26.2 pain




An American won a fucking marathon! An American.

That’s like a grapefruit winning a knitting contest. Maybe it can be done, but…

I was there, too. I finished 109th. 3 hours and 19 minutes. Pretty dern slow for me, but it was humid and my training spotty and the hills came for me like propaganda and pulled drapes of razors.

Will I ever run a fast marathon again? Who knows?

Interesting race. Chaos. Costumes. Country music. I thought I would run faster as I ran AWAY from the country music, but I suppose not. Some guy from “Biggest Loser” sang the national anthem. We were off!



(Dude next to me is running barefoot. This is an insurrection in running. It scares the hell out of Nike. This book is one of its bibles.)




Miles 22-26 in a marathon. It may be why people run the race. Or will never run the race. You are in a different world, some odd planet. You float but in a sheen of blue/orange/some glow. You are on a drug, but like no other drug. You are in a tunnel but you see more. You are alone but somehow connected to the winds, to the cloud formations, to the bird sitting on the wire. Hello bird. You feel like an alien now, a strange race, or possibly you have shed everything and you simply feel human. Human. How it was meant to be. All of this contained in a crucible of pain.

A lot of people fall. I mean stumble. Strapped into stretchers. This is miles 22-26. People falling into stretchers. Sirens…

There were storms! Severe weather. Over 2500 runners didn’t even get to finish the race!

The race apologized.

Some of them even ran alone around the parking lot. Finishing their very own marathon, in the lightning and rain. I call that Steel. And I get it. You come this far, you train, you set this goal. You want to finish the damn thing.

Did anyone hear about the princess who ran a recent marathon as a 34 person caterpillar?



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