This past weekend, I raced in the Columbia Marathon which was to be my A race for the year and my first marathon in almost exactly a year. After a 2015 season without a marathon, and 2016 as the year of the tropical and oft-dehydrated marathons of the Caribbean and South America, I was hoping to usher in 2017 with a solid marathon. Plus, after looking at the previous years' results, there was a part of me that thought I could win it outright.
Unfortunately neither of those things happened. I started out on pace for a decent race and kept the leader in sight until around mile 12. At the half-way mark I was still doing okay, and was running with the number 2 and 3 runners. Just a few miles later, I slowed ever so much to let them slip away. And that's the story of the rest of the race. I had a few legitimately bad miles where I walked for a few minutes at a time, but in reality I just got tired and slowed down enough to put the podium, and a sub-three hour marathon out of reach.
Immediately after the race, I was mad at myself. Mad that I went from 155 to 175lbs this year by consuming a year's worth of meat and beer that I had missed while in Guyana. Mad that I skipped my tempo runs. Mad that I didn't even try to stick with the six runners that passed me in the second half of the race. Just generally mad at myself for having a glass heart.
But then it occurred to me. About 9 months ago, I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to run again. That scooter accident and the subsequent month of no physical activity. The painful next month of trying to start back up and the long and arduous trip back to fitness. All those things brought back to me just how far I had come as well as how much I really have to be grateful for.
I may never be able to run like I once could, but I am glad to be out there at all.
Until next time,