13.1 and Counting

In a marathon, it's very important not to focus on the end point. Sure, in training, visualizing myself crossing the finish line can be really helpful in getting me through some tedious long runs. And then there are those glorious days, when I feel like I could run forever--say the leaves along the trail are in full fall color, the air is nippy but not not cold enough yet for gloves and hat, and my legs just feel powerful and strong--when I pick up the pace and picture myself sprinting across the finish line to the undulating sounds of the crowds on the side lines.

But really, those thoughts are few and far between. Because when you're at the start of a marathon, that finish line is a lifetime away. For me, the only way to get through the marathon, is to break it into smaller pieces. The first two miles fly by. Really. Adrenaline. The crowds. The freshness of your body. But it doesn't take long for that feeling to set in. "Three down... Twenty-three point two left to go." That kind of feeling will kill you. So you focus on the first 10k. Then the second 10k. All you think about is making it to 13.1, the halfway point. Because the finish is simply unreal.

But then, then I hit the halfway point, and it doesn't seem so difficult. After all, at that halfway point, all I have is a half marathon left. And I run like four of those a year. No big deal. At 13 mile run isn't even worth going to sleep early for. It's not worth forgoing that second glass of wine. Because from 13.1, 15 miles is just around the corner. And from there, 18 is easy breezy. At 20, you've blasted through the wall and are in the final 10k. Of course, that's when it all gets hard again. That final 10k is somehow the longer than the previous 20 miles and the last mile is simply the longest mile you will ever run. Ever. Ever! So there's this magic window of marathoning, when life is good and fun and you even entertain thoughts of picking up the pace, of breaking a few records, of going for it all the way.

I'm discovering house remodeling is similar. That first half marathon was a killer. After a week, the novelty of being in this teeny tiny apartment wore off, and the miles were just too daunting face.

And now, now we've hit the half marathon point. The second floor is framed. The roof will be complete in a matter of days. We are two months into our four month project (and, yes, so far things are on schedule). While I am still having problems envisioning how this shell of a house will transform itself into a livable space by January, I'm starting to feel just a twinge of hope, a smidgen of optimism. The stove has been purchased. The refrigerator is on order. The studs of walls-to-be are defining an actual living space.



Every time I do something in this apartment, I wonder how many more times I'll have to do it. Changing the roll of toilet paper. Vacuuming up the crumbs under the kids' seats at the table. Yelling at the kids that they can't be stomping dinosaurs before 7 a.m. on a weekday or 9 a.m. on a Sunday. How many times will I go for something, only to remember it's sitting deep in some vault in Wilmington. I feel like we're on the back side of those numbers.

So yes the apartment is miserable. Yes, everyone's tensions are high. Yes, I'm tired of being the noise police and vacuuming cereal from where it adheres to the rug. But we're in the magic window. We're on the backside of the race. We're sailing free and easy and clear and all will be good... right up to that last 10k. Dear God, please don't let that last 10k shred us! I'm already mentally crossing that finish line.