Runner's are not strangers to pain. In fact, I'd go so far as to say, that on most runs, most days, most runners feel some sort of pain in their body. But running, as my coaches always said, is 90% mental. So we train our brains to run through the pain, ignore the pain, or frankly, to just deal with it. But occasionally something hurts in a different way and a little alert in our brains goes off. That's what happened to me last Monday.
I was on what was supposed to be an easy 10 mile run. The trail was dirt, mostly downhill, and I was enjoying the thought that this run would only take an hour and a half (not the 3+ hours I had been trudging through as of late). However, around mile 5, I felt a pain, a shock of pain, that radiated through my foot with each step. I stopped for a moment, then started running again- still there. I walked for a while, tried running again- still there. That's when I called my Hubby to come pick me up.
Turns out my foot is fractured, likely the result of high arches mixed with concrete trails and lots of mileage. My podiatrist seems to think I can still run this marathon (which is, as I write, only 8 days away) as long as I wear the boot, don't run until race day, and take lots of pain killers. He's confident the foot will heal (enough) by race morning. In fact, he never even suggested not running the marathon. Regardless, I feel like my mental resolve and pre-race focusing is completely shot. Instead I'm constantly wondering if I will be able to run, how horrible the pain will be, or if I'll have to take the dreaded DNF next to my name. Only time will tell. But for now, I'm trying to stay positive.....and spending lots of time on the elliptical.....oh, and lugging this boot around everywhere I go.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
On Sunday I did the Platte River Half Marathon for the second time ever. With only three weeks left until the marathon, I hoped to get a good, confidence boosting race under my feet. My husband ran, too- his first half-marathon ever, and my third.
The week before the race, Weather.com kept messing with me: rainy and 30 degrees one minute, sunny and 50 the next. Their trickery explains why, on race morning, I was incredibly indecisive: what should I wear? Is it going to rain? Snow? Should I carry hydration or just use the aid stations?
As the announcer gave the two-minute warning over the loud-speaker, I made a last minute decision to ditch the coat and gloves and made my way to the start line.
The race started in three random waves. Wave 1 was "those who think they can win" and wave 2 and 3 were determined by projected pace. I went off with about 1,000 other runners in wave #2, quickly weaving through downtown Littleton.
I saw Grandma and my three kiddos cheering as I passed. My two youngest were adorable in a green wagon with sun hats on, while my oldest daughter reached out her hand to high-five any willing runners as they passed.
I started strong, about an 8:15 mile, and settled in with a group of "running buddies" who likely did not even notice I was there. I, however, felt a comraderie with my like-pacers and even took to giving them nicknames. There were the "Two Doctors", very tall and skinny 50-something men who seemed to hold a 8:15 pace so consistently and assuredly. There was "Marathon Cankle" who earned the name from the Hawaii Marathon tech shirt she donned, and the giant size of her calf muscles that were, honestly, quite cankle-ish. And my last buddy, "Polka-dot" a late twenty-something female that was wearing a very cute turquoise polka-dot running skirt.
I held the pace quite easily for the first 7 or 8 miles. One Doctor and Marathon Cankles fell behind me around the 4 mile aid station when they chose the walk-while-I-drink-my-cup-of-water method, while I opted for the drink-half-spill-half-down-my-shirt-while-still-running-method. Around the half-way point, Doctor #2 lengthened his stride and ditched our group for a faster (but not cooler) sub 8 mile crew.
Around the 8 mile mark or so, I could feel the lactic acid adding pounds to my legs. I slowed considerably and wondered why I had started out so fast. Polka-dot slowed, too, so we plodded along together through the hardest miles of the half marathon.
The Kansas-like head-wind was starting to make me cranky around mile 10. I was making my way up a long, gradual hill with my head down when the guy next to me took his earphone out and signaled for me to do the same.
"Is this the 'Big Hill'?" he asked.
I laughed, "Nope. Not even close."
"Dang. I was really hoping this was it and my friends were just wimpy when they complained about the 'scary, big hill at the end."
"I wish," I said while putting my earbud back in. "It's not 'til after the mile 12 marker, and you seriously can't miss it."
The "big hill", is a long viaduct you have to run up, across, and down to the finish line on the other side. I knew to hit my goal of a 1:49 I'd have to hit mile 12 at 1:38, so when I hit it at 1:41, it was obvious my goal wasn't going to happen today. I was, however, 2 minutes ahead of my PR so I knew as long as I could maintain for this last mile, I'd still walk away with a new best.
I clicked to my money-song on my IPod, motored up the hill, and did everything I could to just keep my feet moving. Both legs were solid cement at this point, and at least 10 pounds heavier than they were 12.5 miles ago. When I started coming down the other side, I could see the finish-line. Hallelujah. I gave what I had left, and crossed at 1:52:20 (about a 8:35/mile pace)and over two minutes faster than my previous best. I put my foot up on the gate to get my chip clipped-off, downed two(yes,two)bottles of water, and turned to watch my friends and Hubby come in.
We drank some beer, ate some food, and shared our war-stories. I welcomed my Hubby to the half-marathon club and congratulated my friends on great finishes. I walked away with some confidence for the upcoming marathon, as well as a fearful thought: I would half to race TWICE as far as I did today...twice as far.....