What exactly IS the point of running a marathon?

There are a million reasons why somebody might drop out of a marathon. OK, maybe not a million. But a lot.

Many are practical: a freak injury suffered mid-race; light-headedness that zaps your concentration; extreme cramps; extreme GI distress; hyponatremia; dehydration; heat exhaustion. A serious runner with a serious goal might bail -- upon realizing it's not going to be his or her day -- in order to preserve fitness for a backup race.

Poor judgment also can lead to a DNF: going out way too fast, or simply toeing the starting line without having properly trained for the distance.

And of course, some runners drop out simply because... well, because dropping out is easy.

Anyone who's run multiple marathons knows the feeling. A race starts to go badly. The body rebels. The mind swells with disappointment, frustration, disgust. "What am I doing out here?" "My finish time is going to suck. What's the point?" "I just want to be done." "Marathons are stupid."

The truth is, marathons ARE kind of stupid. One way to look at it is that we're paying $100-plus for the unique opportunity to run until our quads, hamstrings and calves twist themselves into pretzels, after which we walk around for the next two days like we're carrying a five-pound bag of ice between our legs.

But somewhere along the way Saturday -- as I struggled through the Kiawah Island Marathon and fended off my own very strong urge to quit -- I managed to find answers to the "What's the point?" question. Those answers helped me finish the race.

As most of you who follow me on Facebook know, I had headed for Kiawah feeling extraordinarily fit, highly motivated to pursue a second Boston Marathon qualifying time, having aced virtually every workout my coach (Kelly Fillnow) had thrown at me.

I also, however, felt trepidation. Sandwiched between two very good running days, weather-wise, Saturday's forecast looked to be an anomaly: unseasonably mild and humid all morning. My average finish time for the past five marathons I've raced in cool, dry air is 3:21. The last time I attempted 26.2 on a mild, humid day? I crossed the line in 4:05.

It turned out to be 57 degrees and 90 percent humidity at the start Saturday; 71 degrees when I finished. Ideal for a summer marathon, perhaps, but a shock to the system in December.

Now, I've decided not to bore people this time with a mile-by-mile recap, but I will point out some lowlights: Just over one-third of the way through the course, nine miles in, I was counting down backward from 100 -- a mind game I wasn't expecting to have to resort to until Mile 20 or 21.

When the half-marathoners split off at Mile 12, I wanted to cry. When the 3:15 pace group passed me between 14 and 15, I wanted to scream. Any second wind I'd been hoping to grab onto eased on down the road with the chatty guy wearing the orange T-shirt and carrying his little white flag.

The white flag. The white flag. Oh, how I wanted to wave one of my own, for an entirely different purpose.

What am I doing out here?, I thought. I could so easily drop out, just ask my friend who was cheering at Mile 16 if I could borrow her bike, pedal it back to the finish area. Or, hitch a ride with this volunteer passing by on the golf cart...

But I squelched those thoughts. And in my mind, therein lies the point.

Marathons things are supposed to be hard. They're supposed to pummel you to within an inch of your last bit of resolve. Beyond it, even. They want you to quit. They dangle a tantalizing carrot, and then three-quarters of the way through the race, they hide it behind their backs and are all like, "What do you mean? What carrot?"

According to Athlinks, I've run 93 races since the fall of 2008. I've dropped out of only two. Both were triathlons, and both were due to mechanical issues on the bike that made it impossible to continue.

The urge was pretty strong Saturday. Strong enough that my mind was rehearsing what I'd say to people in the hours and days ahead. "Oh, it just wasn't my day." "The humidity was killing me." "I wanted to save myself for Myrtle Beach." "I just didn't feel like running anymore."

But they were all excuses. Easy outs. Euphemisms for "I quit because I felt like quitting."


So at Mile 20 -- with 6.2 looong miles to go -- I stopped focusing on excuses and reminded myself the value of staying out there and continuing to struggle. "Kelly did the best she could to get me ready. She never gives up, and she doesn't expect her athletes to give up. I'm not giving up." "My wife and I have raised our daughter to understand that anything truly worth achieving or obtaining is difficult to achieve or obtain. What kind of example would I be setting by quitting simply because I felt like quitting?" And, "Will dropping out make me feel better or worse tomorrow/a week from now/a month from now?"

