It was the best of times…
Last Sunday, I stood somewhere between Catalina and Oracle, shivering in the dark and waiting for the Tucson half-marathon to start. I was feeling good. Confident. Well-trained and well-rested, and ready to try to set a P.R. on the mostly downhill course. When the race began, I could tell it was going to be a good one. My pace was steady, my body felt good, and the day was pleasantly cool. The crowd around me quickly thinned out as the quick-starters fell back and everyone settled into their pace. My mile splits were consistent - within 10 seconds of each other - and the only question I had was whether I would be able to hold on throughout the entire 13.1 miles. I hit the three-mile mark at a little under 23 minutes, just a little over a 7:30 pace, and continued to tick off the miles while holding steady. Six miles in just under 46 minutes. Ten miles in 1:15:30. Three miles to go, and I still felt pretty good. All I had to do was maintain and I'd have my P.R. I started thinking about how good it would feel to hit that mark - how all the speedwork I'd been doing had paid off and how much easier this was than running the whole marathon. I was tired, but I felt good and knew I wasn't going to have any problem finishing it off. Little did I know, danger was lurking just around the corner. If only it had been a ten mile, or even an eleven mile, or even an eleven-and-a-half mile race, everything would have been grand and I would have been feeling good. But that was not to be. Because…
…it was also the worst of times…
Right around 11 miles is when I started to feel the slightest bit of a tugging sensation in my right calf. At first, it didn't seem like a big deal - nothing different than what I've experienced in various body parts on many other runs. A minor glitch that quickly worked itself out. That was what I hoped. That was what I tried to believe. I adjusted my pace a little, focused on relaxing the calf, focused on posture and form, and it seemed okay. I made it through that mile, and we turned off Oracle and headed up a pretty good hill. My calf was a little achy, but I thought maybe the hill would stretch it out (dumb thought, that one) but as soon as I reached the top of the hill, I knew it wasn't good. Still, there was part of me that just couldn't stop. That had to keep going. That believed somehow, if I could just run through it, everything would be okay. But it wasn't, and by the time I reached the 12 mile marker, I knew I wasn't going to be able to run anymore. There's a part of me that understands that this doesn't even register as a blip on the great radar screen of life, but in that moment, I was, to put it mildly, upset. I slowed to a limping walk, which still hurt with every step I took, and began the "walk of shame" to the finish line. Meanwhile, all kinds of people, those I had been well ahead of throughout the entire race, started passing me. And as they ran by, many of them, trying to be encouraging, said things like, "Come on, you can do it," or, "Don't give up now, you're almost there." While a part of me realized that they meant well, a larger, darker, and more evil part of me was really irritated by this, and I had to bite back comments like, "No I can't, you idiot. If I could do it, I'd be doing it," or, "I didn't give up, you idiot, my calf gave up and there's nothing I can do about it," or, more simply and to the point, "Shut the heck up, you idiot." (okay, I wasn't really "heck," but as I've mentioned before, little jugs have large ears, so we're keeping this family oriented and appropriate for all ages). Anyway, I limped the last mile or so feeling angry and frustrated and sorry for myself, and I limped down the homestretch to the finish line as they announced my name, and I scowled at the guy taking my picture, and I smiled grimly as they handed me my medal and told me "good job," and then I waited for my wife (who did a fantastic job and finished in under 2 hours). And I tried to be happy for her, and a little part of me was, but the larger, darker, and more evil part of me continued to mope.
And the aftermath of all this is that I've been limping around for the past week, hoping my calf will heal quickly but it's still really sore and this afternoon I'm going to pay someone to stick needles in me, so that's where we are with that.
With that, we'll wrap up this edition and hope that your holidays are happy, your calves are well-stretched, and your dark and evil side is much less dark and evil than mine.
