I am a failure...and other not quite true statements.

Merriam-Webster online defines failure as:
1 a: omission of occurrence or performance; specifically: a failing to perform a duty or expected action. b: a state of inability to perform a normal function. c: a fracturing or giving way under stress.
2 a: a lack of success. b: a failing in business: bankruptcy.
3 a: a falling short, deficiency. b: deterioration, decay.
4: one that has failed.

On Thursday morning, around 11:30, I set out to run eighteen miles on the NCR trail. The first part of the run felt great. I ran the majority of mile six because I was feeling so energized (this was party due to a Espresso Love GU I had consumed fifteen minutes earlier- twice the caffeine of regular GU, you see). Around mile eight, I began hoping that the ice I had been picking my way around so dexterously would trip me up. Then I would fall and break my leg or at least twist my ankle. Someone would have to be called in to carry me to safety. I would no longer be able to run the marathon.

I felt a brief surge of hope and joy at mile nine. I'd made it halfway. I turned around and started back towards home...only nine long miles away.

As the next bright yellow marker approached, I was giving myself a pep talk. I wasn't allowed to start freaking out yet. I couldn't start freaking out until I reached the Monkton station, which was still three miles away. After that I'd only have five miles to go. I could probably freak out for five solid miles and survive.

And once I completed the eighteen miles, I only had three more long runs to go: a twenty miler, another eighteen, and then the marathon itself. Then I never had to run again. Not a single step. Not even if someone was chasing me. I would just die instead.

With these happy little thoughts dancing through my head, I reached mile ten. And I shut down. I stopped running.

I did not take this new action (or inaction) lightly. First I tried to bully myself into running again. I spoke outloud. I used obsecene language. I mocked myself incessantly.

No go.

So I tried to be reasonable. I'd come so far. I was doing so well. I could run sixteen miles and, after all, eighteen was only two more. Was I really going to walk the eight miles back to my car instead of continuing my run? That would take forever. I would miss my flight to Minnesota. I could do it. This was only a mental block. I could run eight more miles.

No go.

So I walked. I walked and I looked at the trees and I took my headphones off and I listened to the birds. I answered two cellphone calls from work. I called Lizzie. I waved at children walking their dog in a stream. I took my sunglasses off. I enjoyed the beautiful day. I breathed deeply instead of gasping for air.

And after walking over a mile and numerous failed attempts to start running again, I reached a decision:

I am no longer running a marathon.

At least, not now.

I've developed a love for a sport I never showed a previous interest in. I like to run. I enjoy it. But not for eighteen miles and certainly not for twenty-six point two. I mean, I enjoy Ben and Jerry's Phish Food, but I'm not going to eat it solidly for six hours.

I called my mother and asked her to pick me up at Monkton. It was one of those wonderful occasions where a mother can be completely supportive while saying very little.

Me: Hey. Can you come pick me up at Monkton? I don't want to run a marathon anymore.
Mom: Okay. I'm in Timonium right now, so it will take awhile.
Me: That's fine. I have a bit of a walk ahead of me.
Mom: Okay. Call me if you change your mind.

I didn't.

Is it brave to quit something? No. Not at all. But it can be hard. And it's kind of brave to tell everyone. I was going to do this wonderful, glorious thing. Everyone was astounded. And now I'm not doing it anymore. I'm ordinary. I'm (dare I say it) mediocre.

That doesn't mean I made a wrong choice. Running that much was overdoing it. It was hurting my body a lot. And I'm planning on continuing the running. I like the idea of six mile runs. It takes the first two miles for me to convince myself that I actually want to run...and then I can enjoy four miles of solid, happy running. I can listen to my ipod. I can smell the fresh air. I can feel that wonderful tightness in my legs that means all of my muscles are working their hardest towards a common goal.

That's good stuff. It isn't a marathon. I won't get a little medal in the shape of a shamrock. But that's the sort of attitude towards running that can make a person's entire life better, and healthier.

Besides, the Absurdists say that making choices is the positive thing- it's what defines our essence and keeps us from losing ourselves in the Absurd. I made a choice. I chose to not run a marathon.

Pushing yourself to the limits is a great thing. It tests people. It forms people. It...makes people walk on the moon.

But knowing when to quit has always been a hard lesson for me. And that's a great thing, too.


Also, if you google failure, this is the first site you get.