That last question is key. Ask yourself this, the next time you are in the darkest of places during a race, and strive for clarity as you answer it. I think you'll come to the conclusion I did.


Is there heartbreak involved? OF COURSE. While I recognize 3:28 is still a very respectable marathon time (landing me at 89th out of 897), missing a goal by so much does sting.

You all can surely relate, no matter where you fall on the board. A 2:20 is an out-of-this-world marathon time... unless you're an elite male trying to win Chicago. If 4:30 is your fastest time, and you're trying to go faster, 5:00 is going to be irritating no matter what your friend with the 5:30 PR says to try to cheer you up.

I finished the race, though, while 62 other runners who started the Kiawah Island Marathon did not, for one reason or another. I suspect that in time, I'll be as proud of this marathon as I am all of my others.

Revered running coach Pete Pfitzinger once wrote: "The marathon is a test of endurance. If you casually drop out of a marathon once, it will be all too easy to drop out again, as it legitimizes that option when things get tough."

I can't yet say I'm a 2015 Boston Marathon qualifier. But I can say that when things got tough on Saturday, so did I.

I DNF'd, and the reason why will surprise you

The story of my Santa Barbara Long Course Triathlon experience is a story that accentuates my stupidity, my ignorance, and my lack of attention to detail.

In Act 1, I make a reasonably big mistake. In Act 2, I make what appears to be a grave error in judgment. I am able to turn things around in Act 3. But stay on your toes: There's a twist ending in this one that rivals "The Sixth Sense."

Anyway, here goes.

I signed up for this race four months ago, and it was planned as part of a reunion with a college friend who lives in Southern California and has recently gotten very absorbed in triathlon. We chose Santa Barbara because of the anticipated beautiful setting and the unique distances -- 1-mile swim, 34-mile bike, 10-mile run. It was a race that would mark several firsts for me: First time doing a triathlon outside of North Carolina, first time doing a race with an ocean swim, and the first time traveling with my bike.

It took some time to figure out the bike situation. (Tri Bike Transport and similar services sadly were not an option for this race.) I originally had decided, after talking to Melissa Bell at Inside Out Sports, that I would pack and ship my P2. Renting was an early option, but we decided 34 miles was just long enough that it was worth the hassle of shipping.

Unfortunately, it was a slow option, and would require me to be without my bike for at least a week before and after the race. So after further waffling -- and further discussions with Kelly Fillnow (my coach) and Melissa Bell -- I decided to fly with my bike instead. Inside Out Sports would take apart and pack my Cervelo in a Trico Iron Case, and I'd pay United Airlines' fee for bikes: $100 each way. I'd be responsible for rebuilding it in California and then repacking it after the race.

So, the first error: The flight was booked through United, but the flight was operated by US Airways. But I didn't give that little detail a second thought for all those months and weeks before the race, didn't consider it as I loaded it onto the shuttle at the long-term parking lot at the Charlotte airport, didn't think about it as I wheeled it up to the check-in counter. So, imagine my surprise when the agent told me it would be a whopping $200 each way to travel with the bike case.

I asked if there was anything they could do, they said sorry, no. I wheeled the case down to United and asked them if there was anything they could do; they said sorry, no. The lesson here, of course, is read the fine print, think it through logically, then confirm, confirm, confirm.

All that planning, and a stupid assumption had tripped me up. Badly. I mean, $200 round trip for my bike seemed reasonable. $400 seemed laughable. $400 for 34 miles on my bike, plus putting it at risk of loss or damage, plus the hassle of having to play bike mechanic in California, especial given the fact that I'm a horrible bike mechanic. (More on that later.)

Needing some counsel/reassurance, I called James Haycraft at Inside Out Sports (my most trusted source for tri and bike advice); he recommended renting. So I hopped back onto a parking shuttle and stashed the case back in my trunk.

Meanwhile, my friend Doug -- the college friend I was doing the race with -- made some calls and reserved a Cannondale Slice for me at Nytro in Encinitas. $150 for two days. Done. I was off to Orange County.

