Marathon in Mind

We don't always get what we want in life. Or even what we work really hard for. In my experience, it's not so much our successes that define us, but rather how we deal with our challenges. If you agree—or are curious—then read on. Join me in a 42.2km marathon in my mind.

FINDING MEANING ON THE RUN: THE 2017 ROTTERDAM MARATHON

by Doug Ota

Never walk alone

Lee towers above us, atop a crane hoisted into the sun. No more than ten meters away, he's a blinding apparition whose song you don't hear directly. All you hear is the echo of his song, taken over by hundreds of thousands of other voices, belted out from the guts of Rotterdam. "YOU NEEEEE-VER WALK A-LOOOOONE."

The cannon

We all knew it was coming. Amidst the bass throb of a heartbeat pulsing across the Coolsingel, the blast would be deafening. Is isn't any start gun. It's Rotterdam's cannon. We stood five meters from the start line, so when it exploded, I jumped. You don't hear the start of this marathon. You feel it in every cell. We're off.

Fall asleep

I trail tightly off of Sandor's right shoulder. Cool. Calm. Collected. Sandor's a former professional speed skater who exudes experience. He'll carry me to 15k, where Sander will join us and carry me to 30. I've run so many fast 30 and 35k trainings that it should be no problem to wait for the real race to start at 35k. My plan is to fall asleep during the first 30k, and see how I feel when I awake.

First five kilometers

Where's my rhythm? I'm accustomed to having to settle into a race, but we're approaching five and I'm not settling! Relax the shoulders! Eyelids. Jaw. Breath. Listen to the cadence on the pavement. Sandor moves away from me. "Yo!" I call. He looks over his shoulder, then slows. "Gotta get my rhythm." Not worried, he reassures me we can make up later for a slower first five. 21:15 should have been on the clock as we pass the 5k mark. It reads 21:40. What's worse, I already feel the beginnings of a cramp in my right hamstring.

Relentless angels

Last year, in running 3:00:26, the 3hour pacers floated past me at 35k. To my horror, I see three pacers to my left, adorned with white wings emblazoned with "3:00," slowly moving past. They're surrounded by fifty followers. My people! And they're leaving already? "Join them?" Sandor asks. No. I can't. I've seen my heart rate, and the heart doesn't lie: 169 beats per minute. I am in the red already, collecting muscle lactate at a dangerous rate.

Negotiations

Come on, body! We have logged a thousand good kilometers since December! We've done every interval training religiously! We've run a personal best recently on the half-marathon and the 30k! We even ran a 32k training two weeks ago, just slightly slower than this, and it felt easy! What the hell is going on? My heart's answer: 171 beats per minute.

More relentless angels

More angels to my left. Three more "3:00" white wings move slowly alongside. "Join them?" This time I say yes. This must be, I reason, the more conservative 3-hour group, with the pacers who who want to avoid starting too fast. These are my people, I tell myself. I ratchet it up, and avoid looking at my watch. I don't want to know.

Experience

I have done this twelve times before. New York. Berlin. Apeldoorn. Leiden twice. Verona. And many times in Rotterdam. Every ounce of experience screams unanimously: Slow down! This phase should be easy. You're working too hard. You will pay dearly for starting too quickly!

More negotiations

What the hell do you mean "too quickly"? We started at my race pace! I memorized this pace! Practiced it! Slept it! Dreamt it! It's what I did a year ago, and I'm stronger now! My last long training was almost at this pace, and it went effortlessly! What the hell is going on? I want to speak to the manager! My heart rate answers with three unforgiving digits: 169. The cramp in my hamstring tightens further, like a noose. Sandor's deep experience reads the landscape of my face perfectly: slowing down is the only option.

Disappearing dreams

The hot winds of hope blow from my teammates, men who invested themselves in this endeavor. My "pit crew"—Lodewijk en Maarten, and my three pacers, Sandor, Sander, and Rein—devised the plan of attack, deciding who would be where when, how to track time, how to deliver drinks. Their disappointment will be great. But nothing compared to mine. The wings of the 3-hour pacers float three hundred meters ahead, drifting further and further out of sight. My dream of 2:59 deflates before my eyes, with a hiss.

