CHAPTER NINE

Some men give up their designs when they have almost reached the goal, while others, on the contrary, obtain a victory by exerting, at the last moment, more vigorous efforts than ever before.

Herodotus

By thirty-seven kilometers, Lee was going through his predictable “Am I nuts?” phase. If his life was some kind of crappy movie, it definitely wasn’t a comedy anymore. He slowed down, bent over, and took Santiago’s jowls in his hands. He looked her straight in the eyes. “Am I nuts, girl? What are we doing? Why are we doing this, Santi?”

Santiago licked Lee’s face and gave a questioning whine. Lee sighed, glanced at his watch, and kept walking. Seven and a quarter hours they’d been trudging. His “bring-it-on-bro” enthusiasm had left him at sixteen kilometers. It hit him hard when he realized that, aside from the red spot on his white ankle sock from a busted blister, there’d be no blood and guts for him here today. It’s only the sweating, give-it-all-you’ve-got runners who hit that heart-breaking, soul-sucking “wall,” thought Lee. Walkers? Oh yeah, they ache, they hurt, but they’ll never have the kind of agony or the ecstasy of a true hero.

Instead of bricks, Lee imagined his “wall” made of a thin, unbreakable membrane—strong enough to bounce him back every time he tried to break through, but thin enough (like the over-stretched wall of a chewing gum bubble) to be able to see vague shadows of something better on the other side.

“What the heck are we doing, Santi?”

As if in answer, Santiago stopped to take a whiz near an apparently interesting-smelling tree. Lee sat on the curb. He tried to remember the word that had leapt out at him from this morning’s Einstein quote, the one he’d read when he was still chipper and undaunted and certain that he was not a nutcase. What was it, anyway? Something about … oh yeah, Mastery.

Lee absentmindedly pulled up his sock, which unfortunately took the stuck-on top of his weepy blister along with it. Shoot. He wondered if he’d ever really be “master” material at anything, or (and this felt much more likely) remain forever “mediocre.” Mediocre at everything.

Mastery. Mediocrity. What’s it gonna be, Lee?

He tossed Santiago a dried passion fruit from his trail mix. “Know what Einstein said, Santi?” He took her yip as a yes. “Only one who devotes himself to a cause with his whole strength and soul can be a true master … mastery demands all of a person.”

Einstein, thought Lee, I sure hope to heck you know what you’re talking about. “Okay then, girl,” he said, “Time to give it our all.”

As they passed the thirty-seven kilometer marker, Lee began a slow jog. Santiago, for her part, was ecstatic. She galloped ahead until the leash was taut and soon she had him picking up speed. Lee suddenly remembered why he’d decided to walk this marathon instead of running it. He could feel his lungs protesting. He was about to tell Santiago to give him a break, to “slow down, ya maniac, you’ve obviously never suffered with asthma,” but when he opened his mouth, something entirely different flew out: “Frig it.” Lee was suddenly overtaken by an overwhelming urge to let the pain grow and intensify until he exploded into a million mediocre bits, blowing through his mediocre universe. He caught up with Santiago and started running at a punishing speed. The more it hurt, the faster he ran. His heart became a pair of boxing gloves, pounding the inside of his chest: left-right, left-right—thump-thump. He could even feel the pounding in his temples, like the top of his head was about to blow off. Yep, here it comes. Self-combustion. Lee McGillicuddy up in smoke. POOF! Nothing left but a smoldering heap of cinders. He was waiting for it, expecting it. But it didn’t come.

Instead came the miraculous: Without warning, without explanation … jeez … he started to feel good. Absurdly, ridiculously good. And strong. Strong enough to spin the planet on the tip of his finger like a basketball. And then he did it— the impossible. He maxed his speed, screwed his eyes shut, spread his arms wide, and took a suicidal leap at his “wall”— that rubbery membrane of mediocrity that stood between him and mastery—and instead of rebounding into space … holy crud … HE … BROKE … THROUGH. As Lee stepped onto the track at the university stadium—the same track that thousands of marathoners had stepped onto only yesterday as they took their last steps toward the finish line—he knew he’d broken through.

It was like putting on perfect prescription glasses when you didn’t even know your eyesight was crappy. It was like having a huge plug of wax removed from an ear that you didn’t know had been blocked up for years. The volume was up and everything seemed vibrant and sharp and full of possibility. He’d done it. Lee Sonny Daddy Beanpole McGillicuddy, if only for a tiny, infinitesimal fraction of his life, had entered Mastery.

Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.

– T. S. Eliot

You can become a winner only if you are willing to walk over the edge.

– Damon Runyon