Once there, I learned Doug had connected with a guy in his tri club who had a Felt S22 that he no longer used, and was offering it up as a loaner to me. Free to me sounded even better than $150, so we went for it. We met up with him, it looked decent, he was 5-6 and since I'm 5-7, I figured size-wise it would be easy to tweak. The frame was not carbon and the wheelset was not aero (the P2 back in my trunk in Charlotte had sweet Zipps on it courtesy of Inside Out Sports), but it appeared to be fine. The only thing that stood out to me was the fact that there was only one pair of holes to attach a bottle cage, and it was on the seat tube not the down tube -- high enough up that it was a little awkward to get a standard size bottle out of it while riding. The guy also said he'd had bad luck with flats on the tires, and gave us a set of Continentals to swap on.

I thanked him in the form of a $50 Amazon gift card, we stuck the bike on Doug's hitch rack, and took off.

When we got back to Doug's house, I went for a very short spin on it, and it was clear the seatpost was set too high for me. I was surprised, since the owner of it was a bit shorter. We lowered it. Still too high. Lowered it some more. Still too high. Bottomed it out to where the post starts widening to prevent it from being lowered any further. Still just a bit too high, I felt. But I'd survive.

The next morning, we swapped out those tires. Since I barely know how to change a tire, Doug did most of the work, though I helped with the back wheel and was able to get it both off and then back on the chain myself.

On the way out of The OC, we stopped by a bike shop, and an employee there confirmed that he could not get the saddle any lower and that I was indeed maybe 1 cm too high.

At this point, I was beginning to suspect the cosmic forces of the universe were trying to tell me something...

Fast-forward to that evening, when me, Doug, and another college buddy of ours, Ryan, went out to ride the 10-mile run course. From the get-go, the S22 just did not feel right. It felt heavy, it felt sluggish, it felt like I was working hard but not going as fast as I always do on my P2. The boys seemed to be easily gapping me, Doug on his P2 and Ryan on his P5. This coupled with the seatpost issue was discouraging me and making me miss my bike. We got back to the hotel and I told them the bike felt heavy, and told them I was changing my expectations, especially after the three of us having driven the at-points-very-hilly bike course earlier in the day.

I was starting to wish I had paid the $400.

OK, race morning. Swim was slow but solid for me, and I got through T1 fast. Jumped on the bike, and set out. And immediately, it did not feel right. I was pedaling hard, and it felt like I was pedaling through mud. People were passing me like I was standing still. I didn't pass a single person. In most tris, I find that on the bike, I pass about 3 people for every 2 that pass me. I knew this wasn't right. But here I was, wearing an aero helmet and getting mopped up in the first 3 miles. By the time my Garmin buzzed with the first 5-mile split, I had already started thinking DNF. But the statistic was beyond abhorrent. 20 minutes and change, which I'd later discover was a 14.7 mph average.

I pulled over to the side of the road, and didn't really know what to do. I pretended to look at my bike, but being a terrible bike mechanic, I didn't really know what to look for. I weighed my options. I could carry on and just get through it and then try to get something done on the run, but I was pretty sure that I'd have nothing left, as the pedaling I had done already was difficult. And major hills awaited me, some slightly technical. Finally, after about 5 minutes, I happened to look at the rear brake pad. It appeared to be flush on the rim.

I'd basically been riding with the brakes on the entire time! I tried to tweak them without tools by re-centering them, and I also flipped up the lever normally used to open up the brakes to get the wheel off. That seemed to help. Hopped back on, started moving forward again. We turned right and headed up the first big climb of the day, and I passed about eight or 10 people without being passed. Got to the top and flew down. But as soon as I had to tap the brakes, they started rubbing again. 7-1/2 miles in, I hopped off again and got the bike tool out to try to make some adjustments. The critical Allen wrench screw I needed to loosen to open up the brakes more? Stripped.

I was done.

On the way back, the gears started skipping, too.

I should have rented that Slice, I thought. Or should have just sucked it up and paid the $400. Both of those things were easy to say now.

But I also was already thinking about how to make the day good, how to turn things around and get something positive out of all this. My race was over, but I knew I had an opportunity to help make my friends' better. I looked at my watch and realized I'd need to hustle to make sure I caught speedy Ryan coming into T2. Got there about 10-15 minutes before him. He was bewildered when I greeted him coming out of the run exit, but I filled him in quickly then worked on helping him keep pace around 7:15-7:20.

