Any moderately healthy person could train for and run a marathon, but no moderately sane person should.
Or at least no one who enjoys doing anything other than working, training and sleeping.
When I impulsively signed up to run Rock/Creek's Scenic City Trail Marathon a few months back, I didn't realize I'd be giving up all impulsiveness until race day finally came last Saturday.
"Want to go do this fun thing?" my friends would ask.
"Here, have a beer" or other equally unhealthy treat, they'd say.
And for the past few months my response would always be, "I'd love to, but I've got to go for a two-plus-hour training run today so I don't end up like the first guy who ran a marathon."
That guy collapsed and died when he finished, for those not up on Greek mythology.
Before man discovered email, professional runners delivered messages over terrain too difficult for horses. Pheidippides was one of those runners, and when some Greek warriors wanted to brag they won the Battle of Marathon, they had him run all the way to Athens to share the boast.
After more than 26 miles he arrived and said, "Joy to you, we've won." He never said anything again.
That story got me scared enough to enter into self-imposed isolation from most things fun. How could I justify going to the movies when I could spend that time staving off death?
When marathon day finally came around, I was glad I spent several nights a week on those runs. I was glad that I brought my running shoes on vacation and forced myself awake for those early-morning jogs.
But I wasn't glad my couple-months younger self decided to sign me up for a day of crashing through trees up and down hills.
I don't know whether that old Greek story is actually true, but I could believe it after I hit mile 20 and spent the next six fighting the urge to vomit.
The whole process had its benefits. I used to run about four miles a day; now I can whip out eight without breaking a figurative sweat. I lost weight. I got stronger. Though they haven't said anything yet, I'm sure the ladies are taking notice.
As I sat in a puddle of sweat after the race, peeling my socks off my bloodied toenails, I had one series of thoughts cycle through my mind. I finished a marathon. I'd accomplished something none of my friends and family had ever done before. And I never want to put myself through that experience again.
Nearly a week later, I'm proud I finished. I ran faster than I thought I would. I got lots of support from those friends I was ignoring, and now I have a new story to tell when we can finally grab that beer.
I can now officially say goodbye, marathon, but I can't quite kick the impulsiveness that got me into trouble in the first place. When one of my friends told me what he was training for, I had to sign up, too.
Hello, triathlon.