Marathon

(This post written for Sunday Scribblings #316: “Marathon“.)

“The race is not to the swift.” (Ecc 9:11)

The phrase’s cadence tripped up her own. Resuming her shuffling gait, she thought on the contradiction the phrase presented. When others had heard of her decision to train to complete a marathon within four years, they would trot out the bible quote as a means of discouragement. A “reality check” of sorts.

Why bother training when it is clear she will never have any hope of winning, or even placing in the top ten? Besides, she is at least sixty pounds overweight, and can barely jog to the mailbox and back without losing her breath. What business has she doing, training for a marathon?

After all, the race is not to the swift!

She snorted in derision, and lost her cadence again. It took a few stumbling steps but soon she was shuffling in her patient and methodical pace. At first, she was almost completely discouraged by her detractors. She knew what they meant by the phrase and almost took it to heart.

To complete their discouragement, they showed her a video of the marathon runners that did not finish. They pointed out the anguished faces, the failing legs crumpling under weakened frames, entrants that had to be removed by ambulance. “See!” They pointed to the screen. “These are true athletes, not pretenders! And they can’t do it! What makes you think that you can?”

But in that moment, in the depths of the misery and anguish poured on the filthy city streets, she saw something different. In the voices of the fallen, she heard great shouts and peals of encouragement. The hands that reach outward were not reaching for rescue.

They were reaching for one more inch.

She thanked those that showed her the video. Told them she had seen enough and had come to her senses. As she left, they smiled smugly to themselves and reassured each other that she would resume her proper place in life.

She bought the running shows that very hour.

She was seen shuffling down the country road the next morning.

She knew she had to start slow. Her body had not been tasked like this, ever. She knew it would be a fight to have the personal time to train. A fight to eat differently than the rest of her household. A fight to defy what her family considered “good, proper, womanly behavior”.

She chuckled as she thought again on the phrase meant to discourage her. She laughed out loud when she realized she did not lose her cadence this time.

The race is not to the swift, they said. And they are quite correct. The race is to the dedicated. To the true. To those that strive for one more inch, no matter how weak or broken they are.

The finish line that matters is not at the end of the track. The goal is not to win medals, gain accolades, or have something to brag about afterward.

The goal is to cross the finish line in her head. The one that calls her forward with every step.

The one labeled, “Don’t Give Up”.