I’m asking you to donate $22 for my birthday to save lives by providing clean water. If we raise $5,000 by the end of the year, I’ll run a marathon (and you’ll get a shout out on my shirt).
On November 22, I turn 22, but this year, I’m giving up my birthday.
No gifts. No cards. No cakes, pies, or presents. Continue reading
When you run 26.2 miles, expect to be sore the next day.
And the day after that. And the day after that.
It takes everything out of you. Mentally, physically, emotionally–you are drained.
Photo Provided by jard_jard: http://www.sxc.hu/profile/jard_jard
But it’s all worth it. The feeling of a crash after you achieve what you set out to do makes the finish line that much sweeter.
Any time you push yourself beyond your limits, stretch passed what people say you can do, dig down so deep and spend every ounce of energy you have, you’re gonna be sore. It wouldn’t be right if you felt like it never happened the next day.
The soreness is a reminder of your achievement. When you stay up all night to finish the perfect paper, when you sacrifice your time, energy and lunch breaks to create a a project that knocks the socks right off of your teacher or employer, the after effects will rage on long after you’ve run the race.
When you chase a dream or pursue a passion, and give up everything for it, don’t expect the road to be easy, and certainly don’t expect the pain and the sacrifice to end once you finish.
Embrace the soreness. Understand that great pain comes after great achievement. Push yourself until you can’t feel your legs, and give all you’ve got so that the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that…you’ll still be feeling the reward of a job well done.
I made a huge mistake when I ran my marathon.
Experienced marathoners warned me about it. They said I would have problems. I didn’t listen, I figured they didn’t know me well enough to give me their two cents.
Spoiler Alert: I was wrong.
The mistake I made? I didn’t train hard enough.
I didn’t put in enough miles. I didn’t run at a fast enough pace. I slacked in the last month between the holidays because I couldn’t step away from the turkey and ham long enough to put in some real mileage.
And it killed me.
I struggled through the last ten miles. I was hurting. The soreness was unreal, I could barely run for five minutes at a time, and I must have looked like I was a stone throw away from collapsing because I can’t even guess how many spectators asked me if I was going to make it.
This principle translates so clearly to everything we do in life. You can’t say you’re going to be a doctor, skip out on college and medschool and then show up in an operating room with a scalpel and ask someone where you’re supposed to start cutting.
If you want to accomplish something great, you’ve got to be willing to sacrifice to prepare for it.
Writers don’t crank out first drafts that get published; they painstakingly edit, rewrite, re-edit, delete, add, and totally give up on projects before they create a book worthy of newsstands.
All-star athletes (outside of Allen Iverson) don’t skip out on practicing their shots, spin moves, or swings and then go out and win a title.
Everything you do, every single day, is training for something. Training to be more compassionate, training to be a better friend, training to become a better teacher or wife or student.
The more you train, the more success you will have.
Don’t lose sight of the goal at hand. Practice who you want to be today, and train what you want to achieve. You’ll thank me when your day comes.
This week I’ll be posting about the top five lessons I learned from the Rock ‘n Roll Arizona Marathon, easily one of the most exciting days of my life. Today’s entry is a post of the events of the day.
Sunday, January 17th, 2010
3:57 am Wake up after a great night’s rest. Ready to roll in fifteen minutes, but the race doesn’t start for three and a half hours. I twiddle my thumbs for roughly two of those hours.
6:05 am Watch the start of the Dean Karnazes (one of my heroes) UltraMarathon, for people who don’t think 26.2 miles is enough to run in one day.
7:15 am Pee for the twentieth time. I promise I wasn’t nervous, just overhydrated.
7:30 am Drop off my extra layers at the gear check courtesy of (shoutout alert!) UPS; shiver my way to the starting line.
7:40 am Starting gun sounds. On my way out I chuck up a peace sign to Senator McCain. He proceeded to ask for my autograph. I told him after the race.
Photo Provided by Competitor Group: http://arizona.competitor.com/photos/
8:45 am Mile six. I’m feeling great. Plenty of water and knockoff Gatorade at the “Elite Athlete Fluid Stations” (or fold up tables lined with thousands of Dixie cups), and tons of encouragement from the crowd–more on that in a post later this week.
10:04 am The halfway point. Pace has slowed a bit, but overall glad I didn’t chicken out and drop down to the 1/2 marathon (not that there is anything wrong with the half for those that trained for it). Fun fact alert: 27,000 people ran in the marathon and 1/2 marathon. The ratio of people in the half to people in the full: Over 4 to 1.
11:27 am Eat too many peanut butter pretzels from someone in the crowd. The deliciousness slowed my pace.
11:48 am I finish dreaded mile 19. I’m not sure what it was, but mile 19 and I did not mix well. In fact, we still have beef. Walked most of this mile due to hitting a pretty major wall (figuratively, not literally, of course).
12:37 pm Guy about my age gets hurt on mile 24. I encourage him to push on because we’re so close. He steps to the side, but thankfully, eventually finishes.
1:08 pm The finish line is in sight. I can see the goal. I inevitably kick it up a knotch, mostly to pass this lady who was complaining about spectators crossing the street, as if it was going to throw off her world record setting five and a half hour finish time (frame of reference: the winner crossed the line in 2:10).
1:13 pm Done. Finished. Fin. It’s all over. The feeling was totally indescribable. I came in about an hour later than I anticipated, but it didn’t even matter. I was blessed to cross the finish line injury free in 5:30:40. I cried. I smiled. I couldn’t believe it. Easily one of the most rewarding experiences I’ll ever encounter.
The Cost: Two pairs of shoes run through. Round trip plane tickets. Hotel room. Merchandise. Registration. Seven months of training stretching hundreds of miles. Blood, sweat, and injuries in preparing. Freezing my cajones off training in the winter in Akron.
The Reward: Accomplishing a goal that seems unbelievably far off when you begin. Seeing prayers answered when you finish. Experiencing an unreal amount of support and encouragement from your friends and family. The most emotional and bittersweet feeling when you cross the finish line, knowing you’ve accomplished what you’ve prepared for, and also knowing you’re going to have to push harder and further beyond your limits to get that feeling again.
Seventeen months after a shredded ACL. Thirteen months after reconstructive surgery. One and a half days away from a marathon.
I’m anxious. I’m nervous. I’m worried (against my own sound advice). I’m afraid I won’t finish. I’m scared my legs will give out, I’ll fall on my face, someone will roll me out of the running lane, and I’ll crawl home.
And yet, at the same time, I’m confident that I’ve prepared mentally and physically. I know it will be the most challenging bodily endeavor I’ve ever attempted. I know that I’ve got the support of friends and family and thousands of unknown onlookers rooting for me. And most importantly, I know I’ve prayed about a million times that I cross the finish line alive–I’m not doing this alone.
I’m not letting my surgically repaired knee, my doubts, or my ridiculous fears keep me from the 26.2 miles from start to finish.
Photo Provided by allenp http://www.sxc.hu/profile/allenp
What’s the lesson from all of this? It’s don’t.
