As I sit here very late at night with news reports breaking in that our government may be shutting down tomorrow, I figured I would make a state of the union analysis of my marathon training.
Week 12 of marathon training. I'm not dead yet. But, I may be close. I'm certainly on life support.
I was moving along ok. Nothing spectacular. No speed records. No feeling like I'm a badass runner. Just getting in the miles. Check. Check. Check. Went on some group training runs to keep me accountable. Met up with running friends to get my inspiration and my runs in. Did some cartwheels.
Fast forward to today. The last two weeks have been rough. I have only run TWICE in the last 18 days. Yikes.
Cliff notes version: On my 15 mile long run 18 days ago I started suffering severe foot pain. Could barely walk or stand for the next few days. Gradually got a little better, but still quite painful. Plantar fasciitis. Oh Goody.
So, next came my half marathon. I should have never started this at all because the pain was so bad. But, I'm a bit stubborn, so started with the intent of going 1-2.5 miles. I made it 6 miles before I gave myself the hook at the mile 6 medical tent. What followed was a few days of more horrible pain. Lots of foot rolling. Weird duct tape measures because I was too impatient to wait for the "miracle" sock I ordered to arrive.
Oddly enough.... my MacGyver'd leg did help. My foot quickly felt better. Great? No. But, no longer excruciating. 6 days after I DNF'd. my half marathon I planned to try to get in a long marathon group training run. I had low expectations. But, at the same time I planned to try for the 12-13 that was on the agenda that day (cut back week, thank God!). Low expectations but yet pushing myself to the max. Yeah, not the smartest tool in the shed. Made it through about 9 feeling pain, but managing. My hobble was pretty bad. But, I was moving. After that point, I hit a major wall. Mentally and physically. 2 weeks of no running other than my DNF caught up to me. I was beat. My foot hurt. A lot. I was in the woods, alone, thinking I was lost. I doubted I could get those last three miles. I wanted it to be over. I wanted everything to be over.
I reflected a lot about how I used to run fast and fierce, for me anyway. When I would get out on a trail and just run. Then run faster. Push myself further. 9:15 - 9:30 pace on 5.5 mile runs. Consistently. I miss those runs. I miss that person. I miss that runner. I mourn that runner. Sometimes I really hate the runner I am now. That sounds so awful. But, it's true.
I yelled at myself quite a bit. Seriously. I was PISSED. That I once again had gotten this far and my body was once again failing me. That I wanted to give up on myself even though I've wanted this all so badly. That so many others CAN do this. CAN get through the marathon training. CAN get up in the morning and run when I just can't and get it done. I'm in sincere awe of all my friends who train for and run marathons. You people are truly amazing. I mean that. What you endure mentally and physically to get this done is downright badass. Truth.
It's just not in me. I mean it's in me. But, way deep down inside me. And, it's screaming.
I'm just not sure if it's screaming for somebody to give me chest compressions.....or, pull the plug.