"I ran a marathon," I spoke to the guy sitting opposite me on the train home from work. He didn't look up from his magazine, a publication about vintage cars that from the pace of his page-turning he was not reading beyond the caption with the photos. "Hm," was all he could muster. "It was my first. I finished it. I did it." He looked up briefly, then turned to the magazine again. "I'm not into that stuff," he said. I let him be.
The conversation never happened. I made it up while sitting on the train. The guy was there, as was the magazine. But I never spoke. I only thought the conversation. Why? Because, I guess, ultimately running and completing an effort like this one is a very personal experience. To the point of being lonely. Not transferable, not shareable. Mine, only mine.
Here is a feeble attempt anyway: it was great and it was hell. The atmosphere in Amsterdam was superb, the facilities excellent, the organisation impeccable (and the hospitality of Wilfred and Saskia before and after made it even better). I ran the first 10k without checking my watch, on feeling only, and found later that I was on schedule for an end time of 4 hours flat. Continued at that pace for another 10, enjoying the ambiance tremendously, feeling very, very good.
But at around 18k, just before crossing the bridge over the Amstel river in Ouderkerk, my left ankle started hurting. The pain increased gradually. From 22k onward I had to walk bits in between running. A bit later my left shoulder started hurting too. That was expected (I had the same problem during the longer trainings already), but it added to my woe. And then, fatigue hit me as well.
My recollection of the bit between 25k and 35k is not a happy one. Eventually, I ended up walking more than I ran, and feeling increasingly frustrated. I knew one thing for sure: I was going to finish the darn thing. But other than that, I kept adjusting the projected end time in the wrong direction. I can still do 4h15, I thought. Then, later, if I push on 4h30 will still be possible. Then I drifted to 4h40.
Does it matter? The answer, of course, is No. What matters is that I finished. I completed a marathon! I made good on the promise to myself to finish a marathon before turning 50! I need to change the title of my blog! All of that matters more than the pain, the stiffness, the hangover of being disappointed with my 4h 32m 49s. I mean, how many people can say they've done this?
The last bit was quite emotional. I needed to call upon all my powers for the final kilometers. In an effort to take my mind away from the agony, I thought about other people who had done great things. Soon, my father came to mind, and particularly how he had endured horrible pain during the final stages of his illness but never complained. There, then, coming out of the Vondelpark and turning into the direction of the Olympic Stadium, I missed him more than I had done in a long time. I got close to crying, so close that I had to stop running again as I could not breathe properly. He would have enjoyed being there and seeing me finish so so much...
I ran into the Stadium (ah, the relief!) and across the finish line. A bit further I leant over a fence to catch my breath. A woman, finishing just after me, did the same thing. After a minute or so, I heard her sobbing and when I was ready to walk again and collect my medal, I tapped her on the shoulder and walked passed her. She looked up, but in the wrong direction. I'm sure, though, that she understood what I meant to say. "You have done it! You have every reason to be very, very proud of yourself!"
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