Making way for the stars
Yesterday was a day I had been looking forward to since the Spring. Over 6 months, back when I signed up for this half marathon. Actually, I’ve been eyeing this day for a full year. I missed my goal last year by 20 seconds, and I knew that very day that I’d come back a year later to do it again. This isn’t just about running though, so stay with me. This is about so much more. About life. Which if you’re a runner, you know that the parallels are there. What happens on the road translates into our life. And vice versa.
I so want this to be a post about how proud of myself I am. I so want it to be me shouting from the rooftops that I did it! That I got my sub-2 hour half marathon. That I beat my goal. That I. DID. IT. I’ve held off writing this in hopes that this post would be just that. Because the reality is that I am proud of myself. I DID run 13.1 miles in under 2 hours. A few minutes under. 1:57:38 to be exact. It was a personal record. I beat my goal. But. But. But.
Oh it feels so whiny to say But. It feels so wrong to not be feeling anything but joy right now. Yet the truth is that I feel so much more than joy and pride.
The race was horrible. Everything about it (aside from the end time). There are so many reasons this race didn’t FEEL good. Two days before was Halloween and I ate crap food so my stomach started doing flip flops the day before the race. The night before I didn’t eat nearly enough. The morning of I couldn’t force down my oatmeal that I’ve eaten before every other long run these past two months. I drank way too much water that morning to overcompensate for the lack of food. I only could stomach a banana. My sleep the night before was shit. My heart was racing from the moment I woke up and didn’t come down until 2:50pm when I stepped foot back in Macon. My mental game was not there. And when I got to the starting line, a cramp set in right under my breast bone that never did go away during the run. My breathing was off. It felt so bad y’all.
I stayed on my plan of 8:50 for the first 5 miles. Miles 6-10 were supposed to be 8:40 pace. Then 11-13 I was going to “run like hell”. During mile 8 I mentally broke. There were no more wheels on my bus. My GPS on my watch kept going in and out so I couldn’t tell what my pace was. I tried speeding up, but sped up too much and crashed. Then I slowed down. And down. And down. I kept looking at my mantra “Actually, I can” and willed my body to keep going. One foot in front of the other, I did keep running. I knew that if I stopped to walk a little then I may not start running again. So I trudged on.
I did the math and knew that I’d break 2 if I stayed under 10 minutes per mile for those last 3 miles. So that became my goal. Miles 11 and 12 were in the 9:40s and somehow I mustered some energy to finish the last mile in 9:04. This was so far from the negative splits I WANTED to run. This race was not the race I wanted to run. I wanted it to FEEL so much different. So much better.
So here I sit in this really bizarre space of having done the best time I’ve ever done in a half marathon, and yet feeling really frustrated by it. I don’t feel as though I’ve earned the congratulations and sweet comments I’ve been getting. I don’t know why I feel like this. I’m not a perfectionist. I know that things don’t always go as planned. I know that I put in the hard work for months and that I SHOULD be psyched with my time and this personal best. And that’s what makes it so much harder to swallow. Because I’m just so disappointed in myself.
And then I heap on the guilt of wondering why my best can’t be good enough. What the fuck is wrong with me that I’m not shouting for joy about this amazing accomplishment. Because it IS amazing! I beat my time from last year. And last year I ran across that finish line so proud of myself. Why can’t I bring up that same feeling of pride now? I know it’s in there somewhere, but it’s being overshadowed by not having the race I wanted.
There is another piece to this puzzle. (There’s always another piece, right?) This past week has been an emotional week. My husband’s grandfather passed away Tuesday night. The visitation was Friday and the funeral was Saturday, the day of my run. I wanted to be in two places at once this weekend. Actually, three places. I wanted to be in Michigan with my husband. I wanted to be in Macon with my kids. And I wanted to be in Savannah running. It felt like a lose-lose situation any way we cut it. Ultimately we decided that my husband and our oldest child would fly to Michigan. My mom would keep our youngest two for the 22 hours it would take for me to drive to Savannah, run and drive home, then I’d be with our kids the rest of the weekend.
I know this weighed on me during the run. I wanted to be with Todd so badly. I wanted to be able to see his mom in person and give her a hug. I wanted to pay my respects to the grandfather my husband held in such high regards. And selfishly, I didn’t want to not run this race - and I felt bad for feeling that way.
Maybe I won’t allow myself to be happy about the race because it feels wrong to be happy during a time my husband’s family is grieving. Maybe I should never have run. Maybe the right answer was to go to Michigan and bring all the kids. I really don’t know what we/I should have done this past week/weekend. I’m going to try this radical acceptance thing my therapist sent my way last week. She intended it to be used for my anxiety and events in the past, but I feel like it can apply now.
I was planning to take a break from running after this race. For one, I hate cold weather running. But I also want to give my body a rest and tune back in to some other forms of exercise that light me up. Yet, there’s a part of me whispering, you have to try again. You need to prove to yourself, literally no one else, that you can run a FAST half marathon and FEEL amazing doing it. Maybe I’ll just pick a route around town soon and attempt my plan again. Just to see how it feels. Because I know that race wasn’t the best I have inside me right now. I KNOW I could do it different if I tried again. And that’s one thing I’m not sure I can live with - not trying again. So whether it’s SOON or in another year, I will be back to lace up and look down that 13.1.
And even though I have all these messy feelings, there is so much I have learned from this past week. I’ve learned that things don’t always go according to plan. I’ve learned that one way or another, your emotions will find a way out. I’ve learned that I can do hard things, because man alive I so wanted to give up during that race. Truly, at one point I thought about quitting and just walking to my hotel. And I learned that in life, so often, there aren’t right choices. We do our best with what we have at the time. And that is always enough.
Writing this all out gives me a sense of peace. Writing always does. I knew I needed to process my feelings to get to this point. I also know I need to hug my husband. He is my home. My person. He is the comforting factor when I feel dis-ease. I used to view this as a bad thing - a fault of mine because I feel somehow less complete if he is away. But one therapist told me once to instead think of how lucky I am to have that sort of love in my life. Over time I’ve come to see how right she is. My happiness is not dependent on him. But the richness of my life is so much sweeter when he’s here. And these words his grandfather wrote seem so fitting right now:
Twilight’s Vision, by S. Dale Shoemaker
At the end of each day
When the long shadows glide
’Cross the meadows and hills
As if blown in a tide.
When the night settles in
With the covering of dew
Then my thoughts turn homeward
To a vision of you.
Your face is etched
In the beautiful sky
Set in colors I’ve seen
Many times in your eyes.
The clouds that are scattered
On the horizon a far
Fade away with the shadows
Making way for the stars.
The sun slowly sinks
As if into the earth
And everything calms
For the new night’s birth.
Though an ocean divides us
And miles of land.
Your vision before me
At twilight ‘ere stands.