The differences between my best race and my worst race were three months on the calendar, two minutes on the clock, and one new outlook on the starting line. My goal for each race was the same, my training for both went well and indicated a performance that I didn’t achieve in either.
In the past I may have defined that as a failure. But not this time.
I’m happy about the results of this race, but I’m more proud of how it all went down.
I’m not delirious having met or exceeded my goal, or alternatively motivated to excuse, my performance having PR’d. I did both well and technically didn’t meet my expectations. This is probably as stable as I’ve ever felt about the results of a race for those two reasons…and because I worked hard to love running again over the past 12 weeks.
SAVING THE RELATIONSHIP
I’ve been thinking a lot lately. Re-thinking. Goals, running, what matters, etc. And I think what I concluded before I toed the starting line in Houston is the reason this race was the best.
Not at all like the misery I endured during my last marathon in Chicago three months ago - hating life from mile eight to the finish (not to mention the contempt I held for my performance after the race).
But that whole experience was just the kind of pain I needed to get my head straight. Finally. After many years of racing. I get it now. I mean. I think I do. I’ve definitely said that one before!
The day before the Houston Marathon I decided that I’d trained too hard for this to hate it. I’d put in too much work to make myself sick with stress instead of enjoying the weekend. I will run as fast as I can, but I won’t torture myself in the name of a goal. I won’t suffer for running because I won’t risk being resentful…again.
My bad attitude about Chicago wasn’t all about not getting a PR or meeting my goal. It was that I felt like I gave running all I had in training and in return, it broke my heart. I believed that it betrayed me and made promises it couldn’t keep. But the reality is, I did all those things to myself by letting my mind control the narrative instead of trusting my body.
I had to make things right in Houston. I had to repair the relationship, own up to my mistakes, and give my body the respect it had been deserving.
Beating my body up in the name of a goal and restricting food in order to “achieve” some arbitrary number on the scale are ways I’ve disrespected my body in the past. I had been saying for years I was thankful for my body while asking it to do all these things for me and abusing it. It wasn’t fair. It’s not fair. And I decided, I won’t do it anymore.
Sure. I can bully my body into doing certain things. I can try to force it to do what I think it needs to do to justify my existence, prove my worth, and/or improve my confidence. But why would I victimize my own body by punishing it. There are plenty of people who will objectify and mistreat my body, I won’t be one of them.
PRE-RACE
I had race nerves. But the normal kind. Not the kind that suck your energy and rob you of the joy you deserve after months of training! I was excited. I was actually going to do whatever my body wanted to do, and there was no pressure to do anything else. I knew I was prepared. My body was strong and ready for a marathon. That in itself made me proud. But I decided I had no idea what my body would be dealing with during the race so I couldn’t demand anything that it wasn’t willing to give and as a result, couldn’t get mad at myself for not making it achieve what I thought it could.
Was I still fighting off a bug? Was I tired because I stayed up too late a few nights the week before the race? Where was I in my menstrual cycle? How would my body react to the weather? What about my nutrition - was my body going to be feeling any weird way about what I ate? I had no idea! …and all I could do was trust that my body would do its best with whatever circumstances were presented to it during the race.
THE RACE
Race morning I made my husband walk me as far as he could towards the starting line. I never trust my navigation skills, and even though he got me to the corrals I was still a nervous wreck that I was in the wrong place! I asked a volunteer if I was where I was supposed to be. Then asked two more just to be really sure.
Skeptically having made it to the right group assignment, I continued to look around to assess where I was and maybe find a runner who looked calm to ask where they were - to see if it matched where I was supposed to be. But all I observed was chatter about race goals like 2:25 and so I decided I was in the wrong place even if I was in the right place, and moved to the back of the pack because I didn’t want to get caught up in whatever those paces were…or run over.
I sort of got run over anyway. Why do people push through and cut you off in the first mile of a marathon? It seems entirely unnecessary with so many miles ahead to properly claim your position after people naturally drop back. I judged everyone who elbowed me and felt justified to do so since I was physically assaulted.
