Eve Means Life

I am drafting this pre-race jitters post sitting on the airplane hurtling toward my doom in Boston.  At this point I guess there is no turning back.  I have had a lot of thoughts the past couple of weeks that I’ve wanted to get written down, but life has just been normal-busy with a two year old and a bunch of busy boys.  However, I did waste over an hour of my life the other night working on my picks for the race finish order of a bunch of on-line buddies.  Whoever’s picks are closest wins a running jersey.  I was surprised that my beautiful wife was actually supportive of this activity and not annoyed.  “It’s better than fantasy football, it seems to me.  At least it’s real and related to something you are doing.”  

This woman of mine has breathed life into me at every stage leading up to the race this year.  Although my absence will work a hardship on her this weekend, her support of me has been unqualified and total.  She told me just last night that she hopes and prays for me that I enjoy the whole experience, the whole weekend, and drink it in completely.  She also told me again how proud she was of my fundraising for World Vision and her pleased surprise that I actually reached my goal.  She also knows how I have struggled to train up the level I would have liked this year because of intermittent problems with my surgery knee; she knows how important my race performance is to me even if it’s silly, and she prays for me to succeed and run fast.  Sometimes she jokes with me that she knows me better than I know myself.  Many times she is right.  Years ago when I started running marathons she always went with me.  Okoboji, Wichita, Boston, Minneapolis.  We were always together.  I will miss her very much the next three days, but I am thankful that she sent me off with full blessing.  She is life to me.

I’ve been trying to come up with the right metaphor for the sense of dread I have been feeling for this race.  If I am blessed to make it to the starting line on Monday (in all things at all times I am learning to say, “God willing”) I will arrive there with enough fitness to possibly race my best marathon ever, but there have been enough training setbacks that there is also a significant level of probability that I could crash and burn in a spectacular way.  These facts lead to mixed feelings for me.  I want to be confident and run without fear, but I still remember really well walking up Heartbreak Hill a few years ago.  I’ve concluded that I think I must feel like those bull riding rodeo cowboys right when they are about to sit on the back of that enormous animal.  They’ve got to be a little cocky just to make the attempt, but they’ve also got to know that there is a real good chance that things will not go so well.  I guess you just have to take a deep breath and go.

This also reminds me of my third-born son, who, when he was really little, five or six years old in fact, climbed up to the top of the high dive at the city pool and proceeded to walk right to the end of the board and jump in.  After doing this a couple of times with little notice from the lifeguard he climbed up there again and stood on the board when she saw him and got a little upset.  “He can’t do that!”  She said.  Plop.  “It appears that he can,” I replied.  He’s a little older now, but no less fearless, and he inspires me.

 
There is a whole spiritual side to this year’s quest, too.  I need to write a separate post chronicling this most central aspect of my 2011 Boston journey, but fundamentally the point is that I want Jesus to show up, big time.  Maranatha.