This has not been a stellar year for me running-wise. I spent ample time in the pool pre-Boston, I slumped and slogged all summer, and the angry achilles made a repeat visit just recently. I’ve self doubted, second guessed, given up mentally in races and just plain struggled. A lot.
Race week has crept up once again, and I’ve come to terms with the possibility of not running ‘my best’. Shouldn’t the best one has on that particular day be enough? Yes, of course it should. But for some ridiculous reason I’ve fought with the prospect of my best not being good enough. There’s nothing like self-inflicted pressure.
The recent threat of not running at all, compliments of an angry achilles, was a gift in disguise. It was a reality check that sent the ‘good enough’ mumbo jumbo flying out the window. Where before I dreaded falling off a prescribed, desired pace, now I am grateful to be toeing the start line at all.
Yesterday I got the ultimate runner’s treat: Divinely cool temps coupled with pre-race adrenaline coursing through my veins made it almost impossible to keep the wild stallions under control. Wild stallions that I’d suspected matured and were hauled off to the glue factory ages ago. I saw numbers on my Garmin so outlandish, I could have sworn more than once that it was lying to my face. The entire 10 miles was light and fast and deliciously effortless; with the final mile, hard into the wind, being my fastest. Just the run I’d been starving for all these months.
Chalk it up to nerves, cool temps, over indulging at 5 Guys yet again, whatever. But I see this last confidence-building run as the universe’s way of telling me that no matter what happens on race day, it will be ok. More than ok. I will honor the effort I’ve made all these months to make it to the starting line trained and ready to run. What I have is enough. We are all good enough. More than good enough.
