SPORTS
All in the MindBROOKLYN, NY 30 October 2009 |
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Ahh, the dead accuracy, the universality (I’ve gotta think) of Don Mitchell’s October 15 post—“Looking Good!”—about his experience running the 2002 New York City Marathon.
“Thousands of them, yelling at me: looking good! I couldn’t stand it.” … “Makes it worse, see, I’m dying, I’m already dead, and what, I’m noticing nice asses? And I’m thinking, What’s wrong with you, shithead. Con-cen-trate. Don’t die.”
What’s wrong with you—concentrate—don’t die. I feel ya, Don.
Rather, I felt ya.
With the 2009 race fast approaching (Sunday!), I figured I’d share my own 2008 account of the same, written towards the end of last year. But first, some additional thoughts, inspired by that poignant 10/15 post.
So, the “thousands of them” Don refers to—a beautiful and exhilarating and utterly confounding sight that would’ve had me crying were it not for the somewhat distracting task at hand—comes just before the 17-mile mark, where the Queensboro Bridge gives way to the dauntingly straight, three-mile stretch of race-course that is Manhattan’s First Avenue. As many a past participant will attest, it—that insane clumping of well-wishers—is a profoundly memorable scene. Also memorable/clichéd: the beginning. As runners approach the Verrazano Bridge, the field too congested at this point to manage much more than a stilted jog, Sinatra’s “New York, New York” filters through speakers and every last air particle is electric, humming with leaked adrenaline. All of Brooklyn sprawls out ahead and the bay glitters below. Not even the fact that I got peed on (part of what you sign up for, really) detracted from that sublime race-start.
Lastly (for now), a thought that’s recurred often in the last year: I know what “nothing left” feels like. Er, just about. Because, although I’d run a few marathons prior to NYC, never had I been privy to the sensation of “empty” like I was on that mild November day. And it was fascinating, the experience of sinking deep into my body—a strange shell, suddenly unfamiliar—and recognizing that my current effort was no less than the most and the hardest I could possibly extend. I felt, in that moment, like someone conducting a science experiment on herself. Fascinating is the right word for it.
And painful. That too.
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It’s surprising, when I think about it, the fact that I’d never given mantras much, erm, thought in the past. It’s not like I’ve been short opportunity—countless races and training runs that surely could’ve benefited from some good old-fashioned “positive thinking on repeat”—but it wasn’t until three Sundays ago during the 2008 New York City Marathon that the mantra emerged, arrow in my quiver. (Or, you know, waist pack.)
It was around mile 12 that I started getting nervous. It was early to be feeling the first indication of “jelly legs”—a vague weakening through my quad and hip flexor regions—and yet there it was, silently mocking the notion of 14 more miles.
There was little question that a too-fast start was to blame (damn adrenaline rush), but dwelling didn’t seem much smarter or more productive than my jack-rabbit take-off had been, so I started thinking about how best to proceed. Beyond the obvious need to slow down, which I’d already tackled quite naturally, there was the question of how to shift the focus from my rapidly fatiguing legs.
Then, Plan B emerged: Forget you, legs! Who needs you when I’ve got… arms! I instantly began pumping more confidently, leg-focus averted, at least for the time being. And just like that, mantra number one rose within me: strong arms, strong mind.
It stuck as I crossed the Pulaski Bridge—strong arms, strong mind, strong arms, strong mind—leaving Brooklyn for Queens, wearier for the passage. It stuck as I pushed up First Avenue—strong arms, strong mind, strong arms, strong mind—cheered and momentarily buoyed by crowds ten people deep. It stuck as I climbed the Broadway Bridge in upper Manhattan—strong arms, strong mind, strong arms, strong mind—at which point it was joined and bolstered by mantra number two, the complementary mind over matter, as my feet raged at the feel of the harsh metal grating beneath them.
Continuing down Fifth Avenue, nearing home stretch on legs that brought to mind the hollowed-out pumpkin defiling my stoop at home—strong arms, strong mind, mind over matter, mind over matter—here again it stuck, fleetingly challenged by a clunkier cousin, a tangle of words too numerous and too fancy for my purposes (“the pain of discipline is nothing compared to the sting of regret?” nice, but no thanks), before ultimately prevailing.
As I lurched deliriously along Central Park South, less than a mile to go, my mantra held tight—strong arms, strong mind, mind over matter, mind over matter. By now, the meaning behind the message had gone the way of my sanity, lost somewhere between 23 and 24. But the cadence, the way the words had, way back at 12, combined fortuitously in my head to form the perfect meter, the perfect accompaniment to my footfalls, this was enough.
Because as many a marathoner will attest, once you hit that terrible proverbial wall, you reach for what you know. Easy on the brain. And better “strong mind” ad infinitum than “this is God awful I hate this I hate myself why am I doing this I’m never going to cross that finish line and on the off-chance I do I’ll be covered in blood and tears and pee etc.” Not that there wasn’t an inkling of this as well (negative self-talk, not pee!), but at least it wasn’t center stage.
Rounding the final corner into Central Park, qualifying for Boston but a distant dream, I knew to expect some disappointment at the end. But while I may have missed my goal time by several minutes, there was another goal I hadn’t consciously set: my goal mind.
I’m pretty sure I nailed it.
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