I started running regularly two decades ago after a bad motorcycle accident. My right femur had been shattered, and after hammering a new titanium one in place, the orthopedic surgeon explained with little nuance, “you’ll never be able to run again.” That was a lot of motivation. This Sunday, I will be running the New York City Marathon for the 10th time, my 30th marathon overall since that doctor gave me a reason to lace up.
I wear running shoes every day, because no matter where I find myself, I can always open the door and run. I don’t need a membership. I don’t need anyone’s permission or any special equipment. Going for a run has no rules. It’s just me doing the thing.
And the New York City Marathon is the ultimate manifestation of that thing. On Sunday, nearly 60,000 runners will take to the streets. Only about 100 of them are professionals, competing against each other for the fastest time. The other 59,900 are all competing with themselves.
When I see the fast guys finish the marathon, it doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s like watching Michael Jordan play basketball—the talent is beyond my comprehension. But long after those professionals collect their medals, you’ll start to see normies crossing the finish line—folks who woke up that morning unsure whether or not they’d make it. That’s the part I love. The collective pursuit of an impossible personal achievement.
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