I have acquired, deservedly or not, a reputation for talking
too much and for making comments that elicit collective groans from my
teammates. In their defense, I’m an avowed dabbler in sophisticated talking
points lacking any real substance. In my defense, silence can be rough. I am,
however, quite grateful for their encouragement and support, especially as I
continue to learn both proper pacing and shoe tying techniques. With that
disclaimer in place, I feel compelled to reflect seriously and somewhat
substantively on the Boston Marathon bombings.
It shouldn’t have taken a national tragedy to put my training
with Furman Elite in perspective, but as I sat at my office desk brooding over a
disappointing Blue Shoes Mile performance, the sight of a smoke-filled Boylston
Street and blood stained concrete brought me to my senses. Beyond the four-hour
mark, time was of little concern to most marathon finishers, and their friends
and families, those among the wounded and killed, joined them not to cheer
competitive excellence, but rather to celebrate some of the things that make
our sport so exceptional: unyielding
persistence, passion, and courage, from the slowest to the fastest. And whether
we’re talking about seconds under four minutes or minutes under four hours, the
fact remains: we want what we do as runners to matter, to mean something more
than just times and places. To be sure, times and places aren’t just part of
our sport, they are our sport. But
when you lose yourself in the sport, you lose sight of the lifestyle at its
core.
It’s easy to ride waves of success, to realize the gains of
training, momentarily liberated from the fear of stagnation, of injury, of
failure. There’s no need to explain uncertainty or rationalize difficulty when
you’re on top. But when the hard times come, and they most certainly will, every
runner must recognize the value of the journey itself.
I want desperately to break the four minute mile, and I’ll do
everything in my power to make that happen, but on April 13th, in
front of dozens of my friends and family and countless Furman fans, I tried and
failed. If I were to lose my ability to
run tomorrow, would all of this time and energy have been in vain? Instinctively,
we want to justify the loss, the sunk cost. But only when we start seeing what
we’ve gained does the balance sheet tilt back in our favor. Running has made me
who I am and who I am becoming, every single ground out 1k repeat, golf course
loop, hurdle drill, and DuPont hill climb. No injury or disappointing
performance can erase those lessons in discipline, courage and resolve. You
could’ve turned back, cut it short, hit the snooze button, gotten the 9-5, but
you didn’t. You didn’t because no matter what, what we’re doing matters. In a
world often content with efficient mediocrity, fragmented attention spans, and
weak bodies, we’re striving for excellence, focus, and strength. And though I’m
sure I’d see it a bit differently if I had a shoe contract, those things are
priceless.
Perhaps this is the loser’s consolation, the story we tell
ourselves to dull the pain of defeat, or at least to sidestep it. But I’ve told
it to myself on my fastest days, too. Regardless, it is certainly the antidote
to obsessive fixation and has carried me through the highs and the many lows of
my career. I have a tendency to retain song lyrics the way some might
basketball stats or move lines, so I’ll dispense with some about stock car
racing from Mike Cooley of the Drive-By Truckers:
“It ain’t about the
money or even being number one/ you’ve gotta’ know when it’s all over and you
did the best you could’ve done/ ‘cause knowing that it’s in you and you never
let it out/ is worse than blowing any engine or any wreck you’ll ever have”
If I’ve learned anything from this sport, it’s this: We will
all be called upon to toe lines in life, and there’s no backing out when the
gun goes off. When you’re already ahead, it’s easy to take the risk.
Let the chips fall where they may.
Siempre
Adelante,
Lee
