The Distance

I would like to use this post as a kind of confessional, to explain to the world something I've grown quite ashamed of over time. I would in particular like to let friends of mine who are still alive know why I did what I did all those years ago, because even through all the hardship and tragedy I've endured over the years, this one seemingly insignificant incident still burns away at my conscience years later.

To begin with, I've always been a racer. I swam and ran both long and short distances, from a very young age. And depending upon the particular race, I was quite good at it. There were certain races my body simply wasn't built for, but I tended to work on them over time, gradually improving my technique until I was at the very least in the middle of the pack.

My family encouraged running from a very young age. Whenever I misbehaved as a child, the punishment was always the same. I wouldn't be beaten or yelled at, but simply instructed to run a certain number of laps around the house. And there were never any extenuating circumstances. If it was the middle of the night, I would have no choice but to run in the dark.

So running really was my game, from childhood onward. And I finished every last race I ran. Every race, that is, but one: the dreaded high school "Turkey Trot" my first year of boarding school. In hindsight, it was eerily similar to the punishments I endured growing up. All of the boys were made to run a certain number of times around the campus. And all of the girls were waiting at the finish line, cheering their favorite young man as he limped past it exhausted.

As far as races went, it wasn't particularly difficult. A mile or two at most, as I recall. And I was in extremely good shape at the time. But for some mysterious reason, I gave up midway through, and never made it past the finish line. Whoever was waiting for me there must have been profoundly disappointed.

To this day I ask myself why I quit. Was it pure laziness? Was I exercising my newly found independence from my parents, and proving to the world that I didn't have to run a race if I didn't want to? Decades later, both strike me as the most likely explanation.

My reputation suffered severely, but I didn't seem to particularly care at the time. And I went on to run track as a sprinter that following spring, as well as the spring thereafter, running a 10K race that same final summer before leaving for college.

I've over the course of my life come across others who were living with the very same shame of having never finished something they started. Many of them were struggling with problems such as physical ailments that made it difficult if not impossible to accomplish what they were attempting. And they were extremely disappointed with the very same "failure" that I had grown comfortable with.

I didn't reveal to them my own story, but if any of them are reading this now, please understand how apologetic I've become. You have nothing to be ashamed of. The real shame is reserved for those of us who quit when they could have easily finished. We're the real cowards of life, while you are the real heroes.