The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Plodder

I was a day to remember. On Sunday, a record 97 million North Americans watched Eli Manning and the New York Giants pull off a stunning Super Bowl upset over the heavily favored New England Patriots. Manning was selected the game’s MVP and was given the keys to a Cadillac Escalade, a hybrid no less.

On that same day, no one watched as I ran the first annual Surf City Half Marathon in Huntington Beach, California in the midst of a howling wind and driving rain. Well, not no one. Some guy standing in the puddle next to me while we waited for the starter’s gun, our teeth chattering, turned and said: “Good luck, Bud.”

“Save the best for last,” I said. Which he did. I noticed he ran by me with about a half a mile to go. He wasn’t the only one who ran by me. I finished in 2 hours and 33 minutes, 5800th and something in a field of 8000 and something. To give you an idea of how slow and unremarkable that is, the guy who won the marathon, which is exactly twice as long as the half, ran it in exactly the same time, which means he ran twice as fast as I did.

At the end of the race, some kid with steamed up glasses handed me a medal shaped like a surf board and a free banana. Eat your heart out, Eli Manning.

Ain’t it funny how the world works? I was almost as happy as Eli Manning after my day as he was after his…and I can guarantee I was happier than anyone associated with the New England Patriots, who weren’t far behind Coach Bill Belichick as he tried to escape the stadium before the game was over. Talk about unsportsmanlike conduct.

It’s really about expectations. In the pro sports cult of the NFL, only one game matters, the Super Bowl. It’s so important, each year’s number is chiseled in Roman numerals, which, for most people, is the only time they ever have to work out what XLII means.

At the end of the day, only one team matters, and that’s the winner. It doesn’t matter how well the other team played through the 18 games required to qualify for the Super Bowl, and no one played better than the Patriots, who went undefeated until Sunday, when somehow, despite being 12 point favorites, they lost. In front of 97 million people.

So there is no joy in Beantown; Mighty Bill has struck out. Meanwhile, Eli Manning and his crew are the toast of America, the kings of New York City. Must feel pretty good.

Back at the finish line of the Surf City Marathon, the winners just kept on coming. Back in the pack where I was, everyone ran his or her own personal race just as hard and as fast as they could go. One guy had a picture on the back of his t-shirt, a younger version of himself, with the caption: “For the Fat Kid in All of Us.” A woman ran in front of me with two words written on her vest in felt pen: For Mom.”

A couple of times, as the course doubled back on itself, we could see the walkers at the end of the pack, striding purposefully toward the finish line. Frankly, some of those people were so fat, I would have been surprised to see them make it from the couch to the fridge and back again. But they were walking 13.1 miles! And when they walked across the finish line, some kid would hand them a medal and a free banana. I bet that banana tasted better than a Cadillac, which tends to taste a little metallic with overtones of Castrol.

I had some time to think when I was out there in the wind and the rain. I couldn’t listen to music—it was so wet, my ears were plugged with water and I couldn’t hear the tunes on my Ipod. So I put it away, and listened to people shout encouragement at each other and the applause of a few brave spectators (no doubt loved ones) along the route.

Here’s what I thought. Mick Jagger was right. You can’t always get what you want, because maybe you want too much, or you’ll only be satisfied with one thing, or what you what doesn’t exist or is illegal. In other words, your expectations are unrealistic. There’s a lot of that going around. That’s what makes spectators out of 97 million people. They know they can’t get anywhere near the Super Bowl, so they watch Eli Manning have the time of his life, which is not quite the same as actually having the times of their lives.

Meanwhile, there were 14,000 runners out there Sunday who could get what they wanted, because their goals were real. They had to go through the wind and the rain and the agony of the feet to get there, but when they did, victory was theirs. This is a scenario played out all over North America – for that matter, all over the world – every weekend. Hundreds of thousands are winning their own private races: runners, triathletes, skiers, climbers, bikers, hikers, wheelchair athletes…the list of weekend warriors goes on. These people get going and keep going when no one else cares.

All that matters is that they care, very much.

I care. Because I’m Back: this is my first race after a long recovery from a couple of injuries, and there have been times I wondered if I’d every feel the thrill of crossing the finish line again. And there I was Sunday, arms in the air, a finisher. I have the banana to prove it.

I care because despite my dreadful time, I had a negative split, which meant I was stronger in the second half of the race than in the first half. I know I ran a smart race – for the first 7 miles, everyone passed me; for the last 7, I passed everyone, which is how you want it to go. I can build on that – I’ll be in better shape next time, and my goal is to break two hours. See how easy it is? I don’t have to win the Super Bowl; I have to break two hours.

I care because on Sunday, even though my posse stayed in their nice warm beds, I was not alone. I had 14,000 friends, every one of us sharing the experience. Nobody expected the keys to the Escalade at the end. Most were happy to line up, even after running 13 miles, for free beer.

I care because as I stood at the start line shivering, I was inspired by the young woman next to me who smiled and shrugged and said, “It’s only water.”

I care because every mile along the race, hundreds of soggy volunteers passed out water and energy drinks and encouragement, and they weren’t running to stay warm.

I care because waiting to take us back to our cars were the school buses, driven by people who drive every day of the week but were glad to come out on Sunday and help because they love the little miracle that transforms all these plodders into champs.

I care because “super” can mean the exact opposite of overhyped, commercialized gladiatorial combat for cash. It can mean what’s deep inside the fat kid, waiting to emerge like the sun, as he runs in the rain.