If you've been following so far, you already know I would never have self-applied such a term. I wasn't an athlete. I laughed at the idea. It was preposterous. There's your big brain word for "fucking insane" to think that I was an athlete. Keyboard commando. That's what I was. I read books, and I worked on my computer, and I played video games. These things could all be done in air-conditioned comfort and - more importantly to me - while snacking. If you've been following, then you know we left off with my first ever 5K finish and my desire to run a half marathon.
What the hell happened?
People talk about runner's high. I'd love to say it was that, but it wasn't. I've never felt runner's high in my life. My time spent running is largely consumed by a mental calculation of exactly how fucking long I have to keep slamming my feet off the pavement before I get the reward. A banana. A cookie. A beer. A medal. A protein stick. A bottle of water and electrolytes. Whatever that thing is that waits for me. I don't love running. I love being done running. And that makes it even more confusing that I would sign myself up to increase the distance and the duration of the run. But there was something about that moment at the finish line of the 5K, shoving an under-ripe banana in my mouth with my first ever finisher medal hanging from my neck that poked my brain. Dopamine is a hell of a drug, and as it happens I make equally absurd decisions while swimming in my own neurotransmitters as I do when I've saturated my brain in alcohol. So, I became a runner. I was now an athlete. I spent the summer consistently running 5K several times a week and went on to my next event: The Color Run.
More running, more dopamine. This time I had gone to the event with friends and learned that even in an individual sport like running, I felt like being part of a team. We ran at different paces, we finished at different times, but we were there together. I was among my people. Finally, I enjoyed something about running other than being done. The weight loss continued and I kept running. I started increasing my distances a bit. It was fall 2016, and I found a friend who was willing to run the 10 mile relay with me. I started to get some confidence about the half marathon, and I registered for it. Ever the nerd, I got myself an app that had a training program for a half marathon. That was it. I had become a runner, an athlete. One of those insufferable assholes who sent memes about running to my friends.
And you can guess what happened right after I posed with another finisher medal. Yep. I very excitedly declared that next year, I'd run the fucking marathon.
The marathon
Lots of people know the legend of the marathon. In 490 BC, Pheidippides ran from Marathon to Athens to deliver news of the victory in battle, a distance of about 25 miles, which led to the modern day marathon race. Turns out the legend is a mash up of actual events that's not really how it happened. Pheidippides did indeed go on a heroic run - of 140 miles - to ask Sparta for aid to the Greeks in battle against the Persians. The Athenians then marched the 25 miles back from their victory in battle to see the Persians depart from Athens, thus completing their victory. But as it happens, the wrong legend stuck, and with a little fudging of the distance, the 26.2 mile foot race debuted in 1896 at the Olympics. Since then, millions of people all over the world have taken on the challenge. In May of 2018, only two years after the first time I ever ran a mile, I joined the millions and stood in the starting corral of the Pittsburgh Marathon with two of my running friends. I had stopped showing up at events alone. In the rain and cold I slogged out 26.2 miles, the last 8 of which I ran side-by-side with my friend. It was slow going. But I had done it. I was told that no one goes from unable to run one mile to marathon in two years. Well, I'm not just anyone. I'm a marathoner.
