On a Tendon and a Prayer

In addition to the acquired wisdom from marathon training that I have already described in this blog, I’ve learned something else. I can’t ever climb Mt. Everest. I sort of knew that I couldn’t before, because I’m terrified of walking on ice, I prefer better food options than items from a can heated on a small burner, and I complain when the office temperature drops below 73 degrees. I also enjoy oxygen. No, the new proof that scaling Everest would be disastrous is that I now know I would be one of those schmucks who dies on the mountain because they refuse to yield the summit when conditions make that necessary. Yes, I would be one of those idiots watching the advancing storm and saying “screw it, I worked too hard to give up now.” And three hours later some poor hapless Sherpa would be stuck trying to drag my ignorant butt off the mountain.

This new self-awareness comes from a sad source. My right Achilles tendon, which has been chronicled in this blog as persistently obstructive to my running happiness, is trying again to play the role of marathon spoiler. It’s a mess. I am certain it is partially torn; there is burning pain and swelling. My marathon is in three weeks and three days. I have two more long runs, one of which is 23 miles, and at least another 30 miles of short runs before I can do a pre-race taper. If I stop running right now, the tendon will improve for the race, but I’ll lose a lot of the performance due to the missed final training weeks. If I maintain the training, there is a high likelihood the tendon will completely rupture.

My last entry was all about the intense work I put into training for this race. The theme was that what I learned from the training was the real reward. That was bull. The reward is crossing the finish line at Steamtown with a significantly faster time than I have ever achieved in a marathon. That’s why I worked so hard, and that’s what I really want. It’s impossible for most people to understand, but I just can’t give up my summit, even if it means surgery, crutches and a year of rehab. At least no Sherpas will have to risk their lives to pull me off the course.