It was an out-and-back course, so at about Mile 6, we ran into Doug (who was at about Mile 4). Doug looked even more confused than Ryan had. I told him I was going to run him in, and yelled good luck to Ryan.

Everything about the run experience was fantastic. The weather was perfect, the ocean views were spectacular, the company was awesome. I played the rabbit role as well as I could for Ryan, and I prodded Doug as he felt a fade coming on in the final miles. Ryan, who'd done Santa Barbara the previous two years, wound up PRing the run course by 3 minutes; Doug said afterward that he never would have finished so fast without me. Both of these things made me feel great, and I sensed that the whole bike mess was a blessing: If I hadn't had so many problems, if I hadn't dropped out of the race, I never would have gotten the opportunity to run with these friends I hadn't seen in so long. Being able to help motivate others and help friends reach their goals is super-satisfying to me, and despite the day's frustrations, I loved every step of the run.

After I crossed the line with Doug, I declined the medal. (In hindsight, I should have taken it and given it to the nearest small child.)

Back in the transition area, I showed them the bike and upon spinning the rear wheel to prove it, realized that the tire actually had been rubbing against the frame itself, not the brake pad. The wheel was lopsided!

Oh well. Obviously -- OBVIOUSLY -- I was not meant to ride that race. It felt a little "Final Destination"-ish.

That afternoon, driving back to Orange County, we joked about asking for the Amazon gift card back, but also I wondered how he'd missed these issues with his bike.

That night, while removing the bottle cage I'd mounted on his aero bars, I spun the wheel one more time. It barely spun at all. Then Doug noticed something: The wheel itself had been mounted incorrectly.

It was like the moment when you realized Kevin Spacey was Keyser Soze. It all became clear. Everything.

After we'd changed the back tire, somehow, someway -- even though I've changed back tires before on my own bike -- I hadn't gotten it so the skewer was sitting flush in the frame, and had tightened it so the wheel was slightly off-center. As the problem seemed to worsen from the night of our test ride to race morning, and also over the course of the 14 miles I did ride that day, it apparently had gotten more lopsided over time, increasing the resistance when pedaling.

Thinking back on it as I fly home to Charlotte, I believe it might have been the universe telling me that I had bitten off more than I could chew by planning to try to rebuild my Cervelo on my own for the race. Even with Doug's help, what if I'd missed something critical that caused a wreck?

After we realized the cause of the problem, Doug looked at me, grinned, and said, "We won't tell anyone about this."

He's a good man for saying that, but the fact is, it's a great lesson. I know it's a moronic mistake and I understand that it's worth a laugh at my expense. I'm OK with that. I think bonehead moves make great stories.

The lesson, though, is this: Be careful. Pay attention to detail. Check your own work. Then have someone else check your work for you. (I should have used the free bike check at the race expo.)

Oh, and do not fly US Airways if you want to fly with your bike.

From tragedy, runner emerges with new resolve

Demi Clark, 1/4-mile from the finish last Monday

The following column was written by Demi Clark, 36, of Fort Mill. According to at least one photograph, the timing clock read 4 hours, 9 minutes and 44 seconds when the first bomb was detonated at the Boston Marathon last Monday. Clark's official gun time for the race: 4 hours, 9 minutes and 46 seconds.

It's Sunday night. I just tucked my kids into bed, almost identically to the way I have every night of their short first- and third-grade lives. Kisses, plus a hug, and an "I love you." The only addition -- which has been part of the routine since Monday, April 15 -- "Do you all feel safe tonight? Mommy and Daddy are here if you need us."

My husband and I not only consider ourselves lucky to ask that question every night, we are downright grateful and blessed to do so. The parents of precious 8-year-old Martin Richard can't do that anymore. The parents of Krystle Campbell and Lü Lingzi can no longer call their children and ask, "Do you feel safe tonight?" And countless families are still in the hospital, supporting loved who are in critical condition, or without limbs, who face long, long roads ahead. That's thanks to two terrorists, who have changed the world as all of us know it.

