Marathon Blues

June 23, 2025

Greetings from the ache,

The Marathon Blues is not a song.

The marathon is a distance.  Bracketed between the start and finish of the distance, some people choose to run, each for their own reason, and all for the same reason.  It is also more than a distance, it is a place you are going to.  Ironically, the Marathon Blues is not principally caused by running the marathon. You could say that is caused by not running the marathon.

There is an absence, which is in itself a presence.  It seems as though for months you have had an intimate companion who has now left without saying goodbye.  This companion has been an echo for every sound you make, and now there is only silence.

When race is over, and you put your medal wherever you keep such things, and with it, perhaps your pride, you feel the soreness of your muscles, the twinges and pings of pain from the effort.  But there is this other ache.

This weekend I ran a marathon, weaving through a storm that blanketed that part of the world. The race was held on a beautiful stretch of coastline, altered from its usual stage for luxurious homes and yachts, to a demonstration of wild weather, featuring a bunch of people in bright colored clothing who seemed to be trying to outrun nature.

My race, like most of us who stepped up to the starting line, was a culmination of training, sacrifice, planning, grit, a little luck, held together with spit and sweat and hope.  For many runners, the miles of preparation started three or four months before they laced up for race day.

Running the race, the effort to make the span between the two lines, is not insignificant.  But the impact on the runner’s life, in time and effort and nearly any other measure, is mostly in the miles of preparation before the gun goes off. That time before, the place of promise, is symbiotic with the marathon.

The storm swept in as nature normally expresses itself; randomly, chaotic, unpredictable and beautiful.  We stood at the starting line thinking the rain had missed us, and minutes later the lightning creased right above, exploding the sky, releasing sheets of wet.

At one point we were running through a steady rain, when suddenly there was a rain inside the rain.  Enormous drops, crystal balloons of water falling within the ordinary deluge, so huge it was disorienting.  I turned to the woman running next to me, “What is happening!?” Even the sound changed, from the steady sigh of the commonplace drops, and then the sudden splash of these snow globes exploding on the pavement.

The rain surged and faded, teasing us with moments of dry sky, followed by white streaks of lighting and then a drenching shower.  As we came to an opening looking out across the lake, I saw the storm’s shape, a purple-black mass of muscle bullying across the sky, wrecking picnic plans.

People came in small packs to cheer the runners, huddled under umbrellas, holding soaked signs of encouragement. There was one woman who was jumping and shouting “I’m so proud of you!” I believed her.

 In the back of the pack where I ran, it seemed as though the storm was dissolving the runners. The crowds, the pace groups, reduced to knots of runners, then pairs, then stragglers, taking turns passing one another, trading little prayers of encouragement. All of us that eventually crossed the finish line squished our way back to wherever we woke up before dawn, wherever we left our sensible dry clothes.  Stiff legged, hobbling, leaning on people to step down curbs, wincing at simple movements we swore we’d never take for granted again.

When I woke up this morning, I could feel every place that in my body that played a part in that race, some of which I hadn’t heard from in a while.  And there is this other ache.  It’s not the first time I’ve experienced it but it still seemed new, a lesson I’d forgotten somehow. Again.

For months I have considered what I should eat, how much sleep to get, whether I should have that second beer.  I look at my running schedule every morning, I move into the world with that preparation foremost in my mind.  The ‘getting ready’, has been my companion for weeks upon weeks of hard work.  And now, where I had this intense focus, with an indefatigable partner, there is only a wet pair of running shoes, and this empty space. And this ache.

I imagine it is like the last curtain call, when the cast bows and then walks off the stage on closing night.  Or perhaps watching the boat you spent years building slip into the water and sail off, and then turning back to your workbench and seeing only the sawdust.

The Marathon Blues is the sudden absence of meaning, of direction, of passion for something important that waits ahead.  It is a necessary pain, for me, unavoidable, if I want to reach for some of what makes me feel most alive. The Marathon Blues is also a question: What next?

My experience has taught me that there is no other cure for the Marathon Blues except one: sign up for another marathon.

Hope this finds you shaking it off,

David

Copyright © 2025 David Smith