Hi, my name is challenge2728. I'm here because i want to submit essay to newsletter.
April 1, 2001 — And I Felt Like a Fool
Most running coaches will tell you to take a week off after a marathon. So after completing 186 marathons in the year 2000—part of my failed but valiant attempt to run 200 in one year—I figured I’d follow that advice. That “week off” turned into over three months of near-total inactivity. Turns out, I’m not wired for rest. I function better when I move daily—maybe not a marathon, but something.
On December 9, 2000, I ran marathon #199 of the year in 5:20. The next day, I ran my final marathon of the year in 4:05. Fast-forward 101 days to April 1, 2001: I arrived in New York to run the Inaugural Achilles Marathon—and finished in 5:44:45. It wasn’t just my slowest in years, it was also a wake-up call.
The day was gray and cold. One of those Sunday mornings better suited for another pot of coffee than for lacing up shoes. But I had committed. Because of my long-standing relationship with the Achilles Track Club, I’d been invited to this landmark event. And I was not about to say no.
I arrived at Prospect Park in Brooklyn more than two hours before the gun. I was early enough to see the hand-crank wheelchair winners cross the finish line and to congratulate them. But as I stood shivering in the chilly drizzle, I couldn’t help but think: I wish my race had started at 8 a.m. like theirs—I’d already be halfway done.
My mood wasn’t great. The course? Eight loops around the park. Repetitive. Boring. Lonely. I couldn’t find a pace partner, and my mind was already negotiating my early exit: “Maybe I’ll stop after lap four… make up a good excuse.”
But then came the shift. I stopped thinking about me.
This day wasn’t about America’s Marathon Man taking a few months off and paying the price. It wasn’t about media attention or photo ops. This marathon was about real heroes—the athletes in wheelchairs, on crutches, with prosthetic limbs, or simply determined to cross that line despite everything their bodies had endured.
I saw a man in an everyday wheelchair—no high-tech titanium gear—pushing himself backward up a hill with his feet because his arms were shot. I spoke with a white-haired woman who’d started three hours before the official start just to make it in before nightfall. I watched a man collapse from spasms after mile 20, only to smile and wave me on: “No worries. Happens sometimes.”
And then it hit me like a slap of cold wind: You finish this marathon, or you turn in your shoes. No more self-pity. No more excuses.
There were no cameras at the finish. No roaring crowds. No big cash prizes. Just spirit. Pure, human, unshakable spirit.
I finished that day—humbled, inspired, and transformed.
So the next time I’m tempted to stall over that second cup of coffee, or skip a training run, or avoid the hard work of writing or showing up—I’ll remember the heroes of that inaugural Achilles Marathon.
They didn’t run for glory. They ran for life.
Written in 2001 — cried over on December 15, 2019 — and cried again rereading on July 29, 2025.
Jerry Dunn
America's Marathon Man
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