Sha
kespeare, FYI, said expectation is the root of all disappointment. He could have been talking about love, lust or life in general. But perhaps he was talking about marathons.
I ran a marathon last month. It was really, really fun.
I ran a half marathon five months ago. It was rubbish.
The difference, like old Shakey theorised, came down to expectations.
This particular half marathon in February should have been a breeze. I can whack out a half any weekend morning no problem. So with that mindset, I thought I should just as easily “whack out” a good race, forgetting of course, that my weekend jaunts are very leisurely, solo and often rewarded with cake. This time though, I was ready to quit at 10km. My personal frustration silently manifested into runners’ road rage.
“Why do you run with car keys? You’re jangling. VERY. LOUDLY.”
That sort of thing.
My time was ok (1:50), but it was disappointing to not enjoy the race.
The marathon should have been the opposite. I expected to hate it and I expected it to hurt. It’s 42.2km for goodness sake. No one enjoys a 42.2km run when one could be slouching around in pyjamas.
I reached the halfway point and was surprised to find I still had plenty of fuel in the tank. I hadn’t even had a gel shot. I didn’t think about my time, pace or other runners. I just sat back and enjoyed the ride.
Far from being disappointed, I was stoked.
I caught up with half marathoners and walkers around the last 8km. The marshals, seeing my different coloured bib would single me out with “good marathon!”
It was too. I finished strong and wasn’t utterly wasted at the end. I got my medal, I got my goodie bag and set a new personal best by 30 seconds (3:50:36).
Bad expectations. Good marathon.
runningwithabook 