April 13, 2007

Break a leg.

No, that’s not the right sentiment for the amateur marathoner.

But if “break a leg” wishes an actor well, wouldn’t “fall into a manhole” work for a runner? Or how about, “step on a rock and twist your ankle,” or a rousing “bloody nipples to ya!”
“Hit a wall!”

“Burn out early!”

“Death by hills!”

“Puke till you cry!”

Every runner could come up with a long list of similar urgings, all derived from the special agony of a marathon. But none seem to have the same ring of good will like “break a leg,” which to Shakespearean actors meant bending a knee to pick tips up off the stage; and to gladiators meant save yourself and only break the leg of your opponent.

I’m confident my performance in St. Louis will not be so splendid that street gallery spectators will be compelled to toss coins my way. And I may be a poor sport at times, but never bad enough to take a whack at the knee-caps next to me. It’s not worth protecting 492^nd place.

But what would be a meaningful sendoff?

My 80-something mother exudes a kind of worry energy that hangs in the air and is almost visible from a state away. She attended my first two marathons – bless her soul - smiling encouragement while silently wondering why the hell I thought I had to do such a thing.

My 20-something sons like to say things like, “Kick some ass!” or “You gonna win!?” Sure, and the Cubs and Royals will play in the World Series this year. Like those teams, I just want to finish.

I do get a sort of a sad you’ll-be-gone-for-weeks, someday-I-hope-you’ll-quit-this-lunacy kiss from my wife. She wears the look of real concern in her eyes, like we just got word of a deadly disease in my body and I might not make it.

Sendoffs may not be my family’s forte, but receptions are. There’s nothing better than having family at the finish line, even if they are screaming, “He’s alive! He’s alive!”

And most of my friends seem to have no idea why a marathon is such a big deal. They’re likely to send me off with “Think we’ll have time for a round of golf when you get back?”

You have to turn to your running buddies for the proper sendoff. They know exactly what you’re getting into. They know the vast extent of the challenge, and how no one can predict what might happen over 26.2 miles. They know even some elites will be forced to drop out, and they are awed that you are even trying to do it.

“What’s your goal?” they always ask.

“Finish. Maybe PR.”

The sendoff?

“Good luck.”

Simple as that.