Nearly a month has passed since I completed my first marathon. Since then, I have sat down many times with the intention of writing a post about what I learned through the process of training for and completing the 26.2. My plan was to make a list and offer up my mistakes and successes as tools for others starting their own marathon quest, but every time I’ve started to do this I’ve gotten stuck.
I’ve gotten stuck because while I did learn many things worth sharing, I keep coming back to one key, core lesson. So that’s what I’ve decided to share with you today.
I learned, more than any other thing, what it feels like to be stripped down to the very core of my being. To be raw, exposed, and so completely of my self.
Here is my journey to that place.
At the start of my race, I imagine I was like many other first-time marathoners. I had about a million and a half thoughts and feelings running through me, many of them contradictory, all of them clamoring for attention.
There was both excitement and anticipation (obviously). There was fear and apprehension (seems typical). There was tiredness (who sleeps well the night before a big race?!), but there was also exuberant energy (thank you, adrenaline).
There were the voices of logic and reason (“Remember your training. Don’t start out too fast.”), of pride (“I am so impressed with myself for getting here. I am a badass.”), and of skepticism (“Who am I kidding? I didn’t nearly train enough!”).
There was gratitude (seriously, I’m lucky to have two people here today to support me, cheer me on, and believe in my success), as well as anger (also seriously, certain other people didn’t even bother to text me good luck?!).
Then the ‘gun’ went off and over the course of 26.2 miles, it all got stripped away.
First went the adrenaline-fueled, childlike excitement. After the first 3-4 miles, I had to let it go. The realization sets in of what I’m doing and I know I need to be focused on the present moment, the lifting and planting of my Mizuno-clad feet. There is no room for exuberance that hasn’t yet achieved its goal.
Next the apprehension is shaken off. I’m here. I’m doing it. It’s happening. There is no sound reason to believe I can’t finish, so get your head in the game, Rose (my last name). You’ve started this; you’re finishing it.
Another few miles down the road and I could feel the anger slipping away. It ate up too much energy. It didn’t make people’s actions (or lack thereof) okay, but I needed my energy for the race. They didn’t get to have any of it right now.
Further on goes the vanity. Sweaty, knowing as you pass by those clicking cameras that the look on your face will be anything but attractive, but who cares? A few bad pictures are absolutely worth the end result.
Further still, deep into the race, when inklings of pain and discomfort begin to manifest, all bravado and lingering facades are dropped. It doesn’t matter anymore if I’m smiling at bystanders, if I’m exuding confidence, or making it ‘look easy.’ All of that has to go because all that matters is what I’m doing – one foot in front of the other, with as much speed and precision as I’m capable of. Period.
All of this stuff, these extraneous feelings and thoughts that seem so important on so many days and in so many moments suddenly just. don’t. matter.
What’s left then without them?
Well, the simple, honest, and most accurate answer is just Me.
What I learned, you see, is that there is a point in a marathon when all of the expectations, the pressures, the images we create, and the faces we wear, are all gone.
All I was left with – all that I had in those moments – was the truest part of my own self. Stripped of ego and artifice, I have never been so raw and essentially in tune with my self than I was during those last few miles.
There’s something about that – something incredible about that – testing your limits and pouring the sum of your physical and mental energy into a singular activity, for a sustained amount of time, that strips you of pretty much everything else.
And I can unequivocally say that (despite being pretty generally terrified of being exposed and vulnerable) that state of self-clarity and awareness is amazing. Completely amazing.
It teaches you; at least it taught me.
It taught me about who I am, what matters to me, and what I’m capable of (and I don’t just mean physically). The wisdom and strength I gained from that experience is unmatched.
And while I may find another time to share what I learned about fueling and training and race day preparation, this lesson is the most valuable one I could have ever hoped to have gotten.