If you had asked me yesterday, I would have told you this was a 2- or a 3-star book. It had so much not going for it: I hate memoirs--the bestselling ones are usually navel-gazing pity parties, often written by privileged people who can afford to take the pity party to Bali or through-hike gorgeous trails while the rest of us work for a living (yes, I'm bitter); I hate divorce and adultery stories--call this a hang-up from my youth if you want; and I hate reading the musings of people who refuse to grow up--the male variety, it turns out, is just as annoying as the female. In this book, well....all of that features prominently.
But it's also about running and qualifying for the Boston Marathon, and it's set in Boulder, where I work. There's a lot of funny commentary on the place, several spot-on descriptions of tough training runs and almost every chapter mentions somewhere or someone I know. So I was going to grit my teeth and finish it, even if the author's descriptions of his Daddy issues and his married ex-lover Mrs. Wisconsin and his ill treatment at her hands were wearing *very* thin. Talking to a friend on the phone about it (this friend is mentioned in the book), I asked, "Did you *like* this guy?"
That was before I read the last couple of chapters (spoilers here--don't continue if you think you'll read this book). Powell's description of his Boston qualifier attempt at Myrtle Beach is something I've been looking for for a long time in the many books and blogs I've read about running: someone, an ordinary someone, not someone who discovers long-hidden talent or is returning to the glory days of their cross-country youth, but someone like you and me who writes about the experience of NOT achieving a big goal in a way devoid of New Age crap. So much running literature (to say nothing of what's on the Internet) is "inspirational" in such a way that all it does is make those who have failed feel like, well, failures. Sure, I like reading about guys like Meb Keflezighi and Alberto Salazar, and I can learn from them. But the truth is, most of us ordinary folks are going to fail if we're setting the bar high enough. Powell gets this--and it redeems his story in the end. "Running," he writes, "is practice for not quitting." He adds, "It really is, I can now confirm. Whatever my shortcomings out here in Boulder, I never quit."
I don't understand anyone who would choose Miami over Colorado (because you don't have to live in the lala land of Boulder to get the benefits of living in this state), and I doubt Powell is someone I'd ever be friends with (too much whiny resentment of women). But he's got writing chops, and he's got running chops, so in the end he's got my respect. I don't know if he tried for Boston again. I hope he has, and I hope he made it. I'll raise a glass of good Avery beer to not quitting any day.