Every step

On Thankgiving day in Pittsburgh's Frick Park, I completed the longest run of my life. It was only 8 miles, but I trained for about 6 weeks to prepare for it. As it turned out, that was time well spent.

I'd say about 60 percent of the race was uphill. While that was probably not a major surprise or problem to the majority of the field, it was both to me. I trained entirely on flat land, despite my knowledge that Pittsburgh is not a flat place. Running up those hills was hard on every facet of my being, but most notably on my mind.
By mile 3.5, my thoughts began to drift to the growing pain in my thighs. By mile 5, I was sort of dizzy and disoriented. At mile 6.5--for the briefest of moments--I genuinely mistook a golden retriever for a puma. As I was running for the finish, I'm pretty sure my mental state would meet government standards for dementia. The biggest thing that kept me going was the thought of seeing my brother and my friend Dina at the finish line (they had both run races that day as well) and cartoon-like visions of dancing turkey drumsticks and heaping, smiling piles of stuffing in my mind.
Anyway, it wasn't a long race, but it was for me. And it makes me think back to a couple of months ago....
when I watched the New York marathon. One of the perks of living where I do was that it was just short walk across the park cheer the runners on at mile marker 24. I watched runners, wheelchair runners, Lance Armstrong and the very best elite runners all run by, each going through their own tests.
The elite runners are barely human. They were practically sprinting at mile 24, and didn't even seem to be breathing heavy. These people spend their lives running -- the winner of the women's race, a new mother, ran nearly every day of her pregnancy. The relief her daughter must've felt at her birth. It's like being released from a washing machine after 9 months on the spin cycle.
Lance was... Lance. He finished in 2:46:57, a significant improvement upon last year's time. I saw him run by, but only really got a good look at the back of his head. In that way, I guess I am like the majority of his competition.I loved watching the wheelchair runners. They all seemed to use their own model of chair... some where they were leaning forward and spinning the side wheels (like a normal wheelchair, only the hotrod version of it) and others had some sort of modified bicycle where their hands were like feet. Functionally, not anatomically.
One guy was clearly struggling. As he pushed his way slowly up the hill, the crowd that was gathered started clapping and yelling loudly for him. It sparked something, because he started pushing harder and picked up speed. His smiled curled, a Cheshire hopped up on adrenaline, and the small crowd responded. By the time he had started down the hill, he was high-fiving some people on the side of the road.
Later that week, I went running at my favorite spot--the O'Nassis reservoir in Central Park. There were a few times that day when I was tired, and when my brain started coming up with excuses for me to stop. I looked up and saw an old man in a sweatsuit right along the running path. He was holding a cane like it was a billy club; swinging and twirling it, a torpid ninja or octogenarian drum major. He seemed tentative, as if considering something.
I wasn't finished, so I just kept running. Since the path around the reservoir is a sort of oval, I wondered if I'd seem him again at the same spot. He wasn't there.
Instead, I noticed him up ahead. He was still holding his cane at waist-height, out away from his body. And he was limping along, each step a big and seemingly painful struggle. The thing was -- the reservoir is about 1.5 miles around... so this guy had a long way to go. But the better thing was -- he knew he had a long way to go when he started.And that's what kept me running that day.
But every day is different. It's good to know that inspiration can come from many different places--be they your friends and family, phantom turkey legs, the fear of puma mauling, or just an old guy in the autumn chill who won't let himself stand still for long.