You win. Whoever you are. You win. I lose. I concede, abandon, relinquish, surrender.
I am quitting this blog. I am quitting my training. I am quitting the marathon.
I, Dartman, the Drunken Reprobate, ignoble and abject, ignominiously give up this fustian on-line melodrama and marathon attempt. I am cutting the cord on this flapdoodle. This blog balderdash has reached its conclusion. And while these postings have, for the most part, been a potpourri of nonsensical, self-contradictory, frivolous and facetious poppycock, my story, and this blog, does not end as a comedy, but, as it must, a tragedy. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM was never my cup of tea, anyway. I’ve always been more of a HAMLET man myself. Perhaps because I can relate to a man of no action. But I digress.
My training started back in October with 5-mile Monday runs with Team Tiger, and it got serious around 19 weeks ago, when I began my marathon training. During the last 4-plus months, I’ve easily run over 500 miles, maybe 600. I’ve averaged 40-50 beers a week (12 and 16 oz., depending on the ABV). I’ve survived on a diet of coffee, burritos, pizza, ice cream, pasta and beef. And on the snooze front, I’ve done all this on around 4.5 hours sleep a night.
When people heard about my marathon routine, they told me I wouldn’t make it. They said I was crazy. They were concerned about my health. They told me there was no way I should drink beer BEFORE and DURING my training runs, and especially during the actual race. They assured me there was no way I could complete the marathon.
I tried to defy them. And I almost made it. Yes, I’m an imprudent crackpot. But I never got injured. Actually, I’ve never been healthier. I am a strong runner. I am reasonably fast. And, on Sunday, I did the longest leg of my training. I ran 23 miles in 3:20. I was actually sort of proud of myself. I was ready as could be for the big race October 12. But I was wrong. I won’t be running the marathon. YOU were right. I won’t be seeing the finish line in Chicago. I’ve wasted an entire summer running. That’s what these four-plus months have been: constant, never-ending running. I put in the time, the miles, the effort and gave my heart and soul. I truly did. But I won’t be running or finishing the Chicago Marathon, and there’s one, simple reason for that:
I quit.
And although it may not be fair, I’m not gonna tell you why. And not because I’m afraid of disclosure, but because it wasn’t any ONE thing. Yeah, something hurtful happened last night, but that was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. Basically, this past year has been like LEMONY SNICKET: one big SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS. To give you an idea of where I’m coming from (and so I don’t sound like an egocentric whiner), I will divulge the biggest secret of my life, something only a handful of people know, and which might explain why I chose to run a marathon and write this blog, and why I’ve now decided to quit both.
On July 17, 2007 I tried to kill myself. In fact, I should be dead. My alcohol level alone should have done me in. And the 50 or so pain killers I swallowed should have sealed the deal. But they didn’t. I lived. And I’m glad I did. I spent the first 32 years of my life hating myself, and spent this last year trying to learn to look in the mirror and not see some failure and horrible being, but a good person with faults who tries to do the right thing, who aims to be the best son, brother and friend he can be, and maybe finally believes enough in himself to act on his potential, to see what he has left in the tank, to see what he has to offer and can achieve.
So I have a history of quitting. I quit on life on July 17. Today, a little over a year later, I’m only quitting a marathon and a blog. That’s an improvement, right? (Come on, there has to be SOME humor in this post.) Coincidentally, the other day, I was watching Akira Kurosawa’s brilliant IKURU (which, I think, means TO LIVE in English), in which Takashi Shimura plays Kanji Watanabe, a man dying of cancer who has wasted his life and finally figures out how to live—a life of passion and dedication and worth—as he faces his own impending death. The film made a huge impact on me. I’m not dying. And I’m certainly not planning on a repeat performance of July 17. But I almost died. I should be dead. And I’ve spent this year, like Watanabe, realizing how to live, to search and reach for that passion and dedication and worth. In the movie, Watanabe beautifully, plaintively sings the song “Life is Brief.” It sounds corny, but, man, it hit home with me. So is it that surprising that I threw myself into running a marathon? I hate trite metaphors and analogies. Here are the facts: I tried to kill myself. I lived. I decided to commit myself to running a 26.3 mile race. Read into that what you want. But I changed my life.
However, there are certain things you CAN’T change. I understand that you can’t expect life to give you any breaks, but, boy, I’ve taken a lot of punches to the bread basket this past year. And not just personally, but my family and friends. It has been a truly sh*tty year. But I’ve rolled with the punches all the while. I’m no cry baby. My worst day is some poor sap’s best day. I realize everybody has their trials and tribulations, and there are TONS of people who are going through much worse crap than I am. Don’t break out a tissue for me. But there’s a line in ROCKY BALBOA (yes, I’m referencing Shakespeare and Sylvester Stallone in the same post) where the Italian Stallion says, “You, me or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain’t about how hard you’re hit, it’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward, how much you can take and keep moving forward.”
Well, I’m not moving forward. Not in a marathon, not in anything. I can’t take the hits anymore. And there have been plenty of them this last year. And there’s only one person to blame. Me. I’ve run a lot of miles this past year, literally and figuratively, and while my legs aren’t tired, I am. All those miles, all that time, all that effort, and I always ended my runs right where I started them. All that, and for what? To end up in the same place I began. You don’t have to be Freud to read into that. At least if I had completed the marathon, I would have been 26 miles ahead. Ouroboros is not broken. My life has been one big, endless, repetitive cycle. The end is the beginning is the end. The serpent swallows its tail. But I’m not quitting on life. Just this blog and the marathon. Still, something in the back of my mind tells me they’re one and the same thing.
So I guess a Drunken Reprobate can’t be a marathoner. I guess you and everyone else was right. But you have to admit, I came awfully close and give it a hell of shot, didn’t I?
Adios.
