It’s not often that one can honestly say that you hit empty on your personal gas tank. It goes beyond anything normal, hard, or even extreme in terms of effort. It is about running right by extreme and not giving it another glance even though you would really really like to stop and go back. It is also not a cardinal thing. You cannot measure it. Everyone has different limits. The only certainty that I can at least attest to is that, sans high level athletes, if you think you’ve hit empty before, you probably haven’t.
I have come close to hitting empty twice lately. The most recent is the below half-marathon run. I am not a runner by training. I had never eclipsed eight miles before and even that I had only done twice. I typically try to run 3 miles 2-3 times a week since I do not have a team sport outlet currently. But this past Sunday, I just went for it, mainly because I was preoccupied with hating myself, and self-hate is a great motivator for self-abuse, and a half-marathon essentially boils down to self-abuse.
The first time was back in December when I went through Team Tests for Tae kwon do. While the running was difficult mentally because it was so damn repetitive, this was just flat out physically grueling. Over a four hour period we were put through an ever-changing array of exercises designed to strain every muscle fiber in your body. There comes a point where you can no longer hold push up position on hardwood floors on your knuckles, but I now know that 120 isn’t it. There comes a point where you simply cannot maintain an exact 6-inch lift on your legs while doing crunches, but I now know that ten minutes isn’t it. There is a limit to how many squats you can do in unison, but I now know that 300 is not that limit.
And that’s the heart of the matter. Pushing yourself passed tired, exhausted, and gassed; you get to find out just how far you can really go. That’s a wonderful thing. Though for now, I’m taking a damn break and drinking some wine to celebrate.