Grief

We slow to 4:25. My heart rate moves within the lactic boundary of 165, and my hamstring begins to relax. But I'm crying inside. Years of preparation have gone into this. I've done everything I was supposed to do. Everything Coach Lodewijk said. And I'm not going to run anywhere near the mark. I was looking for twenty-seven measly seconds, and I'm going to get penalized by many minutes above my PR. What the hell is the point of continuing?

The abyss

We are on the Havenspoorpad, between 10 and 15k, the course's mirror-image opposite of the 35km zone I consider the gates of Hell. Hell's gates opened early this year. I've taken a physical beating, but the mental anguish is worse. I am a runner with no reason to run. This was to be my last marathon for time, the heroic conquering of a previous year's failure, all the more heroic because the previous year wasn't even a failure. To run 3:00:26 as a forty-six year-old was sublime. To run 2:59 as a forty-seven year-old would be epic. Two years of intense focus fade with each step, as each stride lands five centimeters short of its target. It isn't going to happen. I'm not going to get it—literally—by a mile. So why go on? What's the point?

Sander

Sander joins us. Sandor catches him up on developments; I chuckle ironically to myself that this is a runner's form of gossip. Nobody, after all, will understand this. I don't myself yet either. Their summit completed, Sandor and Sander group together shoulder to shoulder, the two steeds I'll draft behind, right in the middle, exactly as rehearsed. At least I made it this far.

The meeting

There's a right turn ahead to Slinge. My family will be waiting. I'm late for our meeting. They expected me at 1:03:45, and they're going to see 1:05 or worse. What do you want them to see, Doug? Who are you? Does your character derive from a number? Or does it emanate from how you deal with the times you don't get what you want? I turn right, heading in a new, perpendicular direction. In a few minutes, we'll enter Slinge's "washing machine," where you quickly turn right, left, right, and then left again. I will wash myself of this dream. I will show the universe who I am. I am a man who can grieve on the run, and hold my head high.

Papa!

My family is ahead. I smile and make eye contact with each of them. Astra, my mom, Niels, Elsa, Loek. I've got this under control. The plane was crashing, the passengers were screaming, but this pilot son, husband, and father of yours straightened the wing and will spare you the details. You deserve heroism. You deserve a role model. I will show you how to live, by showing you how I run.

The tumor

Two weeks ago, we got the news: a tumor in Loek's head, three centimeters high, two centimeters wide, compressing his pituitary, stunting his growth. The news flattened me. Tumors erase marathons from priority lists. As an urgent operation didn't prove necessary, the marathon redawned. I was in the best shape of my life, I figured, so I might as well run. 2:59 will be for Loek. I told him so, which he liked. He proudly recorded a film to cheer me on at the big screens at 35k. In the restful week prior to the marathon, I thought I'd sidelined the tumor. But its emotional shadow had apparently taken shape in my own brain, raising my heart rate and draining energy in the background. Yes, I am a runner. But I am a father first. I will see Loek's film at 35k.

Comic regrouping

It is quiet in the group. From 15 to 20k, we patter through an emotional no-man's land. We're not running for my time, but we're still running. A man starts drafting off my left shoulder, grunting audibly with each breath. "HUH!" Step step step step. "HUH!" Step step step step. "HUH!" This is irritating. The shrink in me warns not to displace my frustration. OK. I'll tolerate him for a kilometer. But his grunts don't relent. A marathon is hard enough to run without listening to this! In my friendliest Dutch, I ask if he'll kindly stop grunting in my ear. He smiles, and the grunts cease.

Comic regrouping, part 2

But the grunts only stop for fifteen seconds. "HUH!" they begin agin. Step step step step. I try it in Californian: "Dude, your grunts are getting on my nerves!" He smiles at me. "HUH!" Step step step step. What the hell language does this guy speak? Sandor and Sander can't stand it either, and the two of them—my reliable steeds—swerve to the far right, hoping to shake him. He follows. "HUH!"

