You are likely that you have heard someone to say that the race has taught you to “have discipline.” If you haven’t heard it, you read it to a social networking classic, notably LinkedIn.
But it is not the race that teaches someone to have discipline. It is discipline (and many other factors) that makes you usually do something, including running. Forgiveness for the tautological argument.
I recognize that someone hardly says that the discipline taught him to work or to take the subway. The race has this special logic because it is a very easy activity to practice – and in it we get better.
That is why it becomes an excellent way out of physical inactivity, with large fitness dividends, notably cardiovascular. Many hurras should be given to the race. But Caesar what is Caesar: From the point of view of personal evolution, it has the very same value of anything a relatively unknown day we gradually dominate.
But there is this tendency to overvalue the race, as individual sports, as well as performance paradigm. You know you are evolving by increasing distances or becoming faster.
Thus, goals and challenges fit right here, because we transfer to the gravel something we would perhaps to see in other fields, such as learning another language; become polygamous or ascetic; change profession or be recognized by the boss.
With all this, I want to believe that a playful dimension, much more loving and fucking race of the race, is lost. The section becomes too disciplined, and the goat, if for any reason it cannot run such 12 km prescribed for that morning, feels the worst of mortals.
Many people think running is difficult, requires learning, forgetting that the activity is performed intuitively by us from the tanks. Who even before walking, barely lifting the legs, ran? Yes, you, me, the Flamengo fans – and that of the dumb.
I have been running for many years, and the most memorable gravels of my life have involved some loss of control, some chance intervention, it was the appearance of a sheep pastor to hinder the passage of a trail in the Peloponnese, it was the arrival of the CPTM train at the Funda Barra level intersection. Or the sunset at USP.
On the other hand, I admit, it was glorious the feeling of lowering the time of the half day marathon with the luxurious aid of a license plate, perhaps a friend, the emotion of a friend, the Nilça, who felt like a dick in the trash when he was able to finish the 10k race, who for almost a decade only signed up for 5K races.
All this to get here, where I imagined that this text would begin: when someone tells you that you have to “respect” the marathon, giving this proof already so excessively glamorized a coat of fetish, simply ignore it.
To complete such 42 kilometers it is not necessary to embrace a strict and endless dosage of training, with this gradual and secure evolution prescribed by the canon, or, what gives it, by the market.
If I, who never used a spreadsheet, who adopted much more the prescription Johnny Alf, I’ve completed it 11 times, you can.
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