Eighth grade, third period. That’s when I first heard the story of Pheidippides (sometimes known as Philippides), the messenger who ran from the battlefield of Marathon to Athens to proclaim the outnumbered Greek army’s victory over the Persians. Scholars argue over which telling of the account is true — in another version by Herodotus, the herald covered 140 miles from Athens to Sparta — but in the one I first learned, he ran the distance in his armor. The feat seemed impossible but birthed what might be running’s most famous distance race. And, of course, after completing his mission, the ancient runner died on the spot.
From that moment, I began relating modern Olympic marathon runners to Pheidippides; they became heroes in my mind (even as they wore ultralight polyester shorts and singlets and carried neither spear nor sword nor shield). And to run such a long distance became heroic and, accordingly, unachievable.
Tell eighth-grade me that a decade later he’d toe the line of the New York City Marathon, and he wouldn’t believe you. Tell him he’d shoot up those daunting bridges without faltering, that he’d hit a low point in the Bronx around mile 20 but would finish strong, with a smile on his face (and negative splits!), and he wouldn’t laugh in your face, but his insides and legs would tighten with self-doubt. After all, he was no hero of Greece, no Pheidippides.
My First Marathon Training Kit
Back in those days, I ran occasionally, mostly to feel like I was maintaining a certain standard of fitness between sports seasons, but I never took running seriously. (I even had to run extra hill sprints for being the last to finish a team 5k at the start of lacrosse season one year.) I never monitored my heart rate or measured my pace, I didn’t target intervals, and I didn’t know what a tempo run was. Those were the concerns of serious runners, a crowd whose entry required an exclusive membership card I’d never acquire.
It wasn’t until much later, 16 months before the NYC Marathon, that I ran anything farther than six miles. I had accepted an invite to the French Alps for a story and, a week before departure, received a trip itinerary that included seven- and nine-mile trail runs. Despite indulging heavily in fondue and French wine throughout my entire stay, I eked out both runs and felt good about them, too. That trip was proof to me that longer distances were within reach, and that the primary obstacle between them and me was the self-created notion that they were off-limits in the first place.