An ode to the Marathon

I'm flying over the Atlantic just between France and Spain for my yearly Christmas trip back to Lisbon. For some reason, I just remembered the blog post I always wanted to write. This one is not about tech, but it's about something I'm equally passionate about: The Marathon.

Funnily - I'm flying pretty close from where my last battle went down: right off the beautiful Cote d'Azure, about 1 month ago, for the Nice Marathon, my seventh in ~3 years.

And if that makes you think that Duarte is probably addicted. You're probably right. But I would argue I'm not addicted to the Marathon itself. I'm addicted to the process.

Let me explain.

• "What's your shoe rotation?"
• "What gear should I buy?"
• "Should I join a run club?"

All of these miss the point of running completely. Running is a solo sport. And a marathon prep is a tough mental challenge to do well. "I have to work", "I won't make it this time", "I'm feeling tired today". These are just a small taste of the challenge you are really up against: yourself.

Why would you even? Why would you get up when it's dark and wet outside? Why would you go out for a run when it's the 17th of December on the windy coastline of Denmark? Because you know what lies ahead.

After those dark and lonely training months the day finally gets here. Most of us have a superstitious pre-race routine. Something that helps us re-gain the mental strength that things will go according to plan (spoiler alert: They never do). Mine is pretty simple: (1) lay the kit in the ground near the bed, and (2) make sure you have half a dose of Banana chocolate chip Gatosport ready for next morning.

Nerves are cracking. Thousands of people lined up with you. If you look closely you can tell: the more to the front people are, the more nervous they are. This is the moment you have been waiting for. There's music, there's announcements, there's noise. A lot of people dance and get excited, I can't bear myself to. The nerves are just too much.

The start of a Marathon gives me of a feeling I only got in Highschool, when the teacher was walking around the classroom, grading everyone one by one. I was always nervous waiting to hear if I had gotten more than a 10 out of 20.

All this bullshit, all this music, announcements, all of this dancing around the fire. Now we're going. Some will say the inspiration comes from within. For the first two-thirds of a Marathon, I often find myself looking sideways. Not because I'm comparing myself to them. But because I can CLEARLY see it! I can see the exact same pain I'm experiencing. It's a rare moment to be surrounded by a group of people all experiencing the same painful experience at the exact same time. You don't know why they are suffering, why they decided to to this, where they are from, or what they're called - but you know what they're thinking. The same as you.

Now you've done the hardest part. You've run for 30 Km. You've trained for this: You're ready. Just some of the things I wish I told myself right around that section. The actual thoughts are a mix of "I don't want to do this", "I should've trained harder", "I can walk a bit - what's wrong with that", "I will never run a Marathon again". Welcome to the wall.

Even having run a 'respectable' amount of Marathons, the feeling never goes away. Hopefully, you'll plow through. Even if you do start slowing down, even if you lose the pacer or group, you'll keep going.

"You've already ran 40K! You're not going to stop now!" I often remember that American lady shouting at me from the sideline in Vienna some years ago. She was most definitely right.

Yes, those 2 Km now feel like 200. Yes, your legs are tired. But you can see it! You can see that finish line. You made it! Weirdly, you can sprint now; all the pain goes away. It's the culmination of months of effort and hours of pain. This is where you'll probably shed a tear and celebrate with your loved ones.

Personal-best or not, perfect-race or not. You've done more than 99% of people that day. And that's something to be proud of.

Now comes the hangover. For some it's a week, for some it's 6 months, for others, it lasts years. No running. No exercise. You've done your part. You've done well. But then… Slowly… You start thinking about it. "It can't be always that painful", "There are at least 2 or 3 things I could've done better!", "I'm running already, I should probably do a race..."

And that's when you book your next one.