The Princess and the Marathon
The great thing about a Disney marathon is that there are all sorts of distractions: bands, character stops, and cheering crowds all while running through the four theme parks. Some runners will even ride a roller coaster around mile 16 or grab a beer toward the finish line.
But even in the most magical place on earth, it’s still 26.2 miles of running, walking, or some combination of both.
And that is not easy — physically or mentally.
When it gets hard, channeling Disney princesses works pretty well.
Cinderella serves as a model of endurance and positivity who awoke day after day to scorn and chores but never gave up hope or stopped being kind.
Or there’s Mulan, a warrior princess who fought to protect her family and her country all the while dealing with her isolation because no one could know she was a woman.
Moana inspires for her perseverance, a much-needed quality when the marathon might start to feel un-finishable.
I needed some Disney princess power during my recent Disney marathon.
I felt the power as I ran through Cinderella Castle around mile 11 after being cheered by crowds lined up on Main Street in the Magic Kingdom.
But the princess power evaded me miles 18 through 22 of open road and the Blizzard Beach parking lot with the weather hotter and no distractions at all.
As I stopped channeling Disney princesses, I instead became the princess of “The Princess and the Pea” by Hans Christian Andersen.
In the fairytale, the queen wishes to discover if the wet and bedraggled young woman who appears in the middle of a torrential storm really is a princess. To do so, she invites the princess to stay and has her sleep upon 20 mattresses and 20 eider-down beds with a pea all the way underneath the 40 barriers.
When the princess awakens the next morning, she tells the queen that she slept terribly, exclaiming, “Heaven only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying on something hard, so that I am black and blue all over my body. It’s horrible!”
Her sensitivity proves that she is a princess, and she is allowed to marry the prince.
Like the nameless princess, as I ran, I noticed every source of discomfort rather than concentrating on all that was going well.
It’s the same when I train. I’ll set up those long training runs of 16, 18, or 20 miles so that my house is an aid station, meaning I never roam too far from it. I do my best to avoid any discomfort and probably exaggerate minor discomfort as an excuse to come into the house for a short break. Is there something in my shoe? I’d better check it! Oh, it’s just my sock. What is that itch on my ankle? Should I go back to the house and put some cortisone on it? Is that chafing? Am I chafing?!
I’m not wrong to pay attention to potential signs of trouble. Something in my shoe could cause a blister, blowing up further training. Chafing can be so bad that it will leave scars.
We are evolved to want to avoid pain and to pay a lot of attention to it when it arises, so my response is natural.
Running long distances is about pain management. Research has proven that my brain will tell me long before I am actually at my limit that I am at my limit. Our brains lie to us to protect us from truly inflicting irreparable harm.
I know that, but it didn’t much matter during marathon ten. I was the wrong kind of princess, creating a story that was full of quit instead of magic and inspiration.
Don’t get me wrong. I finished! And, in spite of having to walk some and being disappointed in myself, I’m proud.
I’ll be running marathon eleven, probably at Disney, and I’ll be sure to bring all of the energy, optimism, strength, and endurance of a true Disney princess.
I’ll take on the pain of the race, knowing that I’m learning to tell the kind of story about the pain that will allow me to take on the challenges and discomforts that life will be throwing my way also.
As Pema Chödrön argues, “The trick then is to practice gentleness and letting go. We can learn to meet whatever arises with curiosity and not make it such a big deal.”
I’ll be gentle and curious next time my quads ache and my feet no longer want to lift, and I’ll be more like Anna than Elsa while I’m at it: a little less serious. Who knows? Maybe next year is the one with the roller coaster ride at mile 16.
