Marathon Months

Last September, after returning to the U.S. from a few years spent living and working in Japan, I decided to hunker down in Spokane, WA, for the winter. I found a couple of great roommates, whom I later found were also the couple that raised me and often referred to themselves as my “parents.” I graced their home with my presence once again, and even offered not to pay any rent. I graciously donated my appetite to my Mother’s ridiculously awesome cooking, and agreed at my Father’s request to use his truck in the interest of assuring that it did not remain idle throughout Spokane’s fickle weather.

Regardless of the good deeds I was doing for my roommates by watching the house during the day (cup of coffee and book in hand), I soon discovered a sensation that was not unlike anxiety mixed with boredom. I began to feel strange effects, even shocks, which others attributed to my jump from living in one culture to another. I felt weird. I was no longer a high school student, nor was I a college guy home for vacation. It became clear that, in addition to a job, I needed something—an activity—that would ground me in what felt like a period of sheer groundlessness.

In those tumultuous fall days—the ones where joblessness, being in an a cross-continental relationship, and feeling like a fish out of water were the prevalent forces contributing toward my being, what my roommates called, a “grumpy dumpling”—I had one activity that never ceased to bring me out of my glum-ridden funk: running. Running has always done that for me. In situations where I can’t seem to generate an ounce of effort, I go on a run and come back feeling like I’ve actually done something worthwhile, like I’m on a path to somewhere, like I’m the personification of proactivity. So, I deduced, what better goal to set, what greater sight to zone in on during this transition period than training for a marathon.

The story goes that the marathon was born when a Greek soldier ran from the town of Marathon to Athens (without stopping) to announce they had defeated the Persians in battle. He collapsed from exhaustion, and died after delivering his message. How the marathon evolved over the many years into what it is today is beyond my knowledge, but having done one prior to this last one, I knew that training for and finishing a marathon is an undoubtedly transforming, rewarding, and painful experience. I saw the marathon as a way to rub out a little bit of emotional pain with A LOT of physical pain.

During my days without a job, it was easy to hit my goal miles. I would wake up, eat a good breakfast, go on my run and then spend the day recovering, i.e. reading or watching movies. But this relatively short period ended after I scored a couple jobs, and I began to have to fit my runs into weeks of sometimes 50 or 60 hours of work. The weather also turned for the worse, too, and my snow-less running days became trudges and fords through white drifts and slush ponds. Some days I just couldn’t do it, be it being tired from work or simply not having the time, or some other form of empty justification.

Some days were euphoric, others hopeless. Some days would be an early 14-mile run followed by an 8-hour workday, others would be the icing on the cake of a day-off. Some days, I would start my runs so fucking angry at some narcissistic bullshit, and then come back an hour later feeling like I was at the balancing point of mind, in total equilibrium. A situation or dilemma would often resolve itself during a run. Sometimes I couldn’t find a rhythm for the life of me, and others I swear I could have run a distance no shorter than Forever, I felt so good.

The race itself was a combination of all those feelings, but they were wrapped up so tightly and economically that they became a source of energy, not objects for reflection. I'm sure there were times when I felt anger, pain, happiness, and euphoria during my first marathon, but this second one seemed so much more emotionally cathartic but, by comparison to my first, strikingly unsentimental. I felt like I was running out 5 months of psychic lactic acid, liquid frustration that would have paralyzed me had I not had this goal of running 26.2 miles at a pace that ended up clocking me in at the finish line at 3 hours and 17 minutes. I didn’t really care too much about the time, although I knew before that I would do well when I left the starting line.

During these first few weeks in the wake of my marathon, I am feeling that day-after-Christmas cloud, that post-main-event funk that can be dangerous if its not seen for what it is: transitional, temporary, and normal. So, what I did today was I threw on my running shoes, figured I’d given my body enough time to allow for just a little run, c’mon just a little run, so that I can taste that feeling of accomplishment and no-self that comes with a good run at dusk.

Cute

There are moments in certain situations where we find ourselves so mentally removed to the point that we are able to observe all happenings with a sense of—many people will not like this next word—irony that renders the situation surreal and results in humorous and even ridiculous culminations. Being a waiter is difficult because I find it so hard to keep a straight face, let alone not be unequivocally and sincerely cheesy and serious in my interactions with my guests.

The moments of my being totally conscious of what I am doing yet oddly detached (because how attached can you really be at a restaurant?) make the following observations possible:

I am not a good waiter because I fail to grasp a seemingly simple yet important equation: guest plus receiving what he/she wants on time equals satisfaction.

I make what I think are authentically funny one-liners and lame jokes that would make me puke if I were not a server, i.e. a guest.

I enthusiastically use the word “absolutely” like it's the one word that will save humankind from its possible demise. If I were not me, I would wonder if I was simply being sarcastic, or just overly excited to get someone that little ramekin of ketchup I so rudely asked for.

On that last note, I must make clear that for some odd reason I cannot be ironic or sarcastic with my guests at my restaurant, and it’s not because I’m afraid that I’ll get canned. I simply cannot be either because the situation is, in itself, ironic—I must offer my personality to the guest even though, in most cases, he/she could give approximately two craps about who I am and what my personal history is and vice versa. It boggles my mind to great ends, so I end up being genuinely accommodating and friendly, and wanting to be.

I want very much to have some insightful, ironic, cynical, and clever comment about what happens when customers argue over who will pay the bill (regardless of that well-known but unspoken rule that whoever grabs the check first will undoubtedly pay) and the societal implications in the act itself. But, I have no such comments because I find—to my chagrin—the situation oddly sentimental. I find it…(grimace)…cute.