Hey Mark: Thanks for the Motivation - Part Two

2:46:06. 

To most people this number might signify a time in the mid-to-late afternoon – the red-headed hour between when the important stuff in life actually happens; the time you can hear the clock’s hands tick and you’re feeling bored, needing a nap, and slightly annoyed that it’s not time to eat again.

If you’ve ever sat down and philosophized on whether or not time really exists, if it’s a tangible thing or not, you know how much it can cause fits and dizzy spells in finding any meaning. Mostly, time is a way to bring people together. That you show up anywhere at a designated time is a sign of responsibility, maturity and adulthood. Time is but a marker for something else.  Meetings, events, the movement of the earth around the sun. But what does time actually mean to a runner?

For me it was the metaphor for all the traits I wanted to be: hard working, dedicated, courageous and bold, to name few. A marker for reaching my potential by sacrificing time at work or cultivating friendships. It just so happened to also be Mark's best marathon time: 2:46:06.

A time he could boast about at parties (though he probably wouldn’t). This fact gnawed at me and was a psychological power he held over me. 

But the time, could be beaten. Recapturing what was rightfully mine became paramount, whether my fiercest competitor knew he was motivating me or not.

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The ensuing winter and summer, with silent determination, I regained my speed, strength and endurance. Not only did I refocus my efforts on the training regimen that had brought me success in previous years, but I made the tweaks necessary to gain on the benchmark that had been set. 

At some point in every week, the words that had so casually flown from Mark's mouth emboldened me. And his time hung around the gray matter of my brain in the big red numbers of a blinking alarm clock.

That October, 2010, I crossed the Chicago Marathon finish line with a time of 2:44:57.   

There can be an emptiness that comes over you when you cross the finish line of a marathon.  You might think the opposite would be true for such a feat, but mostly the exultation comes well after the race is over.  

Immediately after your final foot passes the line, you’re not quite sure what to do with yourself.  For us every day runners there’s usually no one at the finish to canonize you.  No race director draping you with an American flag. No cameras capturing the big moment for the world to see on network television.  No tears from the doting wife showing the world your domestic side and vying for a little face time. None of the glory, none of the drama.

But that day I did the only thing I could do with my happiness. Reacted the only way that seemed appropriate for the occasion.

Like a crazy man I looked toward the sky, double-pumped my fist in the air and yelled: “Bleep you, Mark. Bleep You!”

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Kevin Granato is a running coach for Granato Racing, a 2:42:00 marathoner and freelance writer. Feel free to email him at CoachGranato@TheRunningInstitute.com.