Back in the Game

Sunday was the first time I have run more than five miles since the day of my worst decision ever. Almost six months ago, I did a marathon. I had an amzing time in the destination city, I had an amzing race, and I was so happy to finally run a marathon. So happy, in fact, that I figured why not do another one a couple weeks later?

A bib came across my lap, and I simply could not resist. I went into the Marine Corps Marathon thinking, "You can do this, you just did one, don't push yourself, but get to the finish line." After the first mile, my knees felt as if I'd already done ten. Mile eight and a sharp downhill forced my knees to buckle under pressure they weren't ready to bear. It was just too soon. I knew right then that it was going to be a looong day. Four and a half hours later, I crossed the finish line.

Doing that race was one of the worst decisions I've ever made, and one that I am still regretting to this day. My eyes were bigger than my body. All the racing I had done that year led me to believe I was up for back to back 26.2 milers. That day was a humbling one. I spent the better part of five hours debating whether it was better to quit and save my body the beating I was giving it or to finish despite the pain and adversity. Unfortunately, my sticktoitveness prevailed on that day.

The following weeks, then months, were spent hobbling, icing, stretching, medicating, and phsyical therapying. This was the first time in my life where I could not do what I wanted to do because of an injury. I never realized the frustration and fear that comes with injury. As someone who lives by making plans and setting goals, it drove me crazy to have no idea when these injuries would recover.

Since extra time in the pool never hurts, I spent my days doing what I could, minimizing my impact, and working with what I had, so to speak. About a month ago, I put on my running shoes again for the first time since race day, I laced them up and set out. My legs were strong, but my tendons tender. The conversation kept me going, and in the end, I did the whole five miles. One of the happiest days of my life! Knowing things would be ok was huge.

So over the next four weeks, I would run or run/walk up to an hour but never go near the ten miles that I would face at Cherry Blossom. Ten miles for average Joe Shmoe is hard, but ten miles for the former me was a breeze. So I wondered, where on the spectrum would I fall? I hardly slept the night before, worried that I might not even be able to go the distance. Race day came, the weather was amazing (even though the cherry blossoms had long since peaked and withered), and I was excited about being back at the starting line.

An hour and forty-three minutes later, I crossed the finish line, screaming and pumping my fist the whole way! Another best day.