In which I make two references to pad the length of this post, because I don't have much to say

We'll start with the first, because there's not much to say: A Dream of Spring is the book after the book that George Martin hasn't released yet in his Song of Ice and Fire. I haven't read it; no one has. Maybe, no one will.

Which would make the title a bit appropriate, wouldn't it? Dreams, after all, are not real. And so if it's a spring that never comes, because WINTER MOTIF, then... well, that still wouldn't be very satisfying. But it would be something.

I mention that because the Pi Day Half Marathon has been my "spring is nearly here" race for about seven years now. The last five, I've won it. That counts today. I felt bad, ran my slowest time of the five, but had my biggest margin. That's something, and I'm not unhappy.

There are races I race for time--on roads, with fast fields--but this isn't one. It's on a trail, it's basically 14 miles, and winning races put on by the club that's responsible for my being a runner at all carries outsized sentimental importance, admittedly.

Which brings me to my next reference, which is less of stretch.

Scorn Defeat is a 1993 black metal album by Sigh, a Japanese band. Maybe you've clicked play by now, and yeah, the vocals are supposed to sound like that. People who like this sort of thing like this thing in particular; you'll just have to trust me that it's considered a classic.

Anyway, my tendency is to say I don't care about winning this race or others like it--or at least, to state unequivocally that I shouldn't. To the latter point... I mean, I don't know. I tend to think caring too much about trivial things is the only respite from the irrelevance of the nominally important things in our lives. So I do care. Or rather, I care independent of whether I ought to. And I didn't want to not win. So. I have another pie plate. I don't bake. The end. 

Ordinarily

Writer of things, Malcolm Gladwell, wrote a thing about Roger Bannister. It's a good piece, suitably quick, and makes the point that Bannister's most famous accomplishment is, well, relatively ordinary. That was the extraordinary thing about it, of course. People can understand running because, for the most part, they've done it. Probably not as well, or as fast--except fleetingly. No, 15 mph is not "that fast", except when one does it for four laps. Gladwell, being a serious runner and--the more rare breed these days--a serious running fan knows this, and appreciates it.

We can extrapolate this principle, of course. If 15 mph is not that fast, then Kipchoge's not-WR marathon pace of (let's round it) 13.1 mph is really, really not that fast. Perhaps this is what makes running such a great participatory draw, but something less than must-see television for most people--many of whom consider their own running to be a significant part of their lives.

I have never once laced a pair of ice skates, and yet I know figure skating is hard, because the immediate aesthetic impression conveys as much. More than that, it conveys it quickly, kinetically, and artistically. Put another way: It looks cool, and you can fit the coolest looking parts in a GIF, or a tweeted video. You can say the same thing for soccer, basketball, and football; hell, the NFL combine produces more "viral content" than many sports, and it's just guys working out. Not that that isn't quality content too. Spend a little time on Instagram, and it becomes clear, quickly, how Crossfit athletes and bodybuilders are able to take advantage of the visual medium.

There are runners too, of course, and I've watched my share of rhythmic, sinewy striding. But I'm a geek about this shit, and also drawn to the projectable aspect. I'm a not-awful runner, though my knees point a bit, sometimes my left hip drops and the ankle below tilts; but what if my arms tightened, my elbows drove back, and my feet struck the ground with perfect, glancing grace? It's impossible, but... not. At least, not in the realm of imagination.

If Gladwell's hypothetical fit person might consider Bannister's 15 mph and note that they can reach it, that same person might watch one of the myriad ultrarunning videos and note that, for the length of time any elite is on camera, they probably can do what is being documented. Seven minute pace, let's say, is just not that fast; and it never really gets fast, except in the extreme.

Which is the weird thing--well, a weird thing--about ultras, and marathons too, because if we dismiss naming conventions, marathons are kinda ultras, physiologically/psychologically, for most people. They are easy to grasp in some ways, which makes them more impossible in others. Everything about them is easy, until it becomes impossible. And there is, as I mentioned in my Rocky pace report, no knowing except knowing; but even that fails. Frank Shorter talked about this, about how you have to forget every marathon to run another, and the "I'm never running again!" proclamations, after a first 100, are famous--until they sign up for another.  Maybe it's appropriate that the whole endeavor defies complete cognitive embrace, because it is, y'know, dumb as hell.

I don't have a thesis, obviously, or a conclusion. I remember thinking I could run 50 miles at nine-minute pace, because that was slow, until I tried it... and tried it... and then did it. Maybe that's the most relatable thing about Bannister, then--not the 15 mph, but the ability to project one's self forward, and the capacity to believe in something stupid. But that begins to sound like a thesis, or a conclusion, or like I have, as everyone on the internet does, "thoughts" in the worst way.