It's a very specific moment. Monday morning at the office. Unfortunately for you, your boss remembers you had a thing, and meanders over to ask how your "run" went over the weekend. You're still flooded with too much dopamine to think clearly and before you know it, you've said more than 5 adjectives and let your finish time slip out of your mouth. And now that you've announced you can run a 2:53 marathon, your boss loudly congratulates you and then immediately mentions that time in 1982 when he threw on some Reeboks and ran a marathon in ... well he can't remember the exact time but he's pretty sure it was like 2:15 or something. Then your co-worker rolls over in his office chair and asks, "so did you win?" It's that moment, that little millisecond, when you realize the sole dedication and purpose of the past 10 years of your life and the number that represents all of that meaning for you, basically means nothing to almost anybody else in the world. No, you did not win. No, you did not earn any money. No, you do not even have a trophy. And you find it hilarious. Because when you really stop to think about the work/reward ratio in the sport of running, it's absurd - and you wouldn't change it for a thing. So you laugh to yourself. And then you fire off a text to the group chat. It's a pic of this shirt you bought. Because you finally broke 3 hours in the marathon ... and all you got was this lousy t-shirt.