Comic regrouping, part 3

At the half marathon point, Sandor changes tactics. He turns to the crowds along the course. "COME ON YOU GUYS, WE CAN'T HEAR YOU!" They respond with cheers and noise. From twenty-one kilometers on, this former world class skater—guiding me on his birthday—turns his surplus energy to the audience, creating a ripple of high energy everywhere we go. "WHY ARE YOU GUYS SO QUIET? WE NEED YOU NOW! LET'S HEAR IT!" Cheers and noise. Ever participated in a wave? This was a wave that lasted twenty-one kilometers, the entire second half of the race. Arching over the Erasmus Bridge, he berates the crowd, screaming, "GET OFF YOUR BUMS AND GET US OVER THIS BRIDGE! MAKE SOME NOISE!" Cheers and noise. "THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT!"

Joy at 27k

What began as a mental exercise in resilience has now seeped into every cell. Fake it until you make it. Run like it's fun, run like the person you want to be, and you become that person. "SANDOR!" I yell. "THIS IS SO MUCH FUN!" His eyes sparkle like two infectious jokes. "I ACTUALLY DON'T WANT THIS TO END! THIS IS HILARIOUS!" Tens of thousands of people join the joy, as cheers ripple down the bridge and into the heart of Rotterdam.

Rein

Just before the cube buildings, my third pacer, Rein, steps into the race. What an honor: to be paced by three top athletes, even though the time won't approach the 2:59 we'd sought. All heads are high; this marathon has become about something else. Character. Resilience. Unconditional love. "I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" Sandor screams, arms pumping up the crowd's volume. "YOU CAN REST LATER SO GIVE US SOME NOISE!" The crowd goes wild, regardless of neighborhood. On the eighth day, God created connection, the kind that travels via eye contact and sound waves and ferries people over mountains.

Kralingse Bos

Sandor signs off at 30k. We enter the final loop, the point at which the real marathon begins. But I've already run my marathon in my head. All that remains is pain, I say out loud. Suffering is optional. Sander and Rein respond from up front, saying "Amen." You've got this, I say to myself, even though the legs are locked. No problem whatsoever. You've done this twelve times. This is a piece of cake. We are a Baptist church, and I have the honor today of ministering. "Amen," I hear from the front. We patter on.

The film at 35

There they are, lined up ahead in the glistening son. Five giant screens the size of small movie theaters, playing personal messages supporters have sent in. I pass the first trigger, but the film on the first screen is for somebody else. Same on the second screen. Same on the third. Did something go wrong? As I near the fourth screen, I see a four meter projection of Loek, bellowing, "Dad, just a couple kilometers to go, you can do this!" Electricity surges from pavement to cortex, and I scream, "YES!" I can do this! I am doing this! Pain is nothing and character is everything. I will show you how to be a man. This is how we deal with tumors.

The dark

The pain from 35k is the same as always, a kind of dark matter you must wade through. I think of a message Loek sent the other day, as he was preparing for his diving exam. His words ring prophetic:

Depth:

The deepest point you reach on a dive,

However long you stay there.

If you'd planned to go no deeper than nine meters,

but something draws your attention to twelve,

and you swim to it—however briefly—

then you must consider twelve meters

the depth of your dive

in all calculations.

The light

In the last kilometers, it hurts like hell, but it is no problem. I make it a point to smile at my family wherever I see them, to thank each cheering person with my eyes. I saw the depths, but I did not let them draw me in. Dark matter appeared in the beginning of the race. I run to remove it. As we cross the "1000m" line, I move between my steeds, wanting them at my sides for the pictures. We turn down the Coolsingel and see people from here to infinity. The pace surges. The noise deafens. Sander and Rein pump their arms for volume, and the crowd obliges. My hat comes off and swirls over my head, and a voice screams from my depths, "THIS IS AMAZING!" I don't need Sandor to do it for me. I have learned my lessons well. We're all running in the light.