marathon

Yesterday was marathon day. The Oberelbe Marathon was staged, for the eleventh time. The course is a pleasant stroll down the river, from Königstein to Dresden. I was in the crowd of twelve hundred jostling for position at the start line. It was warm, and I was ready for glory.

The ten days leading up to the race weren't as inspiring as the twenty minutes before the starter's gun. I had struggled with some sort of a bone ache. My shins were hurting from deep inside. I could walk, but running felt like screws were being drilled into my legs. This pain abated with every passing day. On Sunday morning it was gone almost completely.

Almost, but not quite. Setting out at an easy pace, making my way through slower runners that were more aggressive before the start, or simply faster to line up, I got constant messages from my shins. Ignoring them was easy, as they were subtle. Unfortunately, my knee heard them and reacted. It started piercing my with little jolts of pain.

I went on all right, but at half time, I had to let go of my companion of the eight kilometers before that because I couldn't keep up anymore. In line with my speed, my heart rate went down, and there was nothing I could do to make it go up again. Going faster was no option. Around kilometer 25 my spirits sank the lowest. The bike path stretching into the distance in front of me, the river to the right and meadows to the left, nothing seemed to move. It felt like the finish was out of reach and not coming any closer. People kept passing me.

When the outskirts of Dresden came into sight, my mode rose but my speed remained abysmally low. If anything, I slowed down even more. At one aid station, I almost stopped to have my water. My legs were quick to point out if I gave them a little rest, they'd take a long vacation. If I wanted to finish, I'd have to keep running without a break.

That's what I did, and I did eventually reach the stadium. I was not exhilarated. I didn't even feel happiness at finishing. There was only relief, and it was quickly replaced by the emotional emptiness of utter exhaustion. Lying in the grass and drinking translucent frothy liquids someone kept handing me from a big bucket seemed like the most blissful thing in the world.

A day later, I can look back at the race and recapitulate, sort the good and the bad, and survey the aftermath. The course, support and weather were great, the spectators enthusiastic. The three groups of cheerleaders on the way really did cheer me up, as did the various drum circles. On the other hand, I did not experience the famed runner's high on the course. After the first hour, I started hating was I was doing. There was no pleasure. Crossing the finish line, I was not elated out of my mind with a sense of epic achievement. Now, the second and fourth toes of each foot are embalmed in gelatinous bags of blister and I cannot put any weight onto my left leg. I hobble like a eighty-year-old with severe rheumatoid arthritis. Why do people do this to themselves?

Oh, and I missed my goal of finishing in under three hours by a little bit. I'll have to do it again, won't I?