Well, yesterday I entered and finished my first marathon. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone, although if you're willing to prepare better than I did, by all means. I would recommend Riga, however--my second time there, centered around that 42 km slog, was just as good as the first. The city captures all of the rosiness of Eastern Europe without the painful self-consciousness the Russians bring to all things western. The marathon, though, seriously, was a tremendous experience. Tremendously, that is, difficult and fascinating. You see, I was on pace through about 18 miles or so and felt strong as an ox, and then--I don't remember very clearly the moment, but I know it happened--my body simply ran out of calories. Absolutely nothing left in the tank. The effect was almost instantaneous, like being bludgeoned. My longest run ever before this was 17 miles two years ago with Sam Morris at good ol' Davidson College, so everything after that was unexplored territory, and everything after 20 was like running on the moon. That's about how slow I was going as well. At some point early on I realized what a pathetic undertaking the marathon is, from one perspective: I had stopped to take a piss, and as I swerved back on to the course to join all the half-marathoners I thought, as I very well should have: "Okay, get back into the race, settle back into your pace"--as if I were running a mile, you know? A second later I realized that I was running about 7 minute per mile pace--warm-up pace. And that was my goal for the whole thing. When I say pathetic I mean pathos; if I learned anything it's that, if this was hard for me, an eight-year runner, I ought to have the utmost respect for everyone who signs up.
The most interesting game of all was mental. At various points I contemplated giving up running entirely, Thanksgiving feasts, kilometers vs. miles, Kenyans, Moby Dick, everything, like a mad wheel of fortune that kept spinning faster the more my physical functions decelerated. Finally I finished and enjoyed what must be the greatest reward of finishing a marathon: absolute liberation. I felt absolutely free, because I didn't care about anything but sitting down somewhere and eating for a long time. If I had had to vomit, I would have done so right there without a thought of it. If I wanted to stretch, I would sit right down there on the ground and stretch. My legs, of course, are killing me, but I didn't incur any stress fractures, and they ought to be better tomorrow.
I'm coming back to the U.S. in a week. Talk to you all soon.
