[Header pic: very old, but the only appropriate one I could find]

…and by that, I mean I couldn’t complete the half-marathon I wanted to tackle on May 5.  Not even “couldn’t complete” it; I didn’t even do it.  A goal that I had set for myself one year prior was decimated thanks to a left leg that decided–two days before the marathon–it wasn’t at all interested in doing 22 kms nonstop after all, and became wildly inflamed.  

Now, I’m not going to blame my leg entirely.  It’s not a sentient, separate entity (at least, I don’t think it is).  What actually happened is that I didn’t train properly for this event, and so the lower half of my body went into shock.  Not because I wasn’t conditioning myself for running, but because I didn’t take the running off the treadmill and onto the pavement outside soon enough.  And if you are the sort of person who enjoys jogging, sprinting, speed or distance running, or even light galloping, you know that giving it your all on an indoor machine at the gym is nothing–nothing–like being outside in unpredictable elements and pounding your entire weight onto the concrete for extended periods of time, never mind two-plus hours straight (for a beginner).

Your knees, your joints, your shins, your lungs…they will all sing the Dies Irae part of Mozart’s Requiem the first several times you attempt this, and that yawn-worthy one hour you speed through at the gym is an utter shock to the entire system the first time you get down onto the Vancouver Seawall and realize that you’re not even sure you can manage fifteen minutes.  Never mind your poor body nailing itself into the asphalt again and again; there’s wind resistance, abrupt inclines and declines, swift changes in weather conditions, unexpected pains and aches in your lower back and thighs and neck and shoulders and feet and ankles…

It’s running, for God’s sake.  Running on concrete. And I didn’t prepare outdoors soon enough, only taking it to the oceanside in April.  So the Friday before the BMO marathon–two days before–I woke up to do my run, and could not even put my weight down onto my left leg.  My entire shin felt only slightly less inflamed than Max Azzarello after his infernal stunt, and the cartilage below my kneecap was as tender to the touch as any Gen Zedder in the workplace.   There wasn’t a single chance I was running that day, or the next day, and never mind the day after that, which was the actual half-marathon (starting at seven o’clock in the morning at Queen Elizabeth Park).  

I didn’t allow myself to get terribly upset, even though I really, truly wanted to tackle this as some kind of 22-km-long victory lap that was actually a somewhat-linear route through Vancouver’s West Side and West End.  Y’see, one year ago, I was in a very vulnerable place, and in the process of revamping my entire life after a heartbreaking failed relationship (one that, in retrospect, was 100% not supposed to happen at the time that it did, so having my heart and life administered to by a giant mallet of the damned was actually a blessing in disguise).  I was poor, I was sad, I was a bit scared.  But I was also working on myself as a project of sorts in order to construct the foundation for a healthy remainder of my life: I was focused with intensity and seriousness on permanent sobriety, and learning everything I could about alcohol, addiction, and biology, rather than thinking sheer willpower could help me overcome the years-long dependency and negative coping mechanism that had become so embedded in the way I dealt with life.  This meant a great deal of group therapy and individual counselling sessions, some meetings and some “quit lit”, many YouTube videos, and quite a few online support groups.  I was extremely fragile, and really poor, and also looking for work during a white-collar recession (which is, crazily, still going strong right across the continent).  

I wrote all about this already, but I’m just reminding you again in order to set the scene for the BMO marathon.  During this very challenging, very pivotal time last year, I was walking down to my gym, not having a single clue that this BMO marathon existed, never mind that it was taking place that very day and the finish line was actually right smack-dab in front of my gym.  There were countless people crowding the sidewalks on Bute and Pender, and I had to take a longer, roundabout pathway to gain entrance to the building. 

However, as I watched very fit people both young and old make it to the end–none of whom seemed terribly thrashed or drained–with everyone on the streets cheering with glee and pride and excitement for each person, their names and quick bios being enthusiastically announced by some invisible entity over a loudspeaker, I made up my mind that I was going to do this next year.

I was going to overcome and slay this adversity, this alcohol use disorder, this heartbreak, this mild mental anguish, this uncertainty, this unexpected toppling-over of my plans and my future, and I was going to symbolize my triumph in the form of a marathon.  

