Herman or the Hottie?

     The question that comes up when considering an ultra-marathon, or a regular old 26-miler for that matter, is: Why do it?  For non-runners the answer seems to come easily. "Because you're nuts", they say, some with more distain than others. (The ones that love you usually say it with what passes for fondness. Your friends say it with a slight shake of the head that signals "I like you but sometimes you're just a little on the flakey side". And strangers and others who may feel a little guilty about not exercising say it with barely concealed disgust.)  The only answer that really matters, of course, is the one that works for you.  It may be that you're one of those lucky people who are satisfied with the realization that "I just like doing it."  If so, bless you.  Chances are, however, that some time or another, on one of those really dark, gloomy, cold, wet, windy, miserable, dead-of-winter twenty-milers you've asked yourself "Why the hell am I doing this?" I distinctly remember two particular runs over the years when the rain and snow was blowing sideways with the temperature in the teens and the slush-ruts in the road held ankle deep ice water that splashed up to my groin with every step when that question pounded me in the brain like it was on a pogo stick.

     I hate it when that happens.  It ususlly means I'm over-trained, hung-over, or just really feeling my age. I'm afraid to open that Pandora's box and analyze whether all the five a.m. alarms are worth it. But sometimes it's just unavoidable--you've got to come up with an answer that works for you or just stop in your tracks.
     Lately,  I've concluded that one of two people can supply the answer: Herman Melville or Paris Hilton.  Melville knew that humans must have goals and the most valuable goals are the ones that cost you the most dearly and, if you pursue them to the point of obsession, they may destroy you in the end.
     Paris Hilton, on the other hand, knows how much fun it is to look in the mirror.  Ever since Narcissus humans have loved to see their own reflections. Those of us who don't get as flattering a return from a mirror tend to hold up other surfaces to measure ourselves by.  Like a 50-mile stretch of road.  In that sense an ultra-marathon is like a mirror for plain looking people.  Or, if you want to be a bit more generous to us and a bit less so to Paris, she's shallow enough to be satisfied with herself simply if she thinks she looks "hot" but runners need to feel like they've probed deeper into themselves and found something of merit because they didn't quit at 38 miles.

     So, who's more correct, Herman or the Hottie? You've probably dealt with the question yourself and have a pretty good idea what your answer is. As for me, call me Ishmael. 



            

Herman



The Hottie