Better, Faster, Stronger...Slower?

On the many shapes of success.

From every angle, running this year’s NYC Marathon was a phenomenally stupid idea. By the most generous estimate, I’d completed maybe twenty percent of my training plan.

“You were injured!” Teddy chimed in, when I started to get down on myself. “You were grieving! It wasn’t your fault! There’s always next year!”

Any sensible person would agree. But every time I went to request a deferral, I stopped.

I am in a season of wanting to embrace the shit out of things. In recent months I’ve said goodbye to my dog and to two friends, lost too soon. I count seven loved ones with cancer. Where life once felt like a video game about collecting coins and leveling up, it now seems like a party just to be playing.

For better and for worse, I am stubborn to the point of potentially harming myself determined. I had a coveted entry. I had the desire. I had a decent enough base. I had enough self-knowledge to pull back before I injured myself. Last but certainly not least, I had seen this year’s medal, and it was cute.

Deferring is not embracing, even if it might be the wiser move. And so, I found myself in the start village hoping for the best.

Burrito awaits its fate.

We walked, en masse, to the start corrals like spandex clad gladiators. The cannon went off and the race began without a hitch. I eased into a comfortable pace through the halfway mark, feeling confident I could hold it through the finish. That is, until somewhere just past mile sixteen, when my left leg buckled beneath me, followed by stabby knee pain.

I continued to run, albeit at a slower pace. My lungs wanted to run. My mind wanted to run. My knee wanted to stop and get pizza. In the middle of the interminable echo chamber of the Queensboro Bridge, it became clear my knee would have the last laugh.

“HAHAHA!” it said, as I slowed to a crawl and tentatively exited the bridge.

“Ha!” it repeated, whenever I attempted to pick up the pace. And so, I walked. (Which, thankfully, I could do without issue.)

I walked for the last ten miles.

My ego was unamused. I felt annoyed and embarrassed. I wasn’t expecting a day of glory (I was undertrained, after all), but I also didn’t expect…this.

Like many runners, I put my name on the front of my shirt for big races, so strangers can cheer for you. Normally, this is a wonderful experience—like being a star quarterback for a day. But on this particular Sunday, I have never regretted anything more. As I tried my best to keep it moving, speed walking like Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally, people on the sidelines encouraged me to “dig deep.”

“C’mon, Caroline! You got this! Looking strong!”

Caroline is damaged. I thought. Leave Caroline alone.

I wanted nothing more than to invisibly shuffle to the finish line, collect my medal, and scarf the doughnut waiting for me at home.  

Until my brain said, very gently, What kind of psychopath is embarrassed about their marathon time? Is it not enough to be out here, able to run, on this beautiful day? It had a point.

As I strolled along, I got to take in the scenery. I read all the signs. I greeted all the dogs. I waved to kids and high-fived strangers. There are worse ways to spend a Sunday.

In terms of signage, this was the year of the oversized cutout face-on-a-stick—human heads, dog heads. Sometimes just one face, other times a sea of people wielding the same large noggin. There were signs referencing Taylor Swift. (“Running a marathon is easier than getting The Eras Tour tickets.”) Signs referencing NYC’s rat problem. (“The rats don’t run this city, you do!”) Signs that read, “This is a sign.”

Valid.

Part of my reason for running was to honor Mia, who embraced all things with a spirit of fearlessness and gusto. As I walked, it dawned on me that Mia’s legacy, like all beloved dogs, was her capacity for unconditional love. She would have been as happy to greet me no matter where I ranked on a scale of arbitrary human performance. Maybe the best way to honor her was not to run like the wind, but to tap into that spirit of unconditional acceptance.

The final mile.

When people asked how the race went, I wasn’t sure how to respond. Surely it wasn’t good; I’d spent the better part of ten miles loping along like Sasquatch on a midday stroll. Yet I was infinitely more present than the times I huffed and puffed my way through the pain cave to claim a faster time. I had, curiously, enjoyed myself. I had done exactly what I set out to do: embraced the shit out of it. And shouldn’t that count for something?