I happened to be "that girl with the pigtails" who was 10 feet from the finish line of the Boston Marathon as the first bomb exploded and we found ourselves in a war. I say "war," because I'm also a health coach. I have clients who are soldiers currently downrange in Afghanistan; they called me later, saying we all earned our "combat stress" badge that day. The sights, sounds, smells, and horror are all still very fresh in my memory. Yet I NEVER want to forget. If we forget, we can't change the future for the better.

I also coach Girls on the Run, and nothing is more rewarding than seeing those 9- to 11-year-olds happy, healthy, active. Their actions and their attitudes inspire others to get off their iPads and move. They help make the world a happier, healthier place.

Happy, healthy people don't place handmade bombs next to 8-year-old children, knowing the immense destruction that will follow. Happy, healthy people do things like participate in the Boston Marathon; happy, healthy people have raised $127.9 million since the Boston Marathon Charity Program started in 1989.

So, today is not the day to scream at the guy who cuts you off in traffic. It's not the day to eat a can of frosting because you can start eating healthy tomorrow. (I had an eating disorder for two decades -- trust me, it won't make you feel better.) It's not the day to ignore your mom. Or your children. It's not the day to work late -- for the 100th day in a row.

It IS the day to pay it forward. Take your dog for an extra-long walk. Buy your neighbor a Starbucks. Lace up your shoes for the first (or one-thousand and fifty-first) time. Our lives have a true purpose. Honor yours by being good to yourself, taking care of your body, and being HAPPY and HEALTHY. Runners have a "runner's high" for a reason -- those endorphins are scientifically proven to make us happier. Runners truly love what they do. I haven't met too many angry ones. Runners wanting to be faster? Yes. Angry? No.

In coaching, we have a saying: "So what? Now what?" I've asked myself that a million times in the past week. What are the odds of me being right there at that horrific moment (with my family right there in the finish-line bleachers), with 26,999 other runners ahead of or behind me? Why was I spared, without so much as a scratch on my body? I will never know the answer. But what I do know is that I'm still here -- and now, I feel this overwhelming need to inspire people.

My goal then, from here on out, is to motivate as many people as possible to get off the couch. I want to urge everyone to draw up a vision board, to decide on a goal, then to make it happen. I have a quote from Homer on my home-office desk that says, "Go forth confidently in the direction of your dreams!" It has served as my internal compass for  years. Find yours. Faith over fear, life worth not net worth -- whatever your quote, pick something that puts the fire in your belly to be better, and go do it. Let's get each other off the couch. It's OUR time to win.

Demi Clark's daughters, waiting for mom at the finish line

How I qualified for the Boston Marathon

So there I was, at Mile 22 of the Myrtle Beach Marathon. I'm passing the timing clock that's set up next to the mile marker, and I'm doing math. Generally, I'm horrible at math -- flunked out of it in college -- but I've done enough time-based calculations as a Garmin-obsessed runner that this much is clear: If I don't push through, if I start falling off the pace too much, it ain't happenin' today.

If you've run a marathon (and have had a time goal in that marathon), you've been here. It's decision time. It's make-or-break time. It's the time to ask, "Do I feel like suffering today, or not?"

I've certainly run marathons where the answer has been "HAHAHAHAHAHA! No." But today? Today, I wasn't taking no for an answer. I'd come too far. It wasn't so much the 22 miles I'd covered in the previous 160+ minutes. Rather, it was the long, hard months of training. The early mornings. The "Honey, I'll be late for dinners." The two- and three-shower days. The screaming legs. The burning lungs. All of it.

I haven't come this far or worked this hard, I told myself, to miss my goal by 30 seconds and endure all the "Oh, man, you were so close! Great try" pats on the back for the next two weeks.

Down went my head, narrow went my eyes. This was happenin' today.

___

We talk about goal-setting all the time as runners, and how goals provide motivation during training, how they act as a metaphorical carrot on the end of a metaphorical stick.

What separates Boston from other goals -- from breaking 30 minutes in a 5K to running 100 miles in a 24-hour race -- is that it leads somewhere. To a place. Break 30 minutes in a 5K and your husband might bake you a cake. Qualify for the Boston Marathon, and you have a plane ticket to buy and a hotel room to book.

