You're Almost There

One common feature of road races are course marshals, who keep you going in the right direction, usually offering support and encouragement along the way.  I found my first and only time as a course marshal at the Cox marathon this spring to be rewarding.  Mile 11 was my post, and I was there for a good three hours, from the swiftest runners to the people who were suffering so much I wondered if they would make it to the finish line.  I enjoyed offering encouragement of the boisterous and loud variety, and was surprised that so many runners thanked me.  I wanted to thank them instead, for showing the courage and persistence it takes to run long distances.

As a runner, it’s inspiring to be in the pack at the starting line and see so many people with different approaches and expectations; but marshals get to see the fast, the slow, and the painful.  Like anybody else, I admire the physical grace of the individuals who run efficiently and easefully, as if they were meant to be loping across the plains.  But I really applaud the people for whom running is a considerable emotional, spiritual, and physical effort.  To train for a race, especially a half-marathon or marathon, requires stamina and fierce determination for anyone, but especially for those of us whose physical gifts are not in the running category.  As John Bingham, the self-described “Penguin” says, it’s not getting to the finish line that’s the achievement; it’s showing up at the start.      

That’s probably why it bugs me when marshals say “you’re almost there” when I’m clearly not even close to “there,” presuming they are referring to the finish line.  Besides, “almost there” has different connotations, depending on the context and the person.  If someone says that at the 2.5 mile mark, for example, of a 5K (3.1 miles), the amount of effort it takes to shift from fourth to fifth gear means that last half mile feels like it’s halfway across the country, and thus not anywhere close to “there.”  If it’s a longer race, that last half mile means you are just trying to survive, trying to summon up some dignity by smoothing out your grimace, wiping the salt and snot from your crusted face, and trying not to visibly limp for the spectators and cameras at the finish.

Today on the bike path, I was out for a leisurely run on a sunny, cool, and breezy fall day.  Because I had gotten up late, the path was a lot busier than usual.  A couple of casual bikers passed me—and I know they were casual because they were not wearing helmets, colorful shirts or bike shorts—and the guy in the Red Sox cap turned around and said, “You’re almost there.”  Whaaat?  Dude, I am 3.2 miles into an eight mile run.  I am NOT almost there, and how do you even know where my there is?   I don’t even care about there, because I’m enjoying here so much.  So take your there and shove it.  Up there.

So where is there?  Now, in a race, there usually refers to a finish line.  On a road trip, there is usually a pre-determined destination, hopefully with a swimming pool for the kids and a mini-bar for the grownups.  But otherwise, who knows where there actually is?  And is it just a fantasy, a Shangri-La of when I’ve graduated college/gotten married/gotten a real job/bought a house/kid goes to college that you will have determined to have reach there? 

“There” is a moving target at best, a chimera at worst.  There is the adage about journeys versus the destination, but life seems to be more fluid than that.  It’s almost like when we think we have reached that magical there, it vanishes in a puff of smoke, and we are meant to set out again, perhaps blindly, perhaps with guidance, onto another path, seeking yet another there. Maybe there is no destination, and if there is one, maybe it’s just a hollow promise.

“There” implies a finality, a sense of closure or ending.  When we talk about closure, we usually mean that we have set aside some issue or relationship with a sense of done-and-over-with.  But I am not sure anything is ever final.  We carry the vestiges of past relationships and experiences in our bodies, hearts, and minds whether we want to or not.  We may earn a degree or a certificate, but realize that training is ongoing.  We may get married, but realize that relationships are still work.  We may get a promotion, but realize that responsibilities and expectations have grown as well.  We may retire, but realize that for life to be meaningful, there has to be more than golf, book clubs, and playing bridge on the computer.   And these are markers of privilege.  How do the non-privileged know where their theres are?   

I’m not sure I want to get there, wherever there is.  For sure, I’m ready to be done with certain emotions, people, and experiences.  But the here is so much more important than the there, even when we are trained to think otherwise.