Marathon Dan

 DAYS REMAINING: 340

As I mentioned way back with 359 days left:

There are moments when this entire thing seems impossible. Not the “person I am marrying” part of the process; Eric and I have always thought quite highly of one another during our lengthy courtship. What I’m referring to is the actual event of our nuptials. The “being at my own wedding” part. The moment when we will walk into the room in the pictures from yesterday’s entry, look at our attending friends and family, and know that we are at Our Wedding. In 359 days. In Iceland. It’s a type of outlandish that borders on the supernatural.

Of course, by the time I wrote those words our move to New York was already in the books. And at some point (probably right around the moment we celebrate our one-day wedding anniversary on August 20, 2011), somehow, impossibly, this wedding is also going to be in our rearview mirror. Having successfully completed our move to New York -- just the fact that we DID it and it's OVER --  is one reason I can be certain of this fact. Another reason comes from a different, yet equally pivotal event that took place earlier in 2010:

That is a photo of me running the 25th Annual Los Angeles Marathon. Talk about an event I cannot believe is over.

I have always been a runner. My earliest memories of it stem back to the early 1980s when my mom, in an incredibly successful effort to lose weight, took it up with a fervor. Though she worked until 8 or 9 every night, she would immediately rally, get ready, and go. As soon as I was old enough, I began accompanying her on my bicycle, chaperoning her around the mean streets of Massapequa while she increased her mileage to four, five, six miles.

Here’s me, at around six, going to cheer mom on at a race. I’m the one in the headlock. She's the one putting me there.

Now an adult with a fairly rigorous work schedule of my own, I understand more keenly than ever the sacrifices she made to integrate this activity into her life. But to me, as hard as it is to come home, change my clothes, and complete a five-mile run after leaving work at 10pm, that’s how much worse I feel when I don’t do it.

I try not to talk about it much. A friend at work recently told me a story about a Facebook update she saw, scoffing, “This guy was like, ‘Oh, I’m so surprised because I thought I was going to run four miles and then I looked up and was like oh man I accidentally ran ten miles instead like I’m so awesome can you believe that happened I mean wow.’ And I got SO mad and was like REALLY we don’t all need to hear it god.” Pause. “Whatever, I’m just jealous, probably.” So, yeah. I discovered that people don’t want to hear that much about it, and I’m happy to oblige.

Except, of course, during the six months spent training for the marathon. It had always been a dream of mine to do one (one of my earliest memories is my mom taking us in to watch the New York Marathon from a family friend’s Upper West Side apartment), and when the Los Angeles Marathon changed its course to celebrate its 25th anniversary, I decided it was time. Besides, Eric and I already knew we were leaving LA, so what better way to celebrate than by seeing all of LA laid out before me on foot (while, in a strange irony, running in the opposite direction of New York for all 26.2 miles).

And so I woke up at 6am every Saturday for those six months, running 10, 12, 16, 20 miles at a time and still getting home before 10am. The incredibly long runs were supplemented with four or five miles a day, three times a week. And then, in March, I ran 26.2 miles, and lived to tell about it (when I was supposed to be telling about my wedding). But I did live. I hurt. And I strained. And in the last three miles, I cried, laughed, talked out loud to friends and relatives living and dead, and wondered if I would ever not be running again. Then I ran like hell across that finish line. And I didn’t have to run anymore.

People say that the experience of running (and finishing) the marathon changes your life, which I always thought sounded crazy. But it’s completely true. Because, not to strain the metaphor as hard as I strained my calves, the race has one fixed finish point at the end of it. Sure, it is damn DAMN far from the place where you start, but that finish line is there, and it ain’t going anywhere. So I ran. And I ran. And then I found the finish. And that sensation, in retrospect, offers a sense of inevitability at the start of every new endeavor I undertake. The second I start something, it’s already over.

Such is the case with the wedding. Congratulations, Eric. Forget I do. We already did.