed myself. She was talking and telling me nice things, but I was only truly aware of my breathing. I was breathing. And it was painful and glorious and whatever slim shadow of energy I had left was spent holding back tears of joy. I was sitting and breathing and alive.
Eventually, we got up and I hobbled to the food tent and I ingested some chicken noodle soup and a chocolate chip cookie my wonderful wife had baked for me. Wrapped in that post-marathon space blanket they give you, I began the slow, weeklong recovery process.
If you’ve ever asked yourself, “I wonder if I have what it takes to run a marathon.” The answer is yes. If you have legs underneath you that can carry you from point A to point B, you have what it takes. All you need is the right mentality to train, to build your momentum, stamina, and tolerance for pain.
Everything about running a marathon is mental. Look at me. I’m no athlete and I ran one. It was easy. Just put one foot in front of the other. Keep moving forward. Just like life. Run toward your goal. Whatever your goal may be. All you have to do is start.
Follow Bryon Cahill on Twitter @shakabry.