Dartman (a.k.a. The Drunken Reprobate)
I am quitting this blog. I am quitting my training. I am quitting the marathon.
I, Dartman, the Drunken Reprobate, ignoble and abject, ignominiously give up this fustian on-line melodrama and marathon attempt. I am cutting the cord on this flapdoodle. This blog balderdash has reached its conclusion. And while these postings have, for the most part, been a potpourri of nonsensical, self-contradictory, frivolous and facetious poppycock, my story, and this blog, does not end as a comedy, but, as it must, a tragedy. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM was never my cup of tea, anyway. I’ve always been more of a HAMLET man myself. Perhaps because I can relate to a man of no action. But I digress.
My training started back in October with 5-mile Monday runs with Team Tiger, and it got serious around 19 weeks ago, when I began my marathon training. During the last 4-plus months, I’ve easily run over 500 miles, maybe 600. I’ve averaged 40-50 beers a week (12 and 16 oz., depending on the ABV). I’ve survived on a diet of coffee, burritos, pizza, ice cream, pasta and beef. And on the snooze front, I’ve done all this on around 4.5 hours sleep a night.
When people heard about my marathon routine, they told me I wouldn’t make it. They said I was crazy. They were concerned about my health. They told me there was no way I should drink beer BEFORE and DURING my training runs, and especially during the actual race. They assured me there was no way I could complete the marathon.
I tried to defy them. And I almost made it. Yes, I’m an imprudent crackpot. But I never got injured. Actually, I’ve never been healthier. I am a strong runner. I am reasonably fast. And, on Sunday, I did the longest leg of my training. I ran 23 miles in 3:20. I was actually sort of proud of myself. I was ready as could be for the big race October 12. But I was wrong. I won’t be running the marathon. YOU were right. I won’t be seeing the finish line in Chicago. I’ve wasted an entire summer running. That’s what these four-plus months have been: constant, never-ending running. I put in the time, the miles, the effort and gave my heart and soul. I truly did. But I won’t be running or finishing the Chicago Marathon, and there’s one, simple reason for that:
I quit.
And although it may not be fair, I’m not gonna tell you why. And not because I’m afraid of disclosure, but because it wasn’t any ONE thing. Yeah, something hurtful happened last night, but that was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. Basically, this past year has been like LEMONY SNICKET: one big SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS. To give you an idea of where I’m coming from (and so I don’t sound like an egocentric whiner), I will divulge the biggest secret of my life, something only a handful of people know, and which might explain why I chose to run a marathon and write this blog, and why I’ve now decided to quit both.
On July 17, 2007 I tried to kill myself. In fact, I should be dead. My alcohol level alone should have done me in. And the 50 or so pain killers I swallowed should have sealed the deal. But they didn’t. I lived. And I’m glad I did. I spent the first 32 years of my life hating myself, and spent this last year trying to learn to look in the mirror and not see some failure and horrible being, but a good person with faults who tries to do the right thing, who aims to be the best son, brother and friend he can be, and maybe finally believes enough in himself to act on his potential, to see what he has left in the tank, to see what he has to offer and can achieve.
So I have a history of quitting. I quit on life on July 17. Today, a little over a year later, I’m only quitting a marathon and a blog. That’s an improvement, right? (Come on, there has to be SOME humor in this post.) Coincidentally, the other day, I was watching Akira Kurosawa’s brilliant IKURU (which, I think, means TO LIVE in English), in which Takashi Shimura plays Kanji Watanabe, a man dying of cancer who has wasted his life and finally figures out how to live—a life of passion and dedication and worth—as he faces his own impending death. The film made a huge impact on me. I’m not dying. And I’m certainly not planning on a repeat performance of July 17. But I almost died. I should be dead. And I’ve spent this year, like Watanabe, realizing how to live, to search and reach for that passion and dedication and worth. In the movie, Watanabe beautifully, plaintively sings the song “Life is Brief.” It sounds corny, but, man, it hit home with me. So is it that surprising that I threw myself into running a marathon? I hate trite metaphors and analogies. Here are the facts: I tried to kill myself. I lived. I decided to commit myself to running a 26.3 mile race. Read into that what you want. But I changed my life.
However, there are certain things you CAN’T change. I understand that you can’t expect life to give you any breaks, but, boy, I’ve taken a lot of punches to the bread basket this past year. And not just personally, but my family and friends. It has been a truly sh*tty year. But I’ve rolled with the punches all the while. I’m no cry baby. My worst day is some poor sap’s best day. I realize everybody has their trials and tribulations, and there are TONS of people who are going through much worse crap than I am. Don’t break out a tissue for me. But there’s a line in ROCKY BALBOA (yes, I’m referencing Shakespeare and Sylvester Stallone in the same post) where the Italian Stallion says, “You, me or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain’t about how hard you’re hit, it’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward, how much you can take and keep moving forward.”
Well, I’m not moving forward. Not in a marathon, not in anything. I can’t take the hits anymore. And there have been plenty of them this last year. And there’s only one person to blame. Me. I’ve run a lot of miles this past year, literally and figuratively, and while my legs aren’t tired, I am. All those miles, all that time, all that effort, and I always ended my runs right where I started them. All that, and for what? To end up in the same place I began. You don’t have to be Freud to read into that. At least if I had completed the marathon, I would have been 26 miles ahead. Ouroboros is not broken. My life has been one big, endless, repetitive cycle. The end is the beginning is the end. The serpent swallows its tail. But I’m not quitting on life. Just this blog and the marathon. Still, something in the back of my mind tells me they’re one and the same thing.
So I guess a Drunken Reprobate can’t be a marathoner. I guess you and everyone else was right. But you have to admit, I came awfully close and give it a hell of shot, didn’t I?
Adios.
Dartman (a.k.a. The Drunken Reprobate)
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