getting through, so I decided to take off my hat, which I had on to keep the sun off me. I’d worn the
hat to keep my head warm, too, in case it rained, but at this point it didn’t look like it was going to. It
was neither too hot nor too cold, ideal conditions for long-distance running. I washed down two nutrition-
gel packs, took in some water, and ate some bread and butter and a cookie. I carefully did some
stretching on the grass and sprayed my calves with an anti-inflammatory. I washed my face, got rid of
the sweat and dirt, and used the restroom.
I must have rested about ten minutes or so, but never sat down once. If I sat down, I felt, I’d never
be able to get up and start running again.
“Are you okay?” I was asked.“I’m okay,” I answered simply. That’s all I could say.After drinking water and stretching, I set out on the road again. Now it was just run and run until the
finish line. As soon as I set off again, though, I realized something was wrong. My leg muscles had
tightened up like a piece of old, hard rubber. I still had lots of stamina, and my breathing was regular,
but my legs had a mind of their own. I had plenty of desire to run, but my legs had their own opinion
about this.
I gave up on my disobedient legs and started focusing on my upper body. I swung my arms wide as
I ran, making my upper body swing, transmitting the momentum to my lower body. Using that
momentum, I was able to push my legs forward (after the race, though, my wrists were swollen).
Naturally, you can only go at a snail’s pace running like this, in a form not much different from a fast
walk. But ever so slowly, as if it dawned on them again what their job was, or perhaps as if they’d
resigned themselves to fate, my leg muscles began to perform normally and I was able to run pretty
much the way I usually run. Thankfully.
Even though my legs were working now, the thirteen miles from the thirty-four-mile rest stop to the
forty-seventh mile were excruciating. I felt like a piece of beef being run, slowly, through a meat
grinder. I had the will to go ahead, but now my whole body was rebelling. It felt like a car trying to go
up a slope with the parking brake on. My body felt like it was falling apart and would soon come
completely undone. Out of oil, the bolts coming loose, the wrong cogs in gear, I was rapidly slowing
down as one runner after another passed me. A tiny old lady around seventy or so passed me and
shouted out, “Hang in there!” Man alive. What was going to happen the rest of the way? There were
still twenty-five miles to go.
As I ran, different parts of my body, one after another, began to hurt. First my right thigh hurt like
crazy, then that pain migrated over to my right knee, then to my left thigh, and on and on. All the parts
of my body had their chance to take center stage and scream out their complaints. They screamed,
complained, yelled in distress, and warned me that they weren’t going to take it anymore. For them,
running sixty miles was an unknown experience, and each body part had its own excuse. I understood
completely, but all I wanted them to do was be quiet and keep on running. Like Danton or Robespierre
eloquently attempting to persuade the dissatisfied and rebellious Revolutionary Tribunal, I tried to
talk each body part into showing a little cooperation. Encouraged them, clung to them, flattered them,
scolded them, tried to buck them up. It’s just a little farther, guys. You can’t give up on me now. But if