Back in October, when those silvery words, "I think you'd be a good fit" fell, I was simultaneously buoyant and impostrous. I'm still working through the dichotomy. Coming off the elation of a 6HR effort, but muddling my way through plantar, it was a little over a month before the race, that I was confirmed entry at the Marathon Project - a fortuitous inaugural event created for high level athletes who burned to compete, who had the pressure of sponsor commitments to see through, times to post. To be sure of anything in 2020 is/was fallacious, but Ben Rosario, Josh Cox & Matt Helbig worked hard to create the event for the purity of supporting athletes whose potential livelihood and income was affected in 2020. The upper echelon were invited and the back-of-the-packer's, myself one, paid to take part. A virtual event piggy-backed the MP, the sum of which directly made the race possible. Wonderful friends and teammates signed up under my name, ended up placing high as a team and winning categories outright. Though I had less than optimal notice and an 'itis, I was confident in the last couple of marathon cycles, what they indicated. I had the unique build of Mile to 6HR training/racing, so, a fall of the cards, a speculative enterprise - maybe the marathon would be my sweet middle.
Though the voluble ache in my foot and though less than certain of my ability to perform, I remained strangely optimistic; whoever that delusional person was, I like her. Want to know a funny match? Optimism paired with insecurity paired with injury. When it got to be that I could not walk in the morning and could hardly walk at work, it's pretty safe to say that I was Le Idiote running towards some fantasy. As is characteristic, I trained harder, stopped often and perhaps tickled the interior of that big banner than is oft hard to ascertain but right there in your face like Welcome to Vegas - Welcome to Overreaching. Half of my buds said, "Surely you're not, it's just the injury." The other half, "You are definitely Overtrained." Do you know what a mindfuck it is trying to ascertain the sticky what-if of being Over-anything? Whatever the case, in the rearview mirror, I think I was skirting it for sure. I was insecure due to injury and pushed hard through it. I got bloodwork done and some values were disconcerting. I was below the lowest range for WBC's.
Despite all of this, I've got these blinders on, and I'm like, I think I can run a sub 2:36, if my foot will allow it. Why not today? Why not me? And I've got my new Hoka kit on, and the buzz in the air is that there's about to be all this talent realized. People are due a result. Are seeking vengeance on injury or missing out at the trials, or dropping the trials. People have been doing big things, cool things, and this is the exact moment we are allowed a start line, for many - the only moment. If I don't take it by the balls right this very moment, will I ever be guaranteed another moment? Among this talent pool?
There was a thing in the back of my mind that I did a good job of shelfing until I could focus on it properly so that the investment I put forth for the MP would remain at center. I did a good job of not letting that larger, looming, scary, exciting thing in - a yet-to-be announced Hoka Project Carbon X2, which I'd signed on for, to be run 1 month later. And yet acknowledging it at all, in its small shelved form, I ended up protecting myself from further disaster. As many of us understand, it's really hard to call something what it is, to call a thing off. To quit. To "fail," even if nuanced. What words better express the meat of the feeling? Yield. Underperform. Fold. To let yourself down.
I knew embarrassingly early that I could not compete. That I was hurting. Though I needed to yell at my friend, Amber, on the sideline, with panic, asking her what I should do, because I didn't want to call it for myself. Though I had a panic attack trying to conceptualize what all this effort was for, all this money spent to be there. Though I had the sweeper on my ass, his walkie talkie in an endless continuation of chatterrasp, him cheering on the runners on the other side of the road, my competitors way ahead. How vivid and cartoon-like the words, "I never want to feel like this again," came into view in black, spelled out in front of me.
Do you know what's also really embarrassing, but only if you take yourself super seriously, which is a toggle at times for me...? To quit, fail, fold in front of the marketing team that just signed you. Even if there's a good enough reason.
Amber's coach, James McKirdy, heard me in my distress and told her how she could help me. I had put her in the unfortunate position of asking her to tell me what to do. To pull me. And he co-counseled her, and she did. Or I did. I pulled me. And I'm very grateful for that. There was no reason to continue on in such pain & distress but damn it if it isn't totally demoralizing nonetheless. After about 11 miles I pulled off and let that sucker of a sweep daunt someone else. It made me feel better that Steph Bruce had to make the call for the same reason. That there were 16 of us who dropped in a small field. I wouldn't want it for anyone, but there is a sort of very raw human truth to misery loving company. There's always a positive - being able to watch the rest of the field finish. I was able to see Hehir win and Droddy lay it all out there. Got to see Hall improve upon her PB. Got to see Josh Cox squeal with passion over each one of his athletes down the final 800. I got to see what bringing it on a day where it matters looks like. I got to see what I wanted to be.
Flowers M had sent to the room. Apparently there was also supposed to be chocolate, but they pocketed those.
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