SEPTEMBER 15, 2022 – Blogger’s note: Photo credit to my cousin, Russ Gordon, who, coincidentally, sent me the image early this morning–from Zermatt, Switzerland.
(Cont.) Today I hiked a mile to my scale model of Switzerland—Como Golf Course in St. Paul—and from the summit of “St. Moritz,” admired the distinctive profile of the “Matterhorn.” It was my first visit to “Little Switzerland” since my current expedition began. Never had the imaginary Alpine terrain looked so beautiful.
On the return trip, I thought about the marathon I’ve been running; the easy miles and the more difficult ones; and today’s “mile,” no. 23. As I approached the final turn onto our street, with just one long block to go, I pictured myself in one of the many marathons I’d run in my youth, and how runners seemed to accelerate as they rounded the last corner and strode to the finish line.
In the Boston Marathon, every mile marker is a significant benchmark, but some benchmarks are more significant than others. Take mile six, for example, in Framingham. If I steered to the right and the bystanders weren’t shoulder-to-shoulder, I could catch a glimpse of myself “looking great” in the large plate glass windows of the local hardware store on the south side of the route. With everyone trying to see a “looking good” reflection, the pace of the herd picked up.
Then there was the halfway mark—mile 13. Psychologically, this benchmark was a double-faced coin: the good news was I’d reached the halfway mark; the bad news was I’d reached only the halfway mark. In the Boston Marathon, however, the coin spun until its momentum dissipated and the coin fell—“bad news” side up. Mile 13 falls in Wellesley, home of Wellesley College, which to this day remains a women-only school. The incentive to “look good” in front of smart, young, attractive women lining each side of the race course, was far greater and of slightly longer duration than the glimpse of my reflection off the plate glass of the hardware store in Framingham. After months of winter training, often in darkness, there was no greater reward than to “look good” through sunny Wellesley. Ironically, “looking good” meant passing all those cheering women far too quickly.
As the college crowd thinned out, the “bad news” set in: I was only halfway through the race. Worse, at the end of the next seven-mile grind lay Heartbreak Hill, amidst the proverbial and unavoidable “wall” that marks every marathon.
By the time I’d broken through the wall, I was at Cleveland Circle and . . . mile 23. From mile 23 to the finish, the crowds were overwhelming, almost suffocating. I felt wasted, out of gas, mentally fragile. The deafening cheers were almost destabilizing. I remember one particular Boston Marathon when just beyond mile 23, a woman stepped from the side and into the race course and shouted “You’re looking great!” at the runner immediately in front of me.
“Liar,” I heard him say. It cracked me up. I knew exactly how he felt. Today, at mile 23 of a different sort of marathon, however, I feel sorry for the woman. There she was, singling out an anonymous runner and cheering him on. Yet, her earnest encouragement was greeted with a wry accusation of moral turpitude.
By the time I reached our house, I’d reconciled the woman’s encouragement, the runner’s agony, and my response to both. I thought about the medical marathon I’ve been running and saw the parallel between the heartfelt words of that woman on “Comm Av” and all the encouragement I’ve received in the course of my treatment; I could also identify with the runner in his agony, just as I’ve now learned to empathize with all the people—known and unknown to me—who suffer from one serious malady or another. I thought of all the patients I’ve seen at the U of MN Cancer Clinic—people from all backgrounds and walks of life, fellow human beings at various stages of their treatment. I then mentally stepped outside my current marathon, and from the sideline of the race course, considered the efforts of the other runners.
Only by running the marathon myself, can I really know what other runners endure, and only by running the race past cheering throngs, can I know the full, positive impact of all the support and encouragement. Only by this marathon with other runners and past miles of supporters can I know empathy, inspiration, gratitude, and often, when least expected, humor. I now understand that I’m not running this marathon for a PR (personal record) but for lessons that can’t be learned by any other means. (Cont.)
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