…well, not the full thing; I may be insane, but I’m not an idiot.  Jesus, I wasn’t even close to thinking about a 42-kilometre run.  The most I had ever consistently run outdoors in my life was a solid ten, and that had been many years prior.  While I have always done lots of cardio and I indeed run on the treadmill, the outdoor sprinting had lain dormant for a long spell…and even when I did regularly run 10 kms as part of my lifestyle, it was around a giant lake with a bark-mulch trail, which provided my body and joints and muscles some very nice cushioning.  I had never really run very much on concrete.

Therefore, the half-marathon it was for me. I was excited about achieving this, and there was plenty of time in which to do so.  I could dash to the finish line, thinking back to May 2023 when I was very vulnerable, frail, and trying to piece things together like a bricklayer, and here I would be one year later, effortlessly sprinting those final few yards, people cheering and whistling and gazing upon me with admiration, hearing my name called over that famous loudspeaker, wiping the sweat off my forehead, smugly collecting my medal, hugging my supporters, and then wobbling off to shove veggie burgers into my face hole.  

That did not happen. Not even close. Not even the veggie burgers part, sadly.

I didn’t do it.  One year later, I didn’t do it.  No, let me rephrase that: I was unable to do it.  I had planned my outfit, my playlist (I can’t run without listening to German techno and trance; I just can’t), my short bio, I had paid the $150, I studied the reasonable-looking route, but my body wasn’t prepared, and consequently, it rebelled and prevented me from the event.  I hadn’t trained consistently during the past year, during the dark winter months I didn’t go to the gym very often, and as I said, I did not take it outside and condition my body for something it wasn’t, and had never been, accustomed to.

…so I’ve now set my sights on the full marathon for next May.  Think I’m nuts?  (See above re: I’m insane but not stupid.) Perhaps.  After this debacle, I gave myself nine days of rest, freezer peas on the knees, heated ointments all over the shin, and as of this past Sunday–the tenth day after I realized my leg was completely borked–I laced up my trainers and hit the Seawall very early in the morning.  It was as though I hadn’t suffered an injury at all. I did a solid 10 km without difficulty, my knee and shin cooperated, and as I inhaled the saltwater air and watched some Canada geese splashing in the incoming tide, I made up my mind to compensate for this utter failure to launch by going for it in 2025 for real.  The whole goddamn thing next year.  All of it. All 42 kilometres. Self-spite is an impressively powerful motivator.  

Also, addicts tend to do everything 150%.  There’s no halfway; everything must be full-on, all the time, right now, as hardcore as possible, no stopping or slowing down, with every ounce of energy and focus.  This could take the form of, say, drinking until one’s pancreas almost explodes, and then becoming a financial advisor and martial arts expert.   I have met many former addicts–and addicts in recovery–who swing their pendulum in the opposite direction as sky-high as it can go, trading needles, bottles, homelessness, and jail time for yoga, Buddhism, veganism, and volunteering for their communities.  

I went for another 10 km this morning, and it was exhilarating.  I plan to do this at least three times a week, and gradually increase it from there.  One year from now, with regular outdoor training and practice and getting my meaty self not just accustomed to forty kilometres, but actually looking forward to it, I will do the full BMO marathon.  

This one probably wasn’t meant to be, anyway.  Had I gritted my teeth and stubbornly gone ahead and done the half-marathon (I’ve stubbornly gone ahead and done plenty of things I shouldn’t have, consequences be damned), I would have invariably caused major damage to my already-injured leg, and either walked most of the way and / or cut through the Seawall portion of the run somewhere around Yaletown and just limped home, not even close to completion.  In absolute agony.  Miserable.  Thinking about drowning my sorrows in drink despite having some good sober time under my belt, because that’s what happens when that’s what you’ve done for a truly long time.  Instead, I accepted it as not being part of the big plan. I’m looking forward to extreme training and increasing my fitness levels for 2025, giving myself plenty of time to do it intelligently and without haste.

All of this was supposed to happen, you see.  Atoms and particles and chaos theory and the multiverse and quantum mechanics and event horizons and the holographic universe and the plasma-filled cosmos and Taylor Swift all led me to not doing the half-marathon, allowing me to thereby properly and safely train for the full bonanza next year.  It’s scientific, you know.  

Short but sweet entry…for me, anyway.  I’m pretty busy nowadays, and I’m working on something a lot longer and more involved that will comprise part of my book.  My outline and sections (even titles) are good to go, now I just get to fill in the blanks with a whole lot of toil.

As we Doukhobors say….

Love

Nadz