How to Train For and Run a Marathon Poorly, Part VI:
Two is One; One is None
(It’s unbelievable that I’ve managed to stretch this story into SIX parts, but then again, have you met me?)
We’d finally finished the marathon, after months of training. After crossing the finish line, we hobbled over to the Prius and drove back to the resort to assess the damage. I had mysteriously achieved another purple toenail after 6 hours on the road and looked like the “BEFORE” picture in a pet adoption ad. I’ve never smelled an odor as bad as the post-marathon funk of Heather and I in that Prius (sorry, Avis!) or good as that post-marathon motel soap. We popped some champagne, fixed another charcuterie, sat out on our patio by the big trees and talked over the race. I can’t explain how it felt, other than to say, it felt really, really cool. Our grins were two-tiered.
We were HUNGRY. After running almost 6 hours, I’m not going to insist on a lettuce wrap and lemon water on principle. Our resort had a small bar that served nothing but beer and fried foods. We annihilated that menu and ordered everything: the fried appetizer sampler, fried fish, fried mozzarella, fried chicken fingers, fried mushrooms, fried shrimp, fried calamari, fried fries, etc. with not one twinge of regret. I’d have fried an old shoe and eaten it, at that point. With fried midget pickles and a fried mustard chaser.
I don’t know how to explain the pain that follows a run of that distance. I’m certain the Kenyans and certain Olympians find this “a Tuesday.” But, oh my giddy aunt. We could not walk. We could only creak and shuffle, bent over. Things crackled. Other things ached. Something burned. Blinking hurt. THINKING HURT.
Trying to sit on the toilet seat was the most painful and ignominious effort to pee since my own toddler potty-training.
“Can't I just stand in the parking lot and let the pee trickle down my leg?” I moaned to Heather.
We are chewing on the idea of running another marathon the year I turn 50. If that’s going to happen, I need to start training, like, tomorrow. Marathons don’t run themselves, you know.
