Days until the race:39
Current state of mind: Slightly unnerved by the number 39
Miles logged today: 16
So I ran by a renaissance faire this morning in Golden Gate Park. They'd built this huge encampment filled with pointy tents with medieval flags flapping from their peaks and towers and turrets and some sort of ye ole town square. Everywhere, blacksmiths, royalty, and bar wenches were getting out of their cars and streaming toward the encampment. As I passing by, a town crier, I suppose, looking very serious in thigh-high leather boots, velvet pantaloons, a puffy shirt, and a beard that I suspect he grew just for this occasion, climbed up onto a castle walkway and earnestly decreed something to the people, sparking off rounds of "here here!"s and "God save the queen!"s. It was a weird moment.
But I happen to have a soft spot for reenactors. These are people who have found a strange but interesting way to express themselves. And on days like this they are ecstatic, because they're surrounded by people who share a passion that most people don't understand. Mind you, I think it's pretty weird to don a period costume and drink mead and sword fight to defend your family's honor and whatnot, then afterwards drive off in your '98 Honda. It's kind of nuts, actually. But I get it. I get it because that belonging feeling that the blacksmiths and royalty and wenches were all high on together is the very same one I'm going to feel when I get to the Tahoe Triple pre-race dinner and meet the other runners. These will be people that I don't need to explain myself to, people who get why I'm there without even knowing me.
And this will be a relief, because the real reason that I'm blogging about this upcoming race is that I can't really talk about it with anyone. I tried that, and it turns out to be a bad idea. Tell people that you're running a marathon, and they say things like "Wow!" and "I've always thought about doing that" and "I ran one a few years ago, killed the knees but glad I did it." Tell them that you're running three marathons three days in a row and you get a much different response. A few people, usually athletes or athletic risk-takers of some sort, say, "Hey, great. How's the training? Let me know how it goes." This is a beautiful reaction. This is the reaction you want. But most people I've told, even some of my closest friends, have greeted the news with a long pause. Then they ask, in utter seriousness, if I'm insane. Or they ask "Why?" in a way that implies that they're exasperated. Or they get worried, wringing their hands and urging you to be careful. One person, somehow offended by the news, told me they "wouldn't allow it."
This is why I've stopped mentioning it. This is why I'll throw it all in here instead.
Here's the truth. The real deal. Telling people about a race like this isn't about hunting for approval, or trying to impress. Reactions like that are vaguely embarrassing; they make me feel uncomfortable. And it's certainly not about opening myself to judgment, or some sort of whacko cry for help. For me at least distance running isn't remotely about praise or approval or anything external. It's about a girl who was never an athlete getting to be an athlete. It's about reminding myself how unnervingly doable it is to accomplish a big goal if I actually throw in the effort. Effort pays off. Cause and effect. Running is a way for me to inspire me, to remind myself of my possibilities. So talking about a nutso race isn't a maneuver to turn the spotlight on myself; that would be a complete nightmare. It's much more innocent than that. It's about messaging my excitement, sharing a big crazy dream, and hoping for the kind of dismissive yet interested support that will make such a weird endeavor feel a little less lonely.
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