Kilometer 4. I knew I should have peed before the starting shot. I quickly look around to find a relatively densely vegetated segment of the wall and decide to join the group of male pee-standers while ignoring hundreds of people quickly shifting their legs behind my back. Finish up, zip up, refocus on the breath. 38 more kilometers are impatiently waiting for me and it would be a shame to try to go meet them with a full bladder.

I never thought that running was one of the activities that I would continue lugging around with me over the years. I was never a sports-oriented kid. I never had the genes nor the tenacity to become the strongest or fastest. During high school, I spent the weekly PE soccer session as the “defender”, discussing the newest chipsets and other sexy topics with other, similarly positioned classmates (FYI nerdiness was far from sexy back then).

Kilometer 13. Joy of empty happiness shifts to a known, uncomfortable feeling. I sense a starting blister on the usual spot on my left leg and the only reassuring thought is… actually non existent. I’ll have to keep on running for another ~3 hours with the slow build-up of pain. Yet pain is almost always only temporary. As my teacher once told me: “Suck it up.”

Yet somehow I didn’t develop a hatred towards running. Quite the opposite. The monotonous rhythm of the breath and the silent dialogue between fatigued thighs and my mind consistently provides a simple yet firm framework for inner calmness. There is a certain happiness in mindless repetition of simple tasks, and I believe that this is the key aspect shared among a broad variety of activities starting with tea ceremony and not necessarily ending with cutting vegetables. Or running.

Kilometer 21. My half-marathon time is 3 minutes behind the schedule and for a moment I get angry at myself. Why didn’t I practice more? Why didn’t I run a bit faster? Yet anger is almost always one of those pointless emotions. As one of my dear friends once told me: “Every second spent being angry is wasted.” Especially when the object of anger is myself.

The inner calmness is… reassuring. Yes, sometimes a knee starts to ache, sometimes breath falls short of expectations, sometimes it’s too hot, or a blister or two is stopping you from the ideal pace. But in the end, the only thing that truly matters is to “continue running”.

Kilometer 32. The marathon begins right here at this mark. I’m back-calculating number of calories I’ve consumed in the past 3 hours to make sure I don’t collapse. Including the light breakfast, the bananas should be sufficient to help me avoid the wall. I have never seen it, but judging from the gradually increasing number of people standing or sitting on the sides of the road, it does exist.

It is interesting to see, however, that “continue running” by itself doesn’t really… get you anywhere. It’s a slow, gradual, transformation. But well, people are extremely bad at judging their personal growth. It is only when we hit a known challenge that becomes an opportunity to stop for a second, look around, and fully perceive the distance one has walked. The number of stairs one has climbed. Growth shows its true form only in the past. In the present, growth is primarily felt as…

Kilometer 38. Pain. 4 more kilometers to go. I really start to feel soreness in my feet and the blunt pain of the blister patiently growing for the past 3.5 hours. My heart supports my body with a steady beat and I try to focus myself on the never-ending stride. Continue running. A tear is falls down my cheek and tastes really salty from all the sweat it collected on its way.

Yet pain is only temporary. What is left is a semi-permanent memory. Whether real or (partially) made up, the knowledge of us going through tough times serves as a sturdy walking stick on our journeys. An irreplaceable source of support gently telling you “it’s OK”. It’s the memories (gained through experiences) that both deform us as well as give us the reassurance. Or scare the shit out of us.

Kilometer 41.2. I increase both the pace as well as the pace distance. I can hear the shouting of the people cheering for the runners and sometimes uncontrollably twist my face into a sobbing twitch.

Life is suboptimal. But that’s ok. There is only so much under our control. If we can’t control the action, we can try to control the perception. The take-aways. The lessons. The meaning of the memories.

Kilometer 42.1. I can finally see the big clock and burst into tears. This is where the marathon ends and where the memory begins.

And the meaning of this memory… is good.