I remember walking into the Runner’s World Heartbreak Half Expo and seeing race gear for sale with the race name emblazoned all over it. How sad, I thought, that these are all for sale BEFORE I know whether this race day will be a happy memory worth having emblazoned across my newest running tank?
I bought nothing. (Luckily for me, Runner’s World runs a great event and their race package t-shirt was a technical dry women’s small, not cotton or unisex, and therefore actually something I can wear.)
When I looked at all the gear for sale, I thought I would want to remember the race if it was a great one. I figured if I had an exceptional running day, had magically improved by virtue of it being my third half marathon (despite my lackluster training for this one), that then I would be excited to remember it and wish I had a hat or a t-shirt or something with that race name on it that would remind me of how it felt running those 13.1 miles in the zone, confident in my own awesomeness.
What happened was a different story altogether.
I under prepared, started out too fast, and basically made every rookie mistake you can make. I had an amazing first 6 miles, and then crashed. THAT’S NOT EVEN HALFWAY. I walked/jogged/walked the remaining SEVEN MILES. With no music. That’s a long time to think about how much it stinks that you’re walking right now.
The only thing that would have made me feel more like a failure would have been quitting when I saw my in-laws at mile 9 and riding home in disgrace squished in the back between the kids car seats.
I was traversing those 13.1 miles, getting my medal, and going home. (damnit.)
Now I’m glad I failed. It was a wake-up call, a needed reminder that 13.1 miles is NOT a gimme. Just because I’d done it twice, didn’t mean I could do it again without adequate preparation. You have to work to maintain your level of fitness, not just to improve it.
Sometimes when I’m training I picture myself walking, exhausted, frustrated during that race. It drives me forward, to finish the interval, to log the last mile in a tempo run, to squeeze in a few miles on the treadmill rather than missing a workout completely.
It makes me grin maniacally and pedal faster in the middle of a spin workout, relishing the feel and view of the sweat snaking its way down my arm. Not again, not again, not again… I will not fail like that again.
Every second, every moment that I’m working hard, breathing hard, pushing through, those are to prevent the last 7 miles of the Heartbreak Hill Half Marathon from happening to me in October. Seeing that race medal or wearing that t-shirt doesn’t make me feel proud, but it does make me work harder.
On the opposite side is hope. Hope is something I’m familiar with, it’s been a friend of mine since I very first started running with the Couch to 5k program in July of 2012.
In that vision, I’m not walking up heartbreak hill in the heat, demoralized and apathetic about the time on the clock because I’ve spent miles walk/jogging my way forward in resignation.
Instead, I’m at the Maine Half Marathon in October. It’s cool out. It’s a medium sized race, so the course feels open but not anticlimactic. I know I’m running hard, but it doesn’t FEEL hard, it feels steady. I’m in the zone. I’m breathing, I’m moving, I’m flying. The leaves have changed color. Every breath of air is crisp, refreshing. The sky is blue. I don’t need to stop. I don’t WANT to stop. I could run like this forever. My family is waiting at the finish, it’s the first half marathon I’ve run in my home state. They’ve invested time in watching my children so I could run, they’ve encouraged me, they’ve even read my running blog. I won’t let them down. Those hours they helped, they counted… I built on them, I used them, they were a springboard to this moment. This bliss, this in-the-zone running bliss, where I’m going and I don’t need to stop and life is amazing and I AM AMAZING.
One interval at a time. One long run at a time. I will do whatever it takes to get to that moment.
Perhaps hope is the biggest motivator after all.