I'm feeling pretty good about it. Although this is my third marathon, it wasn't until this year's training that I actually ran 22 miles without stopping to walk. I'm feeling more confident than in previous years that I'm actually going to run the whole thing. I'm hoping to get under 4:15 for my total time.
Yesterday I had what should have been my last long run before the 26.2. An 8 miler. I didn't quite make it.
The tricky thing about training for a marathon, especially when I'm doing some real training, not the minimalist 3-day-a-week training I did last year, is the toll it takes on your social life. With a 22 mile run Sunday morning, you really can't go out Saturday night. In fact, your Sunday is pretty much ruined as well. While living in mostly sleepy central VT, this really only was an issue when it came to band practices and gigs.
However, a month and a half ago, I moved to Boston. Back to my home state, where I'm getting invited to family gatherings and parties and BBQs and friends events at a level I am far from adjusted to. I hate to complain about this, and I'm really not. It's one of the best things about this area that allows me to put up with the traffic and the higher rent and lack of maple syrup. But, as I moved at pretty much the height of my training, I've certainly had to turn down more events than I've wanted to.
Since the 22-mile run a couple weeks ago, I've been tapering, cutting the mileage way back before the big day. This last weekend was actually the first weekend since I've been here where I've gone out on both Friday and Saturday nights.
This is not an excuse for my Sunday performance, but more of a demonstration as to where my head was at.
So, right, not much sleep Friday. Got home late-ish Saturday night, but woke up at 7am anyway, thanks to LTB and my internal clock. Slow to get out the door, the morning was as foggy as my brain. My glasses kept getting all steamed up (oh yeah, I tore my last pair of contacts while camping a month or so ago, so I've been running with glasses and it's not great). Eventually, I took my glasses off and held them in my hand, because I could actually see better without them. I was sluggish, but the endorphins started pumping around the end of the second mile.
I started thinking about how relatively smoothly this training had gone. I stayed well-hydrated throughout all the runs, had pretty much no injuries, and somehow didn't miss a run while moving to a new state. I found a great running route very quickly and accidentally - a sweet little 5-mile loop around a pond. And, unlike central VT, there's sidewalks everywhere and roads going in so many directions, it's wicked easy to come up with a million new routes.
Anyway, at some point while basking in my invincibility, I was looking in the distance, trying to figure out what the blurry blue object was moving towards me - another runner? a bike?
Then, my foot caught on ... something. I'll never know what, but what came after that moved in slow motion. A quick jolt in my center of gravity, followed by some embarrassment yet feeling confident that I can quickly recover and continue to move forward, er, no, here comes the ground, moving towards my face faster than my legs can move, and my glasses are flying down the sidewalk.* And now I'm on the ground and concerned runners are surrounding me. "I'm ok!" I yelp, seconds before I've even figured out if I can even stand up. I can.
Oh, the looks of horror. "Do you have someone you can call?" "Yep!" I stay positive and want them to leave me alone. Why is this always my first reaction when I'm hurt - to try to get people to leave me alone? I reassure them that I have someone to call, and thank them for stopping, and start to mess around with my phone like I'm going to call someone. After asking if I'm ok five more times, they continue with their runs.
Finally, I look down, there's blood. It's running down my leg pretty fast. My wrist is a bloody mess. Although I have friends and family in the area, all I can think is that LTB is on his run as well. He left a little before me - is he home by now? I'm shaken up and having trouble thinking straight. I check my nike running app and see that I've run about 2.5 miles, meaning I'm 2.5 miles from home. I text LTB and start walking. I know there's a hospital near by, and wonder the bleeding is going to stop on its own. And then I wonder if my health insurance even works in this state. Every runner that passes me gives me another unwelcome horrified look.
Screw it, I think, I just need to get home as fast as possible. I start running. I'm all adrenaline at this point and the miles fly by. Nearing home, I begin to think I should just run the additional 3 miles and finish up the 8 mile run like a champ, until the fear of bleeding out and infections and medical bills catches up to me.
When I got home, I was feeling upset. Disappointed in not finishing the run. Mad at my lack of invincibility. Embarrassed by my vulnerability. I did not want to get in the shower, which I knew would be awful, so I decided to procrastinate and document my downfall.
Here's some bloody pictures behind the cut. Don't click if you don't want to see blood.
