5 hours, 4 minutes, and 12 seconds. That’s how long it took me to run the 26.2 miles of the Rocket City Marathon in Huntsville, Alabama earlier this month. This was the second time I’d had a marathon finisher’s medal hung around my neck. And it was the second time I’d taken more than 5 hours to earn it. By measure of the clock and my stated goal, the race was a failure. I’d come to town determined to finish in 4:59:59 or less. But when, at around mile 22 of this cold and drizzly run, the 5 hour pacers passed me, my heart sunk to the icy bottom of my soaking wet socks (most marathons have designated “pacers” whose job it is to run at a set pace guaranteeing anyone running ahead of them to beat that time).

Now, I do not love running; I love having run. I anticipate the glow of accomplishment and rush of endorphins when it’s done. Don’t get me wrong, there are periods during every run when I experience that high of being in the zone and walking the wire, suspended between nirvana and pain. But I can’t maintain it. The wire always breaks, and I free fall into a chasm of exhaustion and hurt. Sometimes I can climb my way back onto the tightrope and find that balance again. But on the 22nd mile of damp Huntsville asphalt I could not. And so I shuffled the remaining 4 miles to a mostly empty finish line celebration.

I wasn’t out there after a trophy. I was 2 ½ hours too late for that. And I wasn’t out there to beat any of the other 1,000 who were running the race. I was out there to beat one guy, and he only exists in memory. See, I would rather race against the me of yesterday than the you of today, because we are our own most worthy opponent. We are ourselves the most difficult province to conquer. I limped away vanquished and low. But I've already signed up for the next race...