At the start line I followed the pace leader with the 3 hours 45 minutes placard. I was sure I could
definitely make that time. That might have been a mistake. Looking back on it, I should have followed
the three-hour-and-fifty-five-minute pace leader, and picked up the pace later, and only if I was sure I
could handle it. That sort of sensible approach was probably what I needed. But something else was
pushing me on: You practiced as hard as you could in all that heat, didn’t you? If you can’t make this
time, then what’s the point? You’re a man, aren’t you? Start acting like one! This voice whispered in
my ear, just like the voices of the cunning cat and fox that tempted Pinocchio on his way to school. Up
until not too long ago a time of three hours and forty-five minutes had been, for me, just business as
usual.
Up to mile sixteen I was able to keep up with the pace leader, but after that it was impossible. It was
hard to admit this to myself, but gradually my legs wouldn’t move, so my speed started to fall off. The
3 hours 50 minutes banner passed me by. This was the worst possible scenario. No matter what, I
couldn’t let the four-hour pace leader pass me. After I crossed the Madison Avenue Bridge and started
down the wide, straight path from Uptown to Central Park, I began to feel a little better and had a faint
hope that I was getting back on track, but this was short lived, for right when I entered Central Park
and was facing the infamous gradual slope, I started getting a cramp in my right calf. It wasn’t so
awful that I had to stop, but the pain forced me to run at nearly a walking pace. The crowd around me
kept urging me on, shouting, “Go! Go!,” and I wanted nothing more than to keep on running, but I
couldn’t control my legs anymore.
So in the end I missed the four-hour mark by just a little. I did complete the run, after a fashion,
which means I maintained my record of completing every marathon I’ve been in (a total of twenty-
four now). I was able to do the bare minimum, but it was a frustrating result after all my hard training
and meticulous planning. It felt like a remnant of a dark cloud had wormed its way into my stomach.
No matter what, I couldn’t accept this. I’d trained so hard, so why did I get cramps? I’m not trying to
argue that all effort is fairly rewarded, but if there is a God in heaven, was it asking too much to let me
glimpse a sign? Was it too much to expect a little kindness?
About a half year later, in April 2006, I ran the Boston Marathon. As a rule I run only one marathon
a year, but since the New York City Marathon left such a bad taste in my mouth I decided to give it
another try. This time, though, I intentionally, and drastically, reduced the amount of training I did.
Training hard for New York hadn’t helped much. Maybe I’d done too much training. This time I didn’t
set a schedule, but instead just ran a bit more than usual every day, keeping my mind clear of abstruse
thoughts, doing only what I felt like. I tried to have a casual attitude. It’s only a marathon, I told
myself. I decided to just go with this and see what happened.
This was my seventh time running the Boston Marathon, so I knew the course well—how many
slopes there were, what all the curves were like—not that this guaranteed I’d do a good job.
So, you’re asking, what was the result?My time wasn’t much different from New York. Having learned my lesson there, I’d tried my best
to keep things under control during the first half of the Boston race, maintaining my pace, holding
some energy in reserve. I enjoyed running, watching the scenery go by, waiting for the point where I
felt I could pick it up a notch. But that point never came. From mile twenty to mile twenty-two, the