Happy Hour, Happy Times. Drinkin’ and Dreamin’

What I’m about to tell you should probably wait until the end of the book, or not be mentioned at all.  But, the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that the story of my first marathon is apropos to the message of this book.

In the spring of 1996, I was living in Washington, DC, working in the U.S. House of Representatives. My house was located near the office and next to a popular bar. Go figure. My cousin, who is much less handsome and nowhere near as charming as me, came up for a visit from Richmond one weekend.  After about three pitchers of beer and several hours of talking smack about nothing, one of us courageously proclaimed that he would jump out of an airplane tomorrow morning.  No kidding.  The other, I don’t remember whom, readily agreed, and by the next morning we both were calling skydiving companies all up and down the Chesapeake.

Fortunately for us, nobody was taking customers that morning.  This was good because both of us would have been puking before we put on our jumpsuits. 

None deterred, we tried again the next morning, suspicious of the other’s determination to go through with the Bud-filled challenge two nights before.  Politely locking our pride in the basements of our souls, neither would admit that he was a little scared to go through with it.  We remained this way for the hour drive out to the jump grounds, through the training videos and demonstrations, and while being strapped into jumpsuits three sizes too small and ten odors too stinky.  In fact, we swallowed our pride enough to fly a corkscrew pattern up to 10,500 feet in a puddle-jumper, in bad weather until we each jumped out the plane free falling at 120 miles per hour for more than a mile, flying like Superman - rather, dropping like Superman in a jumpsuit of kryptonite - until we pulled our cords, felt our progeny thrust into our stomachs, and floated delicately to the earth while muttering to ourselves, “Holy crap. I did it.”  And I did.  I’ve got a video, pictures, and a high-pitched voice to prove it.

Two weeks later I found myself at the same watering hole, waxing moxie and derring-do, sharing tales of my conquest with an easily unimpressed audience, when again the gauntlet was thrown for yet another challenge. Among our lot there was discussion of great, but impossible feats. You know, those ridiculous human pursuits of cave diving… bungee jumping… mountain climbing (hmmmm) … sky diving (hey, wait a minute)… and marathoning (Eureka!). 

One of us declared, I don’t remember whom, “Let’s run a marathon!”

The Bat Signal of adventure and personal challenge was lit, the challenge was made, and I would respond with a “Holy crap, Batman!  I’m going to run a marathon!”

I know you’re not stupid.  You do not need me to state explicitly what was implied in my cleverly told anecdote.  But, I will.  You don’t need pitchers of beer to dream big.  We all do that anyway.  Take, for instance, the sensation you feel when you buy a lottery ticket.  If you haven’t bought a lottery ticket, you won’t understand.  Turn away from the blog, go to the 7-Eleven or Quickie Mart or the gas station and purchase $1 of lotto-filled inflated expectations.  Work with me on this. 

As you hold the ticket in your hand, what are thinking?  You’re thinking how you’re going to spend the money aren’t you?  You’re fantasizing about losing a shoe in your boss’ derriere as you sign off from jobland.  What car are you driving? Where is the house(s) you’re going to build? Now you can do that thing you’ve always been dreaming about. Now you can be, now you can have….

Now stop.  What are you doing?  You are dreaming big.  In your mind are the castles and sports cars and fine clothes and fabulous vacations and other opportunities that are otherwise absent from your day-to-day thinking.  This is the “Impossible Dream,” and it doesn’t take a pitcher of beer or a lottery ticket to conceive them in your head.  Come on.  Let go.  Let your mind wander like an ADD patient at a whistles and bells convention.  Just dream.  Its fun, it’s easy, and it’s free. 

Now ask yourself: What is between you and all that you just dreamed (with the exception of you wingnuts who want to be Spiderman.  This book is not for you.  Put your arms back in the jacket and return to your padded room.)?

So, what do you want? Ask yourself, what is it? Good. Now I’ll show you how to get it.