How not to run a marathon

The forces of systemic stupidity, like some demented pack of hounds chasing after a hunk of inexplicably mobile meat, refused to let me finish my marathon in peace. There were too many mistakes. In a race like the marathon, where, like the Challenger disaster, one mistake can mean the difference between success and a dreaded “did not finish”, the sheer vastness of my errors were coming back to haunt me.

If you recall, I was huddled at the 30km mark, desperately trying to inject life into my cramping body through Powerade, bananas, and water. I had not eaten enough food. I had not gotten enough sleep. I had not paced the race whatsoever. My legs were cramping, I had lost a large amount of useful minerals, and my mind was exhausted. But there was a silver lining. Well, more like a golden nugget that I had systematically panned from the depths of a river. I had finished three-quarters of the marathon. I had, by my estimation, less than an hour remaining.