I was just reading a strikingly optimistic post from exactly six months ago, written as I became comfortable with half marathon distance. I wrote about how liberating it was to discover the power of pacing, the malleable quality of limits and the luxurious experience of sprinting to a finish line because you’ve got energy left in reserve. This all feels a bit naive in retrospect since I discovered that the physical and psychological load of running seems to change dramatically once you push past the threshold of fourteen to fifteen miles.
I thought back in March you could push yourself indefinitely if you pace it. Whereas now I know what it feels like when my legs will just not move any more, no matter what I tell them to do. I thought back in March that the temptation to stop was something you could overcome through force of will, whereas now I’ve experienced the point at which it feels like your nervous system forces you to stop because continuing no longer feels physically possible. I thought back in March that a long run was always going to be invigorating, whereas now I know what it feels like to be so profoundly exhausted that I can barely think for the rest of the day, let alone move around and do stuff.
I’m just about physically ready. I’m confident I’m psychologically ready. But that has meant a healthy dose of fear as I’ve come to understand that this first marathon is likely going to be one of the most difficult experiences of my life, at least in the final stages. I’m absolutely certain this is going to be something I will continue to do for as long as I’m physically capable of doing it. But I now understand there’s an element of darkness in it which I just hadn’t made contact with when I wrote that cheerful post six months ago.
So let me take this medicine
To quench my love for violent things
Mark Carrigan 