And so, I landed on the truth: “It was my slowest race. It was also my best.”

Why wouldn’t success and enjoyment sometimes be one and the same?

What if our ideas around what’s “good” or “best” are wrong? What if our metrics aren’t just off, but also ridiculous? After all, a slow marathoner is doing a hard thing for longer. Is that not, in a way, more impressive than someone who finishes in half the time?

This race was never going to be about speed or glory. It was about living, about presence, about gratitude, about appreciation, about wonder. And I got that in spades.

It was also about community. Of all the sports, running is the one that calls itself a community. Some of the kindest people I’ve encountered have been fellow runners, strangers united by this shared love. They’ve offered encouragement, guidance, snacks, hand warmers, commiseration. And on marathon day, that community grows to include the two million people who show up to cheer us on.

“If you want to feel like a hero,” the posts all say, “run a marathon.” Perhaps. I’d say to run (or spectate) if you want to feel like part of a greater whole. Heroism may be an easier sell, but I’d wager that connection counts for a whole lot more.

In the days since, I keep wondering if perhaps success isn’t what we’ve been led to think. Or, put another way: What if success is exactly what we think it is, versus what we are told?

Embracing life, in that hug-with-both-arms, full force gusto kind of way, it necessitates letting go of perfectionism. As it turns out, we can do so very much, can hold multiple truths and many layers of nuance. But when it comes to gratitude and rigidity, we cannot hold both.

In the end, I got a medal. I kept all my toenails. And I wasn’t all that sore the next day. I’d call that a win.

There’s a joke people like to make following a race, particularly the kind with tens of thousands of participants. “Did you win?” they say, with the tone one would take while addressing a toddler telling a tall tale.

“Yes,” I say, without a hint of irony. “I did.”

A few more marathon moments:

• Kayleigh Williamson became the first woman with Down syndrome to finish the NYC Marathon.

• Wrinkle, the marathon duck, ran for the third year in a row.

• The Final Finishers party never disappoints.

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Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

Featuring The Star Tarot by Cathy McClelland

On the surface, Temperance is about balance. Moderation. Restraint. And other words better suited to diet culture than to a vibrant, modern life.  

But if we dig a bit deeper, we find this card is about flexibility. Fluidity. Acceptance. Forgiveness. Fullness.

Temperance, it turns out, is both juicier and more necessary than we know.

This week’s card cautions us against jumping to extremes. This is no place for all-or-nothing thinking, it tells us, nor for catastrophizing or perfectionism. It invites us to entertain the many shades of gray, the many forms of possibility.  

We may be perfectly capable of calling ourselves a fan of a musician or athlete, but not necessarily love every one of their songs or moves. Yet when it comes to our selves, we may be quick to write something off based on one challenge or misstep.

Featuring the iconic Smith-Waite tarot, with art by Pamela Colman Smith

The impulse toward perfection undermines spiritual growth and thwarts the very progress is claims to seek. Rigidity prevents us from enjoying the simple pleasures and blocks us from feeling gratitude, celebrating our progress, recognizing the value of our efforts.

Temperance urges us to embrace our humanity—our softness, our fallibility. It wants us to be our fullest selves, free of compartmentalization. In life, it can be tempting to be one person at work, another at home, another in the company of friends. But Temperance asks that we merge them all, that we bring our true nature to every interaction.

Restraint is not the way, and neither is extremism. Rather, this card encourages us to engage fully, responding to each situation with whatever it asks of us. This is the secret of flow, Temperance tells us, by relating to life directly, without pretense.

As we practice this, we may find that we relate to the world with a new awareness, content to observe and to trust what unfolds before us. Like those famous words from Leonard Cohen:

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That is how the light gets in

Temperance hopes we may see the truth: There is no need to be better, richer, more worthy. There is no call to be different. Above all, it tells us, do not seek to be someone else. There is no such thing as an upgrade when we are already inherently whole.