Gasparilla

Yesterday I thought for the first time of giving it all up.  Training, racing, running, triathlon--everything.    How can one race prompt such a drastic reconsideration of a whole lifestyle?  It wasn't just Gasparilla.  Yesterday was just a reaffirmation of thoughts I've been having off-and-on for quite some time now.  They aren't old thoughts, I've just managed to push them aside most of the time.  However, they've never made me consider quitting before.  I'm still here, though.  So without any more beating around the bush, here's the story of yesterday.

I'm not sure exactly what motivated me to want to run the Gasparilla half.  I guess I'd been wanting to crack my 1:38 half marathon PR for a while now, considering it's two years old.  I got back into training pretty quickly after the hiatus I took during winter break and started to feel pretty fit.  I decided that I could probably be ready to take a shot at my PR by the end of February, so I signed up for the race.  Training went pretty well, and I definitely put in more long runs than when I trained for the Five Points of Life half marathon two years ago.  I did get derailed for a week by a really nasty sickness, but managed to mostly get over it without losing all my fitness.  Finally race week arrived and I really rested towards the end of the week.  It worried me somewhat that I didn't sleep very well the night before the night before (if that makes any sense).  I never sleep well the night before any race, so the day before that becomes especially crucial for me.  I brushed it off, though, and we headed down to Tampa for packet pick-up and the expo.  After picking up our packets and managing not to buy everything at the expo, we finally made it to my brother's house and crashed for the night.  The wake-up call came way too soon, of course, and we ate and jogged our way to the starting line with about 20 minutes to spare.  I found the 1:35 pace group and hung out with them, waiting for the horn to send us off.  I could feel the humidity hanging in the air.  In Gainesville, it's been fairly cold lately and many of my training runs had been in tights up until this point.  Yesterday, I raced in shorts and a sports bra and was sweating at the starting line.  Finally, the race began.

We went out quickly, splitting the first two miles in 14:20.  In hindsight, I know I shouldn't have started with the 1:35 pace group.  I do better when I start slower in longer races and settle into pace.  Still, I was hanging on so I stuck beside the pacer.  Suddenly, I heard the familiar sound of my laces hitting the pavement.  I know those shoes come untied often; it's happened to me during many training runs.  I had meant to triple-knot them before this race started, but nerves and adrenaline got the best of me and I forgot.  Shit, shit, shit, I thought.  I sprinted ahead and bent down to tie the shoe.  The pace group passed, and they were about 15-20 meters ahead of me by the time I was done fixing it.  I dashed ahead to catch up. I could feel that the effort to get ahead and then catch back up hadn't done me any favors, and my breathing started to spike.  By mile 4 I could feel the humidity driving up my heart rate and was soaked in sweat; by mile 5 I could see the pace group slipping away.  I looked down and saw that my other shoe had come untied.  Screw it, I thought.  I've already lost them.  I bent down to tie the shoe and soldiered on.  I started to feel progressively worse, and around miles 6-7, my left metatarsalphalangeal joint started to kill me (big toe joint for all the non-physiology majors).  I do have chronic problems with it, but it usually doesn't hurt me when I race.  That's when I knew it was going to be a long haul to the finish.  I slugged it out the last 6 miles and finished in a disappointing 1:44:45.

Later, the negative thoughts started to cross my mind.  Why do I put so much effort into this when I'm only getting out mediocre results?  I can probably count on one hand the number of races I'm actually proud of.  I'm not cut out for this.  I've been chronically overestimating myself.  I have no talent.  I should just give this all up; my body doesn't even like that I do this.  How many times am I gonna say, "It wasn't my day?" Maybe it's never going to be.  I mulled this all over on the ride home and well into the evening.

What I came up with is that I probably couldn't leave this, even if I tried.  Competing is ingrained in me, but beyond that, I've always felt that endurance training itself makes me better.  It teaches me to be tough, to work hard, to plan, and to execute.  It has been the source of my best friendships and fondest memories.  By giving it up I wouldn't just lose everyone I care about, I'd also lose part of myself.  I'll admit that I'm still feeling some of the negativity.  I'm still doubting myself.  And maybe that's the problem.  I'm always at my worst when I hesitate.  Perhaps many things would go better for me if I just went for them and didn't think about them so much.  Maybe Gasparilla would have gone better if I ditched the pace group and marched to the beat of my own drummer.  I don't know for sure.  All I know is long after the soreness fades from my legs, the sting will linger.  And maybe, just maybe, it'll be the kick in the ass I need.