But Boston means different things to different runners. Plenty of slower runners will never qualify, and might be jealous of people who do. (At the same time, many of those folks who will never qualify also couldn't care less.) On the other end of the spectrum are the fastest among us, gazelles who could run a qualifying time while pushing a shopping cart; for them, fretting about Boston would be like a millionaire coveting his buddy's new Toyota.

Then there are runners on the cusp. Fit, but not phenomenally so. Fast, but not freakish. Runners like me. In 2011, I gave it a shot, needing a sub-3:10 and falling more than three minutes short. I waited almost 16 months to try again.

Both in 2011 and this time around, while preparing for Myrtle Beach, I was coached by Kelly Fillnow -- a friend who also happens to be a professional triathlete sponsored by Timex. Her marathon training plans focus on quality miles instead of large quantities of miles, fierce intensity on hard days and true recovery on easy ones, as well as a significant amount of strength work -- core, legs, and upper body, too. Lot of workout variety, lot of goal-pace miles, some cross-training added to further mix things up.

This time around, since I turn 40 in September and would be 40 at Boston 2014, I had an extra five minutes to work with. But instead of training for a sub-3:15, I trained for a sub-3:10; doing so was, without a doubt, a huge key to my success. Hang on, and I'll explain.

___

Once you make it through a successful training cycle and you've reached the taper feeling healthy and strong, the last remaining unknown (excuse?) is always the weather. Watching the forecast over the two weeks leading up to this one was like watching "The Walking Dead" -- full of suspense, and sometimes you were afraid to even look. The night before, the AccuWeather app for my iPhone was even showing possible scattered showers in the morning.

So it was a surprise to be able to see stars in the sky while walking to the start on Saturday morning,  a surprise to see the sun come up during the first few miles of the race, and a truly great surprise that -- despite concerns the sun's presence might sap energy -- there wasn't a single moment in the race where I felt too warm. Or too cold. It was perfect. Weather-wise.

Legs-wise, it took me a long time to get comfortable. When I run marathons, I often do battle with shin splints during the first few miles. This almost never happens during training runs or workouts, and generally -- using my wisdom as an armchair exercise and sports scientist -- I attribute it to the fact that do no warmup before marathon. But this time, I had more trouble shaking the pain than usual.

My goal going in was to start slow: 7:40 the first mile, 7:30 the second, 7:20 the third, then get to 7:15 (goal pace). My actual was: 7:39, 7:29, 7:27, 7:27. I couldn't get comfortable. My shins were hurting. On top of that, my calves, hamstrings and quads -- OK, my entire legs -- just felt tight and generally crappy. Miles 5 and 6 were both 7:29, and at that point, I made a clear and conscious decision to adjust my game plan. 7:15 splits were out the window, at least the time being. Let's work through this stuff with your legs, I told myself. Let's stay relaxed. 7:26 pace will get you under 3:15; we can work with this. It was way early to be starting to lean on mantras, but I did it anyway. "Trust your training. Trust your training. Trust your training. Trust your training." I must have said it 300 times between Miles 7 and 10 ... and somewhere in there, my legs (shins included) started behaving.

The second segment of the race -- Miles 10 through 20 -- definitely were my most confident. My splits started trending down into the 7-teens, my breathing became less labored, there was more fluidity in my leg muscles, and my headspace was just cooler and calmer.

I hit the halfway point at 1:37:52, and took a gut check. Yeah, I was feeling good. Not great, but certainly way better than I'd been feeling half an hour earlier. Yet I couldn't see the end of the race, and it was frustrating. What I mean by that is ... well, let's put it this way: I worked so hard to visualize a positive outcome, and to think positive thoughts, and to stay in a positive frame of mind. But unless you're a machine, it's very hard to push ALL negative thoughts out of your head. And during the first 20 miles at Myrtle, every time I tried to visualize how I'd feel or where I'd be in the last 6.2, I was getting the equivalent of bad radio reception. It was just fuzz. Inky-black. Instead of a blank spot in my past, I had like this blank spot in my future.

