What's on your watch?

I'm sure there's a word for this -- maybe my son's high school math teacher knows it -- but you know when numbers repeat themselves? Whatever you call it, I have an uncanny knack for looking at the clock when it says 10:10, 5:55, that kind of thing. With a pathetic memory that just keeps getting worse, the only reason I can tell you my Boston qualifying time, at the 1999 Cleveland marathon, is because it was 3:33.

I am as proud of that accomplishment as if it were a gold medal -- it's my only significant athletic achievement, and a nice balance to so much of my life spent sitting at a desk. Here's one of the great things about the sport of long-distance running: my best marathon time, my p.r. in runner jargon, is more than an hour off Joan Benoit's long-time world record of 2:21:21 (do I need to point out why I can remember that time?). Between the elite athletes up front and the back-of-the-packers is such a vast range of ability, hours of difference. Any of us except those who break the winner's tape should be humbled by that. This is a sport where you compete against yourself more than anyone else. 

That's kind of freeing, seems to me. You set goals for yourself, and no matter how many hundreds of people finish ahead of you, if you hit your goal time, you're a winner.