Anyway…
I wanted to be around 6:40’s for the first half of the race. That should’ve felt reasonably easy since a lot of my MP miles during training were 6:20’s. My watch was absolutely no help so all that was left to do was rely on my math skills when I saw a mile marker and a clock. A risky method that I had about as much confidence in as my watch that was ticking off 3-minute miles. This tactic obviously got more difficult as the race went on and I eventually gave up.
I was able to gauge where I was at times hearing other runners talk amongst themselves about being on pace and then stating their pace. A few times I was like oops I shouldn’t be with you and dropped back. I was really scared of falling apart too early this time so my goal at first was to make it to mile eight without wanting to get hit by a truck.
I achieved that goal, I think, by telling myself to slow down before my body forced me to slow down - but it could have been because I asked a priest to hit me with the holy water he was throwing at runners with his branches at mile seven.
At the half, I still felt good but had a minor panic attack thinking about how many more miles I had to keep it together before I didn’t worry about falling apart too early which, in my mind, was mile 20.
Six miles doesn’t seem too far…until you actually get to mile 20 and realize the race has only just begun. Everyone has heard that notion before but no one actually takes it seriously until they get there. (And no one thinks about the 0.2 until they get to 26)
Once I hit 16, I felt a little better about my situation and at 18 I felt even more confident. BUT THEN, I heard a pace group behind me.
I assumed it was a 2:55 pace group until the crowds started cheering for the actual number on the pacers sign at which point I felt my heart drop out of my shoes and get stomped on by the 3-hour runners.
Holy what the no. I had to at least break 3 hours. No wonder I felt so good. I must be running too comfortably! Damn it. But as any marathon runner knows, after mile 18 you also don’t really give too many f’s about anything but finishing. So I fought thoughts of just dropping out or walking and continued to move with effort while praying for a miracle - or that priest to come back with his magic branches to bless me.
My goal for the remainder of the race was to stay in front of the pace group and when a few minutes would go by without hearing one of the pacers shout words of encouragement to their entourage, I would assume I’d picked it up enough to leave them in the dust. No such luck. Every time I thought I’d lost them, I’d hear “you are having a great day” “we’re turning up ahead”, or “stay relaxed” - and I tried not to be annoyed because they were clearly well intentioned women doing an impressive job of motivating while running fast.
Who were these elite ladies pacing a 3-hour pace group?! I also wondered if I followed them on IG. Eventually, I decided I wasn’t annoyed at them while silently pleading with them not to pass me.
They did anyway.
At mile 24, I thought I’d finally kicked them off my heels only to SEE the f’ing 3-hour sign instead of just hearing about it. It was in front of me and my PR was fading…except my watch which seemed to be cooperating sporadically, was saying I was running 6:40’s. I was happily confused or just confused. I don’t really know but I had a glimmer of hope, and I was going to hang onto it because possibility is the only motivation I’ve ever needed.
At mile 25, the 3-hour group was still in front of me but I hit the gas and gave it everything I had left. I was almost there, and I knew I could push it for 10 x .10 miles!
Except it was like the longest mile ever.
I swear the actual finish didn’t appear until 26.1 miles! At which point I frantically tried to identify the clock and make out the numbers.
Omg 2:57. Thank you holy branch water. I can still PR!
POST-RACE
I was thrilled! I finished strong. Really strong. I didn’t feel like I’d never run another marathon - I felt amazing! I wanted to give running a big hug and marry it. Or at least not break-up with it like I did in October.
It wasn’t what I thought I could do (and still think I can) but faster is faster. I had a great not miserable race, and I PR’d! Looking at my splits afterwards only made me more proud. I ran a smart race - pacing evenly. I really executed it well! I was thankful for my body, and I think it really felt it this time.
FINAL THOUGHTS
I guess what I’ve learned is that this sport can be one of redemption without being one of self-affliction. And maybe the key to trusting ourselves and to loving running again is in the ability to honor our strength without abusing the power we think we need to reclaim it.