So I started with another mantra, mixed in with the first one. This time, it was "Embrace the pain. Embrace the pain. Embrace the pain." Kelly had told me before the race, "Each mile, just keep believing in yourself, and know that the pain is going to be there. Your body can endure so much more than you think it can. When it gets tough, just tell yourself, 'Pain is my friend.' Make friends with pain, admit he is there, and then know that you can overcome the pain. Pain is a temporary state." I know, I know. It sounds like a line. But I was buying it. Mile 16, I was like, BRING IT. My split for Mile 16 was 7:15. It would turn out to be my fastest mile of the day, the only mile I hit what is the goal pace for a 3:10 marathon. It was the most familiar mile I ran all morning. (More on this soon, I promise.)

7:21, 7:22, 7:20, 7:18, 7:18, 7:24, and suddenly, here I am at Mile 22 of the Myrtle Beach Marathon. There's that timing clock next to the mile marker. There's me doing math, and I suck at math. It's decision time. That fuzzy, inky-black blank spot is starting to come into focus, and I'm all of a sudden, I just said "F--- this." Those two words would become the mantra that got me to a Boston qualifying time. It's crude, I know. It's a crutch to use profanity, I know. But I also know that sometimes I need to get mad to get motivated. I was just ready to be done. To get this done. To reap the rewards of all those long, hard training runs. Literally, the next 31-32 minutes would validate (or not) months of training, and serve as the difference between "Congratulations, you did it!" and "Aww... well, congratulations, that's still a great time!" I kept hearing the latter statement over and over and over and over again in my head. And once again, I was like "F--- this." Ain't nobody got time for that.

___

The last mile was a victory lap. On the corner before turning into the long chute near Pelicans Ballpark, where the finish line is, I spotted my wife and daughter. They raced along with me, on the other side of the netting, until I made the final turn and could make out the clock. That was my favorite part of the whole race. I crossed the timing mat and hit my watch right at 3:14:13 (which would match precisely my official chip time), pumping my fist a couple times.

I haven't cried in years, and there's really no good reason to cry over a silly running race, but I can't deny I got a little choked up after this one. It wasn't elation, I don't think. I hadn't fulfilled a lifelong dream. I merely set a tough (for me) goal, worked hard to put myself in a position to achieve it, then went out and got it done. So I don't know. I think it was a mixture of pride and relief. Pride because not everybody can do what I did; relief because now that I've done it, it's a badge I can always wear even if I never want to pursue that goal again. I didn't weep, but in an emotional sense it was really very overwhelming. I wasn't expecting it.

___

I really have no doubt that the quest to qualify for the Boston Marathon has turned many otherwise average runners into very good runners, because they become so driven to achieve a goal that -- for better or worse -- says something significant about a runner's prowess. The mere existence of the Boston Marathon makes the running community faster than it might otherwise be.

With that in mind, I leave you with this: Set big goals. Huge ones. Test your limits. You're thinking, Ugh, what a cliche, right? But as Kelly said, your body can endure so much more than you think it can. For example, say someone's got a marathon PR of 4:10, and they decide they want to break four hours. What do most people do? They train to run a 3:59. Right? So they get out there, and they run a 3:58, and they're ecstatic. Wait a second, though. What if that same runner had instead trained for a 3:50? Maybe they're not a 3:50 marathoner, but maybe the extra push puts them in such good shape that they go out and run a 3:54. I'm admittedly bad at math, but even I know 3:54 is four minutes faster than a 3:58. And they've found what, for now, is their limit, instead of doing "just enough" to hit their goal.

Now, I realize this is just a theory. But I've tested it. In 2011, my other BQ attempt, I trained for sub-3:10 and ran a 3:13. This time around, my qualifying mark was 3:15, but I again decided to train for sub-3:10. All my goal pace work was at 7:15/mile, and I went into race day planning on getting after a sub-3:10. So the truth of the matter here is that I missed my goal of sub-3:10, but still ran as fast as I possibly could, on as flat a course as there is, in as perfect weather as I could have asked for. I believe the limits of my ability today are a 3:14 marathon.

If I had trained to run 3:15, if my goal pace work had all been at 7:26/mile, then I'd gone in feeling "off" and was slower than that by 10-15 seconds per mile for the first 10 miles ... all I can say is that conversation I had with myself out there at Mile 22 on Saturday would have gone a bit differently.