I think there are two types of people in this world:
People who run marathons, and people who do not.
I do not think you actually have to run or have run a marathon to be the type of person to run a marathon. You simply have to be the type who believes in the possibility of going the distance. You must have stamina; endurance; a belief in things greater than yourself. You must have faith.
This isn’t to say that non-marathoners do not have any of the above, but they maybe don’t have the fearless willingness to perform bodily functions in public, or the ironheaded drive to undertake the relentless and single-minded pursuit of a piece of tacky jewellery.
I am a marathoner. I am unafraid of peeing in public. In fact, that once almost got me arrested in Scotland.
With all that in mind (the marathoning, not the peeing), I’ve had a spate of bad days, and I’ve discovered that there are 2 ways to address these sorts of things:
1) Accept a bad day on its face;
2) Accept a bad day on its face; then go out and run out the ick with sub-8 minute miles down First Avenue and up on to the Bridge; run hill repeats up and over the Queensboro Bridge; vomit extravagantly off the top and into the East River from the effort; go home and celebrate with Kasey, Strand and a bottle of prosecco before going out to dinner still covered in salt and without having changed out out of running clothes.
Admittedly, it was my first *real* run-puke. And there was something special about the fact that it was because of the sub-8s; something magical about it being at the top of the Bridge.
That I have just described vomiting off the side of the Queensboro Bridge as “magical” should probably tell you Quite A Lot about me. That I have admitted to using prosecco as a “recovery drink” should probably tell you Quite A Lot more.
But the running is a journey; the mileage is an adventure. These hills are here for a reason, and I am going to attack them. I am going to give them my all; I am going to conquer them; I will take them on hard and fast and wholeheartedly — even if it means barfing at the top, through a chain-link fence, into the river below.