The Twenty-Fifth Year

So, yeah, this weekend. That one that was supposed to change my life? It happened. One part of me wants to leave it at that.

The other part of me – the part that knows no closure will come without writing – knows I need to get it out. To tell the story. Not to elicit any particular response, either. Rather to share with you, my amazing, supportive community of friends, blends and readers that sometimes what we set out to do doesn’t happen. And that it can suck really bad. And that it’s OK not to pick up the pieces and slap a smile on and say, “Oh well! Another day, another race!” But that it’s also not OK to wallow in self-doubt and pity forever.

Let’s back up, shall we?

Sunday marked the annual running of the Pittsburgh Marathon. I signed up several months ago to run the half – my first race of its kind. I went through all the motions the day and night before: carb-loading, plenty of hydration, charged every electronic device I’d later attach to my body and laid out my clothes.

Being the amazing, supportive sweet friends that they are, Jordan and Ashley traveled all the way from Baltimore to cheer on myself and Abby. Saturday night, along with the presence of Jessica, we all gathered around the island in my kitchen talking about blogging and food and racing and running. We brought up how running is such a mental thing. How you can train and run great when it’s not against any clock but your own, but when it comes down to race day, a million things can get thrown in the mix and what you expect, what you want and what actually happens are three completely different things.

I had some stomach issues that night – nothing serious – and I just shook it off as nerves. I also had great difficulty sleeping. Carrie and I were both nervous as hell. I just kept telling myself that 1.) I wasn’t going to die and 2.) I wasn’t competing for first place. “Stop worrying so much,” I told myself.

The morning of, again I went through all the motions: stabilizing breakfast, more hydrating, bathroom stop at the site. Before I knew it, we were lining up at the start line.

Despite my signature thumbs up, my nerves were cranked up full force here. A few minutes later the gun went off and about 8 minutes later we crossed the start line. The first two miles were great – my body felt loose, there was crowd support to boot and I was literally right in the middle of over 15,000 people.

Then, the skies opened up and it began to rain.

For the next 10 miles, I hit every emotion and road block I was capable of. I was of course, still excited, but I just didn’t feel the run. I didn’t feel like I wanted to run and there was no real, apparent reason why. Sure, I was soaked (it rained pretty much the entire time) and I was tired but I know, I just know my body was capable of so much more. I had done the long training runs leading up to Sunday. I hadn’t run them straight through without walk breaks, but I had done them and not hit so many mental blocks. So we ended up doing a lot of walking. A lot. I’m talking more walking than running for many of those miles. I’m ashamed to admit that, but I feel that I have to put it out there because I know I’m not the only one who experienced that discouragement Sunday nor in any race for that matter. The entire time, I kept trying to make bargains with myself.

“Run 10 minutes then take a break and walk. You can do anything for 10 minutes. It’s just a series of little 10-minute races.”

It’s so easy to say that. It was easy to say it before and it’s easy to say it now. On Sunday, it was so easy not to do it. It was so easy to let my mind win and ignore that my body was overall feeling just fine. I’d done harder runs before, I’d pushed myself in worse conditions. WHY couldn’t I do it Sunday? More importantly, why couldn’t I push myself when it all came down to what I’d been working so hard toward? Why was I slacking more in the race than I ever had before?

Between miles eight and nine, we passed through a fluid station and I grabbed a cup and took a few sips of water. Immediately after, my heart felt like it jumped into my throat and beat faster than it ever has before. What I felt can only be described as a spasm. Whatever it was, it scared the living daylights out of me, so much so that I just stopped in the middle of the course, bent over holding my legs and literally thought, “This is it. I am going to pass out and have a heart attack in the middle of a race I am barely running.”

I shuffled over to the sidelines and tried to compose myself. Poor Carrie was just as terrified, having no clue what had just happened. We started walking again soon and I willed my heart rate to go down. It did, but from that point on the running got really scarce.

As we made our way over the final bridge, we decided we’d better get running. Time was ticking and the crowds – both on the course and on the sidelines – were thinning out. As we approached the last mile, Jordan and Ashley spotted us.

This was at the point where Jordan ran along beside me – flip-flops and all – getting in the perfect Mom-like pose, taking pictures, asking me if I needed anything. My response?

“I need for this race to be OVER!”

Granted, I was laughing and smiling, but that was only because I knew how close I was to finishing.

If only I knew.

