The Last Mile is Always the Hardest
When the end is near, it can sometimes be too much to handle
A while back, I ran the New York City Marathon. I knew I’d be tired and sore, but I experienced something else I hadn’t anticipated. For the first few miles, I was hopped up on excitement and nerves; I was so busy trying to settle into the pace that I didn’t even think about the finish line. Midway through the race, at about Mile 8 or 9, I felt myself steadying, and I pounded out each mile methodically, focusing just on getting through that mile, and then the next mile. Again, I didn’t think about the finish line at all. I couldn’t afford to, really, because I still had a long way to go and I knew I had to keep my mind on just putting one foot in front of the other, right then and there. I felt strong and swift and capable, undaunted by the remaining miles ahead of me.
Then I hit Mile 24. I only had two more miles to go — just a hop, skip, and a jump compared to all that I had already run — and I felt good. And yet when I saw that mile marker, I completely lost it. Suddenly, my legs felt like wood, my breath got ragged, and the realization that I had been running for four hours overwhelmed me, knocked me sideways. It was exactly the opposite of what I had expected. I had assumed once I got a whiff of the finish line, I would be electrified, coursing with…
