In two weeks I will be participating in my 3rd consecutive Chicago Marathon. Notice that I said “participate”. When you finish a race 3 times slower than the winner its hard to use the word running. Running might be the right verb, but it certainly can’t be used as an adjective for my activity. Running, jogging, even speed walking are not very accurate terms to describe my “participation”, however the last two years I have received both a finishers medal and recognition as an official finisher of the Chicago Marathon.. Meaning I crossed the finish line before they turned on the street lights.
To give you an accurate visual image if we condensed this race to a mile, four laps around your typical high school track, when the winner crosses the finish line I would still have over 2 ½ laps to go.
Throughout the race friends and family cheer for you and wave banners with your name. Strangers, enter your life and spur you to the finish. You pass through communities that could represent most any aspect of your life. I love the Chicago Marathon and I think it a great analogy for life. So here is the Chicago Marathon scaled as if it took 80 years to finish.
Start line is obviously year zero. After months of preparation by the hosts and months of maturing and growing by the “runners”, after acquiring the proper clothing, paying entry fees, and even a medical form to fill out, the day of the race comes. The race starts with lots of fan fare and excitement; The first mile is about getting your feet under you, learning first to avoid tripping over stuff in your path, learning to play well with others, learning to run in the herd. This first year can be traumatic, there are often painful accidents. But everybody, family, friends, strangers, and co-runners want nothing more than your success. “Look at me, mom, I can run and drink Gatorade at the same time!” I grin and wave at the crowd.
About the 3 mile marker would be my teenage years, 10 foot tall and bullet proof, life is easy. Running with the crowd is energizing and exciting. I like the loud music, the adrenaline rush. I am not focused on running but on the sights and sounds. I am tempted to experiment with my stride; to run different than I was taught, to be a rebel. There are some real live clowns running in my pack.
Start line is obviously year zero. After months of preparation by the hosts and months of maturing and growing by the “runners”, after acquiring the proper clothing, paying entry fees, and even a medical form to fill out, the day of the race comes. The race starts with lots of fan fare and excitement; The first mile is about getting your feet under you, learning first to avoid tripping over stuff in your path, learning to play well with others, learning to run in the herd. This first year can be traumatic, there are often painful accidents. But everybody, family, friends, strangers, and co-runners want nothing more than your success. “Look at me, mom, I can run and drink Gatorade at the same time!” I grin and wave at the crowd.
About the 3 mile marker would be my teenage years, 10 foot tall and bullet proof, life is easy. Running with the crowd is energizing and exciting. I like the loud music, the adrenaline rush. I am not focused on running but on the sights and sounds. I am tempted to experiment with my stride; to run different than I was taught, to be a rebel. There are some real live clowns running in my pack.
7.25 miles I am 22 years old and still feeling pretty good, but the crowd has thinned of runners as everyone has their own race to run, their own life. My latest friends are some I picked up along the way, those with the same likes and dislikes, same philosophy, same pace in life, and of course DeAnn and I spotted each other about ¾ of a mile back at an aid station.
13.1 is halfway into this journey, at 40 years I realize this thing is a little more difficult than I thought. Wish I had prepared more, worked harder, and later. I could have had bigger success if I had applied myself. I look around and most of those I ran with earlier are gone, some are way ahead having lots of success, a few are behind, I really am running on my own now. I begin to realize most of those cheering in the crowd are not cheering for me. I take two aspirin not feeling as good as I did at mile 3.
Mile marker 18, I am 55. My stubbornness serves me well here, aches and pains really set in, back hurts, knees don’t work like they used to, if I wanted I couldn’t bend over and believe me I don’t want to. Some of my best friends and family who were running this race have already quit, permanently, that darkens my soul. Wish the port a potties were more abundant and closer together. Don’t remember my heart beating so hard. My true fans are here, all family, some of them are grandkids, they will be off and running their own race all too soon. Wonder if they will run this race someday. Is it too soon to take more aspirin?
Just a little beyond mile marker 21 I turn 65, Now there are lots of questions; should I be taking it easier for this final leg?, need to start slowing down? I hope I saved enough for the finish. Maybe I could wait till the next mile marker to slow down. Wish mom and dad were here to see this. Wonder where the kids are in this race. Are they doing Ok? Wonder if DeAnn and I will finish close together we have been stride for stride since the 6 ½ mile mark.
75 years less than 2 miles to go, did I do things right?, think I did the best I could. Really hoping to see some family or friends in this stretch but both are scarce, valued but very scarce. Hey, where are the crowds? I don’t want to finish alone! I move on only out of habit. Did I take Aspirin at that last aid station, I really don’t remember.
At 77 ½ years there is only a ½ mile left, seems exciting all of the sudden, crowds begin to gather to see the finish, some familiar faces in the crowd but I don’t see well through the fog on my glasses. The race is finishing much like it started lots of people and many of them strangers cheering me on, while I avoid tripping and falling. Part of this last leg is uphill, steeper than any incline than I can remember, it’s tough, it would be easy to give up now.
80 at the finish I am exhausted, tired, hurting, and ready for a rest. A stranger, a volunteer places something around my neck, another wraps me with a blanket to prevent me from being cold, another offers me some food. I am so tired I can’t even say thank you. Yet, I know I would do it all again if I was given the chance. Now where is that beer?
Oh that 1st place finisher he finished 52 years ago.
David