Not even minutes after this was taken, we reached an intersection where barricades were scattered in a haphazard way and everyone seemed to be confused. “They closed the course! It’s re-routed – go that way!” someone shouted, pointing in the opposite direction we were supposed to run.

My immediate thoughts went something like this, “keheksdhfieogjwepiwaemdfjbg *#$&!” which translates to a lot of swearing and, “Oh my God, they closed the course because we are the last runners. As if I couldn’t feel any more discouraged, now it’s more than apparent how much I suck.”

As we turned more corners and tried to make sense of the makeshift course, we entered the Convention Center area where the finish line was located. We were directed to run right through the marketplace where over a dozen food booths were set up and spectators and finished runners were milling about. And when I say milling, what I really mean is they just STOOD THERE. And just as quickly as we bobbed and weaved through the crowd, we were abruptly stopped right in the middle of the course. All I could make out in front of me were several men in military fatigue telling us we couldn’t go any further.

Imagine enduring the hardest thing you’ve ever been through. Imagine knowing it’s almost done. You’re so close to relief. Then imagine being told you’re not going to finish it. Then pull in a rain cloud, some b.o. and droopy shorts. Welcome to my Sunday morning. As more runners joined the pack, the tears and frustrations started flowing from many surrounding me. We heard whisperings of a bomb threat and suddenly I felt 1.) scared and 2.) relieved things weren’t stopped and rerouted on account of my speed (or lack there of).

Utter chaos ensued as we were turned around and told to backtrack to the finish line. At this point, I couldn’t have even told you where my thumbs were. I was so spent – emotionally, physically, mentally. I couldn’t help but silently scold myself for not having run more in the race. If I had, I wouldn’t be in “last 0.1 mile hell.” More bobbing and weaving ensued and eventually we crossed the finish line backwards hand in hand. We had added 15-20 minutes being stopped and about 1/2 a mile on to the race. I added more guilt to my conscious and disappointment to my mind.

The saving grace at the finish line was the sight of my best friend whom I haven’t seen in four months. Carrie and I grabbed some fuel, were awarded our medals (totally humbling by the way) and had our photos taken, and after what seemed like a million years trying to get around the fence that separated the spectators from the runners, I gave her the biggest, tightest hug I had left in me and I just let it all out. I cried pretty hard for a minute and when she asked, “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” I couldn’t even begin to wrap my head around the words that would have formed an answer. I just shrugged and sobbed harder until she said something to make me laugh. Thank goodness for that laugh. I needed it. We were received with many congrats and posed for more photos.

Two days later, here I sit on my deck. Beer beside me, sifting through the photos. Perhaps that’s all you’ve done up to this point in the post, too. If there is anything you could and should read, it is this: I know things could have been worse. I know I could have not finished at all, or even not had the ability to run in the first place. But I also know I could have done much more. While I am thankful for my body and what God has allowed me to do in this life, I am also thankful for not having the ignorance to tell myself that the feats I have to accomplish in my athletic endeavors ended Sunday. I’m not sold on racing in another half marathon yet, but I am not going to completely file that under the “things I will never do again” tab in life’s filing cabinet.

I had dreamed of what it was going to feel like crossing that finish line for months. When I crossed it, all of that couldn’t have been further from my imagination. When people told me, “Great job! Not everyone could do that!” I wanted to tell them, “Anyone can walk/run 13.1 miles, don’t give me that.” I wanted to be angry. I wanted someone to tell me how poorly I’d done, how disappointed they were in me, how I hadn’t lived up to what I had built myself up to be. How I talked a big talk and had nothing even close to show for it. I felt like my poor performance was the elephant in the room everyone was trying to ignore.

Two days later, here I sit on my deck. Beer beside me, sifting through the photos. It’s still hard to look at them and be completely proud of myself. I’m happy and accomplished, but I’m not there yet, just like I wasn’t there during the race.

I know it won’t be long until I’m back – until I’m lacing up my shoes, turning on my Garmin and situating my play list. I’ll run across the same streets and bridges I treaded on Sunday. Perhaps I’ll reminisce. Perhaps I won’t. Either way, there’s something to be said for what the experience has taught me because here’s what: sometimes what you expect, what you want and what actually happens are three completely different things. But every time you try, you learn something about each one.

And me? I’ll never stop trying.

And I’ll never stop learning.

And what whole running thing? Well, it’s like I said before – it’s as much a part of me as anything else now.