There’s a metaphor everyone uses when they want to talk about persistence, discipline, and pace. When they want to emphasize how long, grueling, and challenging something is:
“It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”
And while I get the metaphor… I can’t really relate to it. I’ve never run a marathon. Never trained for one. I barely sprinted, outside of gym class. I sucked at it. Hated it then. Probably still hate it now.
Running sucks
That said, I did take up running a few years ago. Not to compete. Not for any race. Just because I wanted to challenge myself.
The longest I’ve ever run was 11 kilometers—about a quarter of a marathon. Not impressive in running circles, but pretty impressive for me.
And through it, as strange as it sounds, I learned how to run. I learned about pace. About heart rate. About stride. I learned how to push off the ground, how far ahead your foot should land, how to breathe. (Yea, there’s a lot of stuff about literally putting one foot in front of another).
It’s fascinating, really—how complicated and pretentious something as basic and human as running can get if (you let it).
After logging over 100 kilometers, I still have no idea what it’s like to actually run the marathon length of 42 kilometers straight (~26 miles). But I did confirm something I’ve believed since I was a kid:
(Back to the metaphor.)
Finish
The spirit of the metaphor isn’t really about running. It’s about enduring. Finishing. Keeping on, especially when it’s hard. Especially when you don’t want to.
That part? That part I get.
For me, my version of a marathon isn’t about feet hitting pavement. It’s about finishing pens.
Seinfeld
I remember seeing a GQ interview with Jerry Seinfeld — one of those “10 things I can’t live without” segments. He talked about his coffee maker, his shoes, his watch, and so on.
The stationery nerd in me honed in on one specific segment — when he talked about his yellow legal pad and his Bic ballpoint pens. His weapons of choice for writing everything — quite literally everything — he’s done in his entire professional career.
Jerry held up a blue Bic Cristal—the most basic, quintessential pen—and said:
“I’m like the only person you know… I finish them. I don’t lose them. I will take this pen and that ink, all the way down to the bottom. And it runs out of ink. Can you imagine how satisfying it is to finish a Bic pen? I’ve done it thousands of times.”
I know exactly what he’s talking about.
I’ve done it too. Not with Bic, but with my trusty Pentel Energel. Not quite the same as running a marathon… but the essence is there:
Keep going. Keep writing. Until the ink runs out.
And when it finally does—when you scratch that last page and the line starts to fade—there’s this quiet moment of pride.
It didn’t dry out. It ran out. You used it up. You finished it.
Ritual
This is where I might lose some of you.
When I finish a pen, I don’t throw the cartridge away. I label it. I take a piece of tape, write the date, and stick it on the cartridge. Then I archive it—adding it to my little bundle of empties.
I collect these the same way runners collect their bibs, ribbons, and medals — physical tokens that remind you: you showed up, and you did a thing (a thing you maybe thought you couldn’t do.)
Recently, I finished another pen. I dated it. Added it to the archive. Then I got curious—how many have I actually finished? I logged them in a spreadsheet. (As one does!).
Since I started tracking on September 9, 2022, I’ve emptied 53 Pentel Energel cartridges. 53 pens’ worth of scribbles, drafts, diagrams, and notes. 53 reminders that I sat down, did the work, and kept going.
(And in the drafting of with this blog post, I should be coming up to 54 soon enough.)
Grit
So when I hear the marathon metaphor, I don’t think about my feet striking pavement. I think about the scratch of ink on paper.
I think about how writing isn’t always glorious. Sometimes it drags. Sometimes it sucks. But you keep showing up. Keep scribbling. And eventually… the pen runs out. You finish it. Only to pick up another and do it all over again.
To me, that’s the spirit. Not the glamor. Not the glory. But the grit. The rhythm. The ritual of showing up, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
So to all the marathoners, triathletes, pen users, and everyone else out there—
Keep going. Keep scratching. Keep showing up.
Because it’s a marathon, not a sprint. Honour that spirit, whatever your strides may look like.
Just keep doing the thing, especially when it sucks.