A near myth: a marathoner's journey into the world of unknowns
There are well-known myths from ancient Greece, e.g., Heracles and the 12 labours; Jason and his group of Argonauts hunting the Golden Fleece; Perseus and his quest for the head of Medusa. Then, there are lesser-known myths, e.g., the myth of the common man (or common marathoner as the case may be.) They are not that far apart. Like the heroes and heroines of another time, the myth of the common man is a tale of inner courage and the confrontation of incredible obstacles (both metaphysical and physical); it is a tale not free of blood, sweat, and tears. It parallels not only the travails of those alpha-male heroes of yesteryear, but also more contemporary figures like Lara Croft, Rudy, Seabiscuit, and mere “mortals” like Frank Shorter, Paula Radcliffe, and Shawn Murphy.
My own quest begins in that dark time with which most marathoners are familiar — the post season. With more time on my hands than I could recall (although, undoubtedly, I had the same amount of time last year), I began to search for new goals to conquer. Without personal bests, speed workouts, and Lycra® running shorts, how else would I be able to stimulate my senses? Without the regular rigorous training and racing schedule, what more did I have to offer the world? I pondered this while sipping a latté at Bridgehead. Then, as if the Oracles of Delphi themselves had communicated through the steam rising from the mug, it came to me…
I was to bake cookies!
Now, I am not a baker. I look forward to spending time in the kitchen about as much as one looks forward to leg cramps, black toenails, or a showdown with a woman who has snakes for hair and can turn men to stone. But, as legend would have it, Jason was not exactly Greek-hero material, and he made out okay. As such, I became determined. These cookies would become my Nemean Lion, my Golden Fleece — proud mementoes of a time when I leapt out of my comfort zone, to be enjoyed while partaking in another equally as subversive post-season pastime — Desperate Housewives.
So, the quest began. There was no boat, no great ascension from heaven to earth, merely a quick trip to the grocery store by way of foot for the acquisition of what I understood to be essential in the baking of cookies. And not just any cookies, I had decided. If this was to be my transition from marathoning to Iron-chef, then they had to be Christmas cookies. Well stocked and totally prepared (with a bottle of wine for good measure), I returned to the sanctity of my home, knowing that this would be the last time I would cross the threshold as the man I knew.
I faced my first task with great vim and vigour, my chest puffed out in confidence and defiance. Flour flew, sugar shook, and eggs were beaten with a ferocity never before witnessed. Quite simply, I was on fire and had conquered the early goings. But like the Hydra of Heracles' second labor, there was yet something more fierce, more unknown to me than anything before. What in the f**k is “folding”? I let forth a stream of profanity that would make American Wedding seem like a Disney movie. Surely Heracles had also encountered such problems on his quests? Not to be denied, I plunged on certain that a good “stir” would suffice. I stirred, I tossed, I added, I pinched, and, perhaps most importantly, I drank. Finally, I kneaded, I rolled, I spread, and I shaped. Santa shapes, snowmen shapes, holly (or is it ivy?), circles, squares, and even one that looks just a little like Hercules. And then, I baked. Twenty minutes later the bell rang, signaling my victory. I leapt from the couch, empty wine glass in hand, and raced to the kitchen (I am, afterall, a marathoner) to reap the rewards of my labour.
I inhaled deeply as I opened the oven door and there, like Perseus with Medusa's head, Heracles and the Nemean Lion, Paula Radcliffe's world record, and Shawn Murphy's recent (and most impressive 3:19 marathon), there were these cookies meant to remind me of my conquest. Unfortunately, they served more to remind me of my post-marathon blackened toes. And with heavy heart, I turned from the stove and opened another receptacle for food and tossed my labours away.
When does marathon season begin again?
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