The last time I wrote, I was anxiously looking forward to my first 1/2 marathon of the season, which promised to be just one great part in a weekend full of fun. I was confident, enthusiastic, and in great spirits. And then I got sick. Yep, on the Wednesday before my race, right after lunch, I said to myself, "Hmm...something doesn't feel right. My nose is a little stuffy..." But, always one for the power of positive thinking, I chose to ignore it. Thursday morning I woke up and realized, "Yep, I'm sick." Boo! Typically, I'm not a medication type of person, but desperate times call for desperate measures, so I stopped at Whole Foods and picked up every possible health-inducing elixir they could throw my way, knowing that the next day would involve a full day of driving, followed by a day of wedding shower festivities, and then my race. By Friday, my Whole Foods arsenal wasn't doing the trick, so a few hours after I got on the road for my 8 hour drive, I stopped at a Walgreens and picked up some more cold medication, which I alternated every few hours with my "healthy" remedies from Whole Foods. An hour after my Walgreens stop, I was pulling in to the World's Largest Truck Stop to take a nap in the parking lot - things were not looking promising on the health front as I turned off my car in the employee parking lot, rolled down the windows, and settled in for a much needed rest for my burning eyes and the ever-increasing pressure in my head. 45 minutes later I was back on the road, and I powered through the next four hours famously, if I do say so myself. I made it to my mom's house in one (pretty miserable) piece and settled in for the night, intent on getting as much sleep as possible and certain that I would feel much better the following morning.
Fast forward to Saturday morning. I am not feeling better. At all. But, I was hell bent on having a great wedding shower, so I pulled myself together, took a hot shower, tried like hell to cover up my ever-reddening nose, slipped on a dress, and headed out. My friends put on a fantastic shower, complete with quiche and mimosas (delight!), and I had a fantastic time celebrating and catching up with family and old friends. I spent the afternoon running around visiting friends and family, picking up my race packet, and all around just doing too much. Still not feeling well, I went to bed early, only to wake up at 5:30 in the morning on race day questioning if I could even walk 13.1 miles, let alone run it. Luckily, I have very supportive and enthusiastic friends who all but laughed at me when I sent them texts at ungodly hours of the morning saying that there was no way in hell I was going to make the race. So, I pulled myself together again, skipped the shower, said screw the red nose, slipped on my sneaks, and headed out. I met one of my bridesmaids at her house and we went to the race together. By the time we met up with another of my bridesmaids and made it to the finish line, the enthusiasm of my friends and the excitement of the crowd and other runners had me pretty psyched to run. As I said my last post, the Lincoln Marathon is almost like a community parade - thousands of people stake claim to front row seats along the race course to cheer on the runners. And if that doesn't get a girl psyched to run, what will?
I started the race slow, knowing that it was going to take all I had to finish. One of my friends had a "three minute run, one minute walk" strategy in place, so I started out with her, but after a mile or so I felt so good that I just let myself go and run like it was any other day, not day five of a horrible I-can't-breathe-and-my-head-is-going-to-explode cold. My original goal was to run the race in 2:15. I told myself that since I was sick, I should just run it however I can and be proud, but damn if I'm not competitive with myself. After three miles, I felt great and was right on pace to finish in my time. And then all my pre-race hydration caught up with me. I tried to power through, but there was just no way I was going to make it another 10 or 11 miles without making a pit stop. I came to the first set of port-a-potties, and the line was so long I refused to stop. At the second set, I really considered stopping, but didn't want to lose my time. By the third set, there was no other option but to stop. The whole time I waited in line, I kept my legs moving while anxiously glancing at my watch every 30 seconds or so. Four minutes later, business was taken care of and I was back on the road, no problem. Or so I thought. That four minutes, unfortunately, was enough time for my body to tell me that I was a jerk and I needed to back off. My muscles tightened up, my nose started running, and I started to struggle. I couldn't get my stride back and my right leg was super tight. I had to start taking walk breaks. By mile seven, I questioned how I was going to finish. I finally devised a "run five minutes, walk 30 seconds, run to the mile maker, repeat" strategy. It worked, but it was a struggle. By mile 10, I thought maybe I was going to have to walk the rest of the race. By mile 11 I was super determined to finish strong. At mile 12, I was ready to rock the last mile (thank you adrenaline!). That last mile was the longest of my life! It seemed like it was never going to end, and if my muscles in my legs got any tighter it was possible I was going to start shrinking at a drastic rate. But finally, I saw the turn for the last .1 mile stretch onto the field in Memorial Stadium and kicked it into high gear. And you know what? I finished in 2:19. Just four minutes shy of my goal time. The same four minutes that I spent waiting in line for the port-a-potty. Can you believe it? All that heartache, and I really wasn't too far off of my time after all! I was proud that I did so well, but disappointed that I wasn't able to make up the lost line time and finish in my goal time.
I knew going in to this race that I was going to have a quick turn around and essentially keep up the training regimen in order to run the North Shore Half Marathon on June 15. But once I got home, I just couldn't do it. I found out the day after the race that I had a sinus infection and was put on antibiotics, so I gave myself a few days off to really recover and feel better before I started running again. But, a week later when I went out for an easy 4 mile run, I just couldn't do it. I had no desire to get out there and run, and once I started running, I felt all wrong. My right leg was still super tight despite my attempts at stretching it out, so my gait felt all wrong, and I think somehow I just got too much in to my own head. I ended up walking about a mile of my four mile "run" and was really down on myself for doing so. I felt like a pansy. Yes, pansy. That's my word for being a wimp, and I use it fairly often. A few days later I went out for another 4 mile run and again felt like a pansy. I had to stop and walk, even though at this point running 4 miles should be an easy run. When I got home, I realized that even with my walking break I ran very close to a 10-minute mile, so I shouldn't have been so hard on myself, but, that's what I do. I compete. Only with myself, but it is a fierce battle. I always have to be stronger, tougher, faster than the time before. I was really worried about myself and the upcoming race. How on earth was I going to run a 13.1 mile race when I couldn't even run 4? Fast forward to Saturday - long run day. I was supposed to run 6 miles, but - low and behold - it was cold and raining out. (Thank you, Chicago spring, for the incessant rain and cold temperatures. Much appreciated.) So, I went to the gym for the dreaded treadmill run, determined that I had to do my six miles so I could start to prepare for the upcoming race. Armed with The Biggest Loser on my iPod, I trudged up to the treadmill and started my run. It wasn't at a great pace, but my goal with the treadmill is always just to get through the run, not to beat any land speed records. And you know what? It was great. The horrible-ness that is the treadmill ended up being just what I needed to get over myself and get back into running. After my six miles, I felt great. I felt confident. I felt like a runner again. It turns out all I needed was to slow down and just let myself "get through it" - no competition, no timers, no inner battles - just a nice, slow run for the run of it. So, today, I take back all those nasty things I have ever said about the treadmill and send it my sincere thanks for getting me back in to the running game. And no offense, treadmill, but I'm looking forward to long outdoor runs far away from you in the weeks to come. Spring has to come soon, right?
