The numerical value of the Hebrew world for "life;"
In ancient Roman custom, it can symbolize a blood relative;
In Chinese tradition, the number 18 is normally 十八 (shí bā), but it can also be read as 幺八 (yāo bā), which sounds like 要发 (yào fā), meaning that one is going to prosper;
The month and day of Elvis Presley's birthday [January 8, 1935];
The number of chapters into which James Joyce's epic novel Ulysses is divided;
The number of miles I last ran in a meaningful way before my stress fracture diagnosis a year ago, October 5, 2010; and
The intangible barrier that I broke two weeks ago with an 18.1 mile run.
This was one of those days when you wake up and wonder if what you're doing is either incredibly stupid or incomparably brilliant because the sun isn't up, it's freezing, not even your loyal training terrier can be coaxed out of bed with a peanut butter and banana sammy and all of the windows in your tiny neighborhood are dark. You stand there and debate anything to put off the actual first steps: whether to wear shorts or 3/4 length pants on your run; how many gels will you actually need and do you think you'll like cherry lime; whether to take preemptive Motrin; should you cut off all water at 6AM; and anything else you can think of to take your mind off of "can I do this?"
And then, after deciding on the same Arizona State shorts and Tough Mudder headband that you wore the weekend before, taking a chance on the cherry lime gel and downing a few Motrin, you set out with 18 in your heart and faith falling on the path under your feet. Suddenly you are 9 miles into the run, on the downside mentally, and all of the worries are stuck back at mile 4.
Manayunk is just waking up as you make the turn back toward the city, crisp skyline waiting to welcome you back with the 18.1 stamped on your forehead. Your miles are standing strong at 9:00 minutes and your stride is only slightly painful. As you cross the Falls, Strawberry Mansion and [Stone] bridges, there is a sense of coming home. And for just a moment, you allow yourself the flash forward to the Marathon - the crowds and clapping; the signs and familiar faces; the idea that the people who love you the most are out there, somewhere, looking for you too.
As you take the last few steps toward 18.1, holding back the tears, you look up and whisper, "boom."
The intangible barrier that I broke two weeks ago with an 18.1 mile run.
This was one of those days when you wake up and wonder if what you're doing is either incredibly stupid or incomparably brilliant because the sun isn't up, it's freezing, not even your loyal training terrier can be coaxed out of bed with a peanut butter and banana sammy and all of the windows in your tiny neighborhood are dark. You stand there and debate anything to put off the actual first steps: whether to wear shorts or 3/4 length pants on your run; how many gels will you actually need and do you think you'll like cherry lime; whether to take preemptive Motrin; should you cut off all water at 6AM; and anything else you can think of to take your mind off of "can I do this?"
And then, after deciding on the same Arizona State shorts and Tough Mudder headband that you wore the weekend before, taking a chance on the cherry lime gel and downing a few Motrin, you set out with 18 in your heart and faith falling on the path under your feet. Suddenly you are 9 miles into the run, on the downside mentally, and all of the worries are stuck back at mile 4.
Manayunk is just waking up as you make the turn back toward the city, crisp skyline waiting to welcome you back with the 18.1 stamped on your forehead. Your miles are standing strong at 9:00 minutes and your stride is only slightly painful. As you cross the Falls, Strawberry Mansion and [Stone] bridges, there is a sense of coming home. And for just a moment, you allow yourself the flash forward to the Marathon - the crowds and clapping; the signs and familiar faces; the idea that the people who love you the most are out there, somewhere, looking for you too.
As you take the last few steps toward 18.1, holding back the tears, you look up and whisper, "boom."
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