Imagine climbing mount Everest. The days of arduous trekking in full gear. Disassembling your tent knowing that it’s going to be another cold, hard day of climbing. Your joints aching, your breath frozen on your goggles. Trudging forward all the same, knowing that the summit awaits you.

Now imagine that there is an elevator leading to the top of mount Everest. Would people still venture to the summit? Sure, but they wouldn’t tell their grandkids about it.

The point is, people climb the mountain precisely because it’s so hard. Its challenge breaks us away from the mundanity of comfort. Much like running, actually.

And so we arrive at my point:

First off, you can see why this ad attracted my attention. I’ve heard similar arguments over the years from many half-assedletes, but never in reference to marathon training.

A marathon is the Everest to most runners. To run 26.2 miles– well– requires several months of consistent, disciplined training. And I like to think that most marathoners, when they excel in such a challenging event, take pride not in how easy their task was, but how difficult.

After all, you’re not going to sit your grandkids down and tell them about the time you took a shortcut to marathon greatness (Unless you’re Rosie Ruiz). You’re going to tell them about the hard work that went into preparing yourself, mentally, physically, and spiritually for the 26.2.

Even if this method worked (which seems unlikely) it would be like an elevator installed at Mount Everest. You could get to the top, sure, but why bother?

I worried that my running experience wouldn’t be very meaningful to kids. My running philosophy can get pretty abstract; after all, it tends to take shape when my brain is full of endorphins. Like most feel-good chemicals, endorphins can form some pretty obscure connections and leave one with heady ideas.

I had forgotten, however, that the core of long distance philosophy is actually quite simple. Easy to stomach? Popular? No. But very simple.

Of further aid was my former coach’s introduction. He mentioned that I had run 50 miles in a recent race. This piqued the kids’ interest, unfathomable though it must have been. I had their interest for some time at least; there was no longer any need to implement my original fireworks-and-wild-arm-waving plan.

With the kids so amenable to the crazy man before them, I began to speak from the heart. I explained to them that we often say we can’t do something when we know that we really can. I can’t lose weight, I can’t shoot three-pointers, I can’t run a mile, I can’t get a good grade in this class. When I say these things, what I really mean is that I don’t want to do this thing because it means working hard or maybe trying and failing. It’s easy to say “I can’t,” but then that never makes me feel very happy.

I told them that I love running because it reminds me all the time that I can do just about anything, if I’m willing to work hard, and maybe even to fail. I explained that each of them is capable of doing whatever they want, whether it’s running a mile, scoring that three-pointer, getting that “A.”

“I can”, “I will”, even “I tried,” will always leave you happier than “I can’t”– even if the latter is easier.

(cue fireworks)

A short while ago, I mentioned a realization I had at some point during the 50-miler. I say “at some point” because the events thereof have merged together in my mind; I can only remember bits and pieces and the overall gist of the experience. Grinding pain takes its toll on the memory. Anyway, at some point during the race, I realized that I am capable of the 100.

Before my first ultra, 50 miles seemed nearly impossible. It was close to twice the longest I had ever run. Now the 100-miler has that honor. It’s twice the longest distance I’ve ever run. It seems nearly impossible.

But during my ultra, I discovered that the 100-mile is within my reach. It will require specialized training, eating, and everything else, but my body is capable of running 100 miles. I don’t plan on doing this next week; in fact, it may be a couple years before I attempt it. But the 50-miler put it into perspective; it shattered the ceiling of my limits, and replaced it with one far higher.

This, in a nutshell, is why I run.

The ultramarathon lived up to every expectation.

The ultramarathon was painful. Not at first; I ran at a roughly ten-minute-mile pace, which felt quite pleasant for the first 35 miles (is this what recreational running feels like?). The last 12 miles of the race were rough. The last 6 were agony. I shuffled through them on the wooden pegs that had replaced my legs. My feet flopped on the asphalt, slack after pounding so long on city sidewalks. This was not the searing pain that comes from outrunning others; this was the crushing, obliviating pain that comes from outrunning my own weakness.

The ultramarathon was fun. I was expecting three of my teammates to show their support on the sidelines. Instead I had six teammates running alongside me as pacers. They ran in two shifts of three pacers, completing a lap per shift (with a “lap” being 8.4 miles). For the last two laps of the race, I had my fiance, my big brother, and a friend from home, all running along beside me. They ran about 17 miles (A PR for my fiance– yay!) alongside me. Between all of my supporters, I spent very little time alone on my ten hour run. Their antics kept me fresh through the beginning of the race, and their presence bolstered my resolve on the last lap. They were fun to run with and play around between laps.

The ultramarathon left me shattered. After the race, my body was frozen in a running position. I couldn’t bend enough to stretch, even though I knew I’d pay for that inability later on. The next morning, muscle fatigue set in, leaving my muscles all the flexibility of petrified wood. Every move hurt in my back and shoulders, and my legs… well, I didn’t move those too much. I should, however, say that things would probably have been much worse if not for a certain darling mother’s early-morning 7-11 trip, which made an ice bath possible and thereby sped my recovery. Between that and the daily walks, my legs have gotten to the point where they can support me through a brief jog.

I had expected an extreme test of my focus, my fitness, my will. In that way, too, the 50-miler satisfied. The results of my trial, however, were surprising. I’ve realized something, something that will take more time, (and a whole ‘nother post) to describe.

I had an epiphany yesterday, regarding Back on My Feet‘s ultramarathon.

My brother’s been extremely helpful with the ultra, eliminating my concerns with parking and driving home afterwards (I doubt I’ll be in any condition to drive, after all). He, together with my fiance and some old teammates, plan on standing on the sidelines and offering whatever help is needed. They also want to jump in as pacers at the end of the race, to keep me focused and motivated.

Their support– which is by no means limited to this weekend– enables me to do great things. Without my pit crew, I wouldn’t have the focus I’ll need to complete a 50-miler.

I understand just how lucky I am. After all, there are many people in our world who never had such an amazing support system– Among them, the urban homeless represented by Back on My Feet. These are men and women who can achieve great things, if they just have the support.

Tomorrow, we will be their support. The relay teams, the joggers and ultramarathoners. The volunteers, whose sacrifices utterly dwarf mine. That was my realization.

My race is just one tiny struggle in a world of struggles. By perservering, I am joining, supporting, and being supported by our common humanity.