This quote seems good for motorcyclists and any other adventurers:
"Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!"
Hunter S. Thompson, The Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967
When I was younger I had the ambition to race the Baja 1000 in the 250cc motorcycle class. The dream was to race in the smaller class of motorcycle to take advantage of my small build, and the goal was just to finish.
I am now 58 years old, but when I was 49 I had the opportunity to run the NYC Marathon "off the couch." Basically a friend at work, an elite marathon runner, had overtrained, had gotten sick, and offered me his bib on a Friday before the Sunday race.
So I only had one full day to get ready to run a marathon, and really had done no training. My gal was worried that I would end up like the legend: run 26.4 miles and die at the finish line. It just so happened that that Saturday that an Olympic Trials was scheduled in Central Park and a world class athlete collapsed and died while trying to secure his spot on the U.S. Olympic team. I had to promise my gal that I just wanted to finish.
But that all changed on the Statin Island Ferry ride heading to the start when I met this stoner who offered me some hash brownies (his fuel of choice to run a marathon) because he told me that if I completed the race under 5 hours I would get my name published in the New York Times Marathon Special Edition.
Because earlier in life I raced bicycles (road and mountain) something triggered me to race, and my new goal was to finish under 5 hours even if it killed me. Because I was once an endurance athlete I was not in bad shape, but my longest runs were only about 6-7 miles.
Anyways the RFID that was tracking my race progress made my gal aware that I was racing, and when I ran up to her on the corner of South 3rd Street and Bedford Avenue in Williamsburg Brooklyn my time was under two hours and the halfway point in Greenpoint was not far away.
In Greenpoint I made a very serious mistake and stopped for 6 minutes to use a Porta-Potty. I figured that this would be my last chance before heading into Madhattan, but meanwhile my lactic acid levels spiked. On the 59th Street Bridge I knew that the second half marathon would be all about pain and how close I could get to seizing up from cramps, while somehow continuing to move forward.
If I hadn't stopped I likely would have finished around 4 hours, but all these hallucinations started happening towards the end. I saw a sign that said "Finish Line 4 Miles" in Central Park, but then I saw that same sign a second time. I cursed to myself, saying "M-F'er Central Park isn't that big," but the time was now to run as fast as I could to make the time under 5 hours. I just had to push past the pain and discomfort.
I didn't find out if I finished under 5 hours until the following week. I beat the clock by 26 seconds. My friend is Southeast Asian, and his first and last name is 26 letters. The day after the marathon I could not walk, but it was one of those peak moments in one's life that you count on your fingers.
Funny how life gets played out.
Cal