In Training: Thoughts on Marathon Preparation

The Professor

by J.T. Scanlan

Guest Columnist

I had expected I'd experience an extended, satisfying afterglow during the week following the Marine Corps Marathon. Even during the race, I thought that once I made it up that steep hill and finished, I'd be able to luxuriate for a while in my great accomplishment. Yes, my legs would hurt for a few days. Sure, I'd get up out of easy chairs slowly, as creaky old men do. But those pains wouldn't trouble me at all, for I'd be basking in (middle-age) athletic glory.

My contrived personal glory didn't last long, however. Much sooner than I had thought, I was back to work, living my normal, unathletic life. On the long train ride from Washington to Boston, I read exams and worked on a scholarly book review. The next day, I returned to Moore Hall and my Team J friends for more Rousseau.

I was no longer "in training." Gone was the feeling that I needed to build up the miles, that I needed to try to fit in one more long run. I stopped listening closely to the weather forecast on the radio.

All of a sudden, it seemed, the entire Marine Corps Marathon experience ended. Although the medal from the Philadelphia Distance Run still hangs in a prominent place at home, I without much thought stashed my anchor-and-globe finisher's medal from the Marine Corps Marathon in a drawer.

But last weekend, when I attended a scholarly meeting at Hobart and William Smith College in upstate New York, I simply couldn't resist the path alongside Seneca Lake, and suited up for a pre-dawn run. And during that run I thought again about what the Marathon meant to me.

First of all, I completed the three-mile lakeside run effortlessly, which reminded me that notwithstanding all the injuries I feared during my training, I remained in pretty good shape. I'm not normally one to tout the benefits of "health" and "fitness," but that morning, as I prepared to talk about eighteenth century literature to my fellow scholars from around the country, I convinced myself that I ought to make an honest effort to stay in shape over the winter. Although I'm not preparing to run another marathon anytime soon, I'll be out there when the snow falls, for life's tasks seem easier to handle when you're fit. You simply have more energy for everything. And your outlook is brighter.

Second, the Marine Corps Marathon strengthened my belief in the importance of thinking big. "A large work is difficult because it is large," Samuel Johnson wrote sagely in the Preface to his Dictionary of the English Language (1755). I suspect all who crossed the finish line at the Iwo Jima Memorial are now better equipped to take on major projects, regardless of their line of work. To be sure, running a marathon needn't be required of those who propose to write, say, one of the weighty (and widely praised!) volumes in the Oxford History of the United States. Still, training for a marathon helps you see clearly that great tasks are completed only by the completion of many, many smaller tasks over a long period of time. As the short runs become longer and longer, over the course of many months, the prospect of running 26 miles and 385 yards ceases to be daunting. In time, you realize that you can actually do it.

And this realization touches on other areas of your life. As I ran alongside the Seneca Lake, I revisited my earlier decision to expand significantly a section on prisons in a book about eighteenth-century law and literature I'm currently writing. On the long drive back to Cambridge, I nurtured this topic and decided to make a stop at Auburn State Prison, which was built in the early nineteenth century and remains the oldest active prison in the United States. One of the guards there gave me the name of the person who knows the true inside history of the Auburn prison, a source which may well turn out to be extremely valuable, in that the Auburn prison was conceived in reaction against late eighteenth-century jails. In my mind at least, the Marine Corps Marathon is largely responsible for my decision to try to learn the huge corpus of scholarship on incarceration. I mentioned this in passing in an earlier article, but now I'm convinced: mastering this area of learning will make the book better-and grittier.

Lastly, the Marathon emphasized what I also touched on in one of my earlier articles-camaraderie. Throughout the fall, and especially in the week or so since the Marathon, I've had innumerable cheerful conversations with a people I only slightly know. Running, as a topic, somehow brings out a basic friendliness among people. Don't we all need more of that?

And the good cheer sometimes leads to an admirable personal challenge. In fact just yesterday, a student unexpectedly shifted the topic from an eighteenth-century novel to running, as we were walking alongside Harkins: "I've been reading your articles on the Marathon," she said, laughing a bit, "and maybe I'll try to run a marathon, Dr. Scanlan."

"Great idea," I said.

So: while I hope the articles Dan and I have written have delivered a sense of what running a marathon is like, you never really know what it's like until you experience it. If you're at all tempted to try to run a marathon, and really want to understand it, then sign up. Just do it, as the ads say.

I'm certain it will have a powerful, and positive, effect on you. At the very least, you'll lose a few pounds and have a great time chatting with others about the entire experience.

And who knows? You may even be lucky enough to transform your running into an opportunity to practice your writing.

The Student

by Dan O'Brien '09

Guest Columnist

When my cousin completed his first Ironman Triathlon three years ago I remember being in awe of such an amazing accomplishment. Over the summer at a wedding, my cousin and I spoke about completing an Ironman together in the near future; little did I know that a week after completing my second marathon, I would be registering for an Ironman event.