Too Clever Too Fast Too Happy

For the first few miles of the marathon, I was still fresh enough to look around, to pay attention. I remember mostly the muffled thump of several thousand pairs of expensive sneakers padding the Ottawa pavement. But as the race wore on, the herd stretched into a long string of solitary runners. Pretty soon each of us was off in a singular race, pitting one body against one will. For months I'd trained with the arbitrary goal of three hours and 20 minutes in my mind. Which is not a fast time, but it would let a 41-year-old into the Boston marathon. And given how fast I'd gone in training, I knew it lay at the outer edge of the possible.

By about, say, mile 23, two things were becoming clear. One, my training had worked: I'd reeled off one 7:30 mile after another. Two, my training wouldn't get me to the finish by itself. With every hundred yards the race became less a physical test and more a mental one. Someone stronger passed me, and I slipped on to...