Marathons and Tarragons

A tarragon is an Old World wormwood whose fragrant leaves are used for seasoning, especially in vinegar. This has nothing to do with my post. It simply rhymes with marathon.

Ahh, the marathon. I’ll be honest. I do not understand these things. Why would any rational human being participate in one? For heaven’s sake, it is 26 freaking miles. That seems a bit excessive. And furthermore, they make you pay money to run them.

Who needs to run that bad? Seriously. Who wakes up and thinks, “Today I’m going to run. Far. Really far. The farthest I’ve ever run. I won’t run around the block or on a trail. I won’t run a mile or two. I won’t even run 10. That certainly won’t suffice my running appetite. No. I will run 26 miles. And I want to run so badly that I will even pay people to let me do it. I can easily run 26 miles on my own throughout my neighborhood or on the track, but that won’t do. I must give up my money to run the path that the Marathon Authorities have designated. I will give up my savings as well as my blood, sweat and tears. I will expend myself monetarily as well as physically. Yes, that is what I am going to do today. I will blow out my budget and my knees.” The sad thing is people not only actually think this, but carry out these thoughts. And when they get to the starting line, they discover that thousands of other people had the same insane idea.

Can you imagine running 26 miles without stopping? I can’t. The thought of running five seems unbearable. But 26?!? That is about four and a half hours of constantly running. Four and a half freaking hours. I can’t even SIT and watch a movie for four and a half hours, much less run. In fact, I can’t fathom doing anything other than sleeping for four and a half hours straight.

I played basketball growing up and so I have no category for running as entertainment. Running has always been a means to me, not an end. You ran to get from point A to point B. Point B was the goal, not the actual steps between the two. In fact, whenever the basketball team was being reprimanded or disciplined, the coach made us run. Running was the punishment. Of all the things that the coach could have chosen for us to do, why would he pick running? It is because he understands that this is a painful and exhausting exercise, one we would never voluntarily do on our own. And this is why marathons make no sense to me. In my mind, it is simply a four and a half hour voluntary punishment for a crime you didn’t commit.

So where are all these marathon runners the day after their triumph? Are they feeling victorious? Are they savoring their accomplishment? Are they feeling on top of the world? Maybe. But most likely they are feeling like complete crap, cursing their stubborn will and soaking in a bath to try and smooth out the unbearable stiffness that has consumed every muscle they possess like some strange premature rigormortis. And they gave up an afternoon of their life. And a pair of shoes. And they paid money to do it. Some marathons reward their runners with a T-shirt. That seems like a fair trade off.