Runners are insufferable. Of course, there’s the physical aspect. What’s more irritating than someone who acts like the sky is falling if they “only” log 50 miles that week? Or to head out for a leisurely hike through the woods, savoring God’s calming palette of greens and browns when suddenly, some dork in like, 14 different shades of neon comes buzzing past you with the audacity to smile and wave? Runners are always hobbling around on some made-up injury, inconveniencing you with their poop schedules. Chasing sunrise with masochistic verve.
The worst part, though, is the chatter.
The jargon they slip into casual conversation when you just want to, I don’t know, enjoy your beer? Before you know it, you’re like, “I negative split my tempo this morning and since the dew point is under 60, it’s looking like double threshold for me tonight, so long as my IT band holds up.”
Bitch, what the fuck?
This sport breaks your brain. And with a whole new vocabulary comes a whole new list of things to feel bad about.
Behold: the DNF.
A DNF, or “did not finish,” is exactly what it sounds like. Marathoners going for big milestones like qualifying for Boston or the Olympic Trials might DNF when they realize, by mile 15, that they never hit their stride; finishing the marathon would do them more harm than good. They dust themselves off and train for the next shot.
People don’t really DNF short races when the stakes are nonexistent. But two Sundays ago, I did just that.
I’m pretty sure I was one of the first people to sign up for this year’s Philly 10k. I haven’t confirmed that, nor will I, because I’m too embarrassed to ask and then they pull my name up and see those scarlet letters. But suffice to say, I was pumped. Every summer, I’d watch the race come and go and think, “man, 10k seems like a distance I’d love!” So I set a whole ass calendar reminder for the moment registration opened.
As race day approached and gradually solidified into a Thing I Am Doing, I realized it was on August 27th: the five-year anniversary of my sister Dawn’s passing. Historically the worst day of the year for me, I didn’t know how I’d feel that morning. So I just kept reminding myself that I’m running for her. My visions of the race were imbued with a kind of divine effortlessness, like she was carrying me to the finish line. Everything was floaty and ethereal in a pearlescent haze.
Eventually, though, it started to hit me that I have a marathon in early October. I wasn’t in any place to sacrifice a long run day for a race (and the subsequent recovery), so I considered blowing off the Philly 10k altogether.
Instead, I convinced myself that it could be a “fun run” where I don’t worry about pace and just go straight into an eight-mile cooldown to get those miles in. Hilarious. No runner has ever kept it a “fun run.” Please refer to the opening sentence of this essay.
On race day, I arrived at Corral A breathless, already sweaty from my warm-up. My body was a plank of wood. I’d barely gotten my headphones in when the gun went off. For the first half mile, I was pushing a 6:35 pace before realizing I had no business pushing a 6:35 pace, especially with grief draining my battery in the background like an app I forgot to close. I took my foot off the gas, steadily going slower… and slower… and slower… until I reached an eight-minute pace that I didn’t care to come back from. The sadness, the exhaustion, the way my playlists wouldn’t hit when normally “Stuntin’ Like My Daddy” could resurrect me from the dead, the absolute dread of passing every cheering, smiling bystander. In the middle of the third mile, I walked straight off the course and didn’t look back. “I’m at 11th & McKean, passing Big Charlie’s Saloon,” I blubbered to Andrew, “and I’m so fucking embarrassed.”
Moving through the hushed streets of South Philly on a Sunday morning, ripping my bib from my shirt so no dog walkers could see I came from the race—that was a fresh hell. A walk of shame college me never trained for. College me wouldn’t have quit a run if my house was on fire. And because I don’t normally quit things so outright, I was riding waves of apathy and relief and compassion and self-loathing, really navigating the novelty of it all.
When I got home, I bolted out the door for a 15-mile solo trek. I ran 11.
(If a runner DNFs in private and no one knows what they sent out to run, did they DNF? Well, did that tree ever make a sound?)
On Monday morning, I told my therapist everything. He was proud of me. He wasn’t the only person to say that, either. In fact, that was the resounding response when I told people I dropped out of the Philly 10k. “Good for you!” I get the impulse; no one’s going to sit there and underscore your failure like some heartless savage loser prick. Not to mention, to most people, it’s not that deep, anyway. But I spent my entire session processing the decision in the context of not finishing the things I start. Sure, I’ve never quit a job without another lined up. Never dipped out of a relationship without some semblance of fight. Never gave up on a recipe when I forgot an ingredient. But I have let my most meaningful pursuits languish in purgatorial abandonment, never quite dropping them, but loosening my grip until they fall on their own. Whether I’ll touch them again becomes a great and terrible mystery.
I love fiction. My favorite type of book is probbbably a fictional collection of short stories. I spent so long dreaming of trying my hand at fiction, imagining myself finally finding my mythical thing—you know, the one you were born to do (as if we were born to do anything but seek pleasure and get cancer in the process). And last year, I finally put pen to paper to write my first short story. It went a lot like “fun running” the Philly 10k. I’d convinced myself I could just free-flow. That I could let it all POUR out of me and clean it up in the editing process! Whatever feeds the momentum to get this thing DONE! Ten thousand words in, it slipped away. I hit a turning point in the story, which felt like a good place to press pause, outline and all that. Months later, I’ve still yet to hit play.
My neglected short story taught me I’m not meant to write fiction.
My DNF taught me I’m not meant to run races.
My therapist taught me to stop thinking in absolutes. To find the parallels between these occurrences and take action.
“You do a lot of stuff that requires a certain embrace of discomfort,” he remarked. I reflected back on college me who’d just gotten into running, how I was so hungry to get faster and go longer, you would have had to drag me off the treadmill. I’d set the pace to something well above my performance level and soon enough, I was running six miles in 45 minutes flat. I craved that daily rush of hanging by a thread. Fighting those demons that told me to slow down, catch my breath. I was molding myself into something disciplined and unbreakable.
I was fearless.
One of the most unfair parts of aging is losing your fearlessness. Years pass, you see some shit, and eventually, you know too much. Life ceases to be measured by how many risks you take and rather, by what you can dodge to stay afloat. Less rollercoasters, more nutrition labels. At 32, I am a chronic avoider of discomfort. I get through my days by cutting corners and staying complacent. I play it safe. I don’t remember the last thing outside of my 9-5 that I can l truly say “I gave it my all.” I’m not even sure I know what “my all” looks like.
This is where I’m supposed to tell you that stops today. That I’m going to finish my story and run my guts out. But I’ve learned that big, lofty announcements don’t ensure accountability. And I love you too much to lie to you. So in the spirit of my DNF, consider this ending incomplete. A question mark as to what’s next. Maybe together, you and I, we can finish that thing (lord knows you have one, too) and make ourselves proud. Maybe.
This is one of my favorite pieces you’ve written 🤧
A lot of folks, including especially "achievers" like runners and some musicians I've known, have never known how (or when) to "quit". They would've benefitted from that lesson, tbh; in ways I won't bore you by describing. The
tl;dr: Learning to quit with your self-worth intact is good; you won't do it every time, but you'll be able to when you need to. Good luck on the marathon in October.