Dispatches from the middle

The idea of comparing long, tiring, difficult processes to a marathon is hardly new. In fact, it’s old. It’s tired. It’s losing its teeth and getting crotchety. That said though, there may be some value in comparing experiences to a specific marathon, if the two are particularly congruent. My roommate recently drew a parallel between our Ph.D. programs and the marathon. I agreed, but upon renewed consideration of the past four years, also realized that this wouldn’t work for just any marathon. I’ve run many comfortable, wholly enjoyable marathons. Don’t even feel it the next day. At this point, I’d be tempted to say that only the most utterly-terrible-and-hellish marathon one has ever run could offer a worthy representation of the Ph.D.-getting process. Not to paint the quest for a doctorate in a bad light (though, in the words of a good and wise soul, it’s more often than not “a rash up my ass”), it’s just that it’s really, REALLY hard. Way harder than running a marathon. Thus, for the metaphor to be apt, it’s got to be the very worst and most fiendish of runs.

For me, the “doctoral marathon” would be the 2007 Victoria Marathon. Picture a chilly October morning… I’d registered many months previous, thinking it a logical next step and never really questioning my decision. Indeed, the first 20 km or so were lovely. Similarly, the Ph.D. coursework was easy. I can’t count how many times I’ve run 20 km, nor how many courses I’ve sailed through. I felt confident. I ran along the water, basking in the early morning sun, without a care in the world. (Yes, I run slow enough to bask simultaneously, and I’m o.k. with it.). Somehow the reading lists appeared and were approved. Another couple kilometers, a stunning view of the ocean. The prospect of working through that bibliography was slightly daunting; things started to get a bit heavy, I realized I was tiring, but the sun continued to shine and the second half seemed feasible.

Then it hit. Candidacy exams, or, the nosebleeds, the nausea, the chest pain, and the difficulty breathing that set in shortly after the halfway point in Victoria. I did pass my candidacy exams, and eventually the bleeding stopped and the nausea subsided. But, I walked for a good kilometre afterwards, getting nothing appreciable done for months after my exams. Eventually I began to jog again, working on an article, attending this or that conference. But it hurt to move. As is wont to happen in Victoria in the fall, the clouds had closed in, the wind had picked up, and I was chilled to the bone. By the time it began to rain, I’d stiffened up completely. I found a job I enjoyed, which took up most of my time, and I was getting no writing done whatsoever.

One foot after the other. At this point, with 10 or 12 km left to go, nearly an entire thesis to write, I was soaked and in pain and completely unmotivated. My aunt, uncle, cousins and sister, who had come to cheer me on, met me at this point and gave me a dry shirt, a hug, and some much-needed giggles. My sister jumped in and began to run with me (despite the fact that she’d already put in a stellar performance in the 5-miler earlier that morning). I whined and moaned and whimpered to Krista as we ran, begging her to tell me stories to distract me. My hips ached, my feet and ankles hurt as they never had before and haven’t since, and I dropped to a walk every couple of minutes, feeling completely despondent.

Now, the comparison ends here, not because my thesis doesn’t leave me feeling regularly despondent, but because I finished the marathon. It was hardly my finest moment, but I finished. I’ve not yet finished my thesis; I’m still firmly stuck in the whining, crying, progressing slower than I ever thought possible phase. However, I’ve got a good support crew, and it bodes well that I’ve never not finished a race.