For P

A Greek dude named Pheidippides is the reason a marathon is called a marathon. A messenger for the Greek army, he ran from the town of Marathon to Athens spreading the news of victory over the Persian army. I don’t know anything else about Pheidippides. I don’t know what he looked like, what he felt like in the midst of his 26-mile excursion. I only know that I was thinking of him yesterday on mile three of a four mile run when I blacked out. My legs were moving fast and my arms were bending backward and forwards. “How the hell did you do it Pheidippides, can I call you P for short?” I thought to myself.

How is it that this one messenger, over 2,000 years ago, set a model for runners today? How am I supposed to run without keeping him in mind? I still have many questions that remain unanswered. Another thing I know is that I’ll be thinking of Pheidippides in two weeks when I run the Atlanta Marathon. I have no news to deliver to any town in America or elsewhere. I’m not setting any model for any runner, and I certainly won’t be remembered for this race 2,000 years from now. All this is to say it’s making Atlanta all the more worth it.

I run because I am. This will be my third marathon, and I always grow sentimental in the weeks leading up to the race. It’s primarily psychological, running, doing a marathon. It’s this thing I’ve given birth to, it is in every sense a living and breathing thing. The day of the race is special, of course, but the thrill is in the training. I have never before trained more than for Atlanta. I have forced myself into the frigid air of Chicago’s winter. I’ve met the rain, sleet, snow, and ice head-on, embracing it all. I have led full conversations with myself in the midst of a long run. I’ve knocked myself down and brought myself up. The training for a race is the most beautiful creation I’ve ever known, and it solely belongs to me.

The race will be fine. In my research, I’ve found that Atlanta is a city made up of many hills, with the race having a maximum elevation of 1,500 feet. The race will be fine and it will also break me, shatter me, disfigure my body and maybe soul. I am…excited about that? It’s been said that when P reached Athens his last words before dying of exhaustion were “Joy to you, we’ve won.” Poor P had nothing in his system, no water, no food, no training. It was sheer running because he could, so he did, and although he died because of it, it was not in vain.

Yesterday I blacked out on mile three of a four mile run because I was thinking of Pheidippides, and P, this race is for you.