An Almost Royal Welcome...

"A fall from the third floor hurts as much as a fall from the hundredth. If I have to fall, may it be from a high place."

~Paulo Coelho
By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept.

A lot can happen in 37 seconds.

In 37 seconds the space shuttle goes from 0 - Mach 1.
In 37 seconds a bridge can collapse from an earthquake.

In 37 seconds I can run 250 meters.

Or not.

Incidentally... The Royal Victoria Marathon is now known as "The GoodLife Fitness Victoria Marathon".

The fact is, along the way, we all make little choices about our race. I made poor choices the entire race, and it cost me a Boston Qualification by 37 seconds. Let me explain the poor choices, and they really are all subsets of the same thing: I didn't run MY RACE.

--I ran with someone and we fed off of each other, and consequently ran 10-20 seconds per mile too fast.
--Made the choice to run from the groups I was with up to the next groups for wind blocking purposes, instead of just maintaining the same pace.
--I lost the negotiation with my body late in the race, and made the choice to walk instead of just survival shuffle.

All of these things cost me 37 seconds which, at the end, were what made the difference.

Every race upon which I look back with some sort of reverence has a very defining moment. In Victoria, that moment was 2 kilometers from the end. I was walking. It was warm in the sun, and I was experiencing The Hurt. The Hurt is the stage of a race where my mind begins to lose the epic battle with my body; the pain becomes unbearable to the point of agony, and my physical control begins to be compromised. It is a frightening place that I have only visited a couple of times previous to this.

At 2 kilometers left during the GoodLife Fitness Victoria Marathon, The Hurt was redefined and my experiences in the past paled in comparison. Large trees lined the beginning of the 26th mile of my day, and people were running by me in a way I am not used to seeing. But it didn't matter who ran by, I was powerless to do anything. Or was I?

This is the problem/benefit with being a competitor. The drive I feel to succeed, to win, is so powerful that as long as I am walking, why can't I be running? This is why I never let myself walk more than 100 yards at a time, this is why, with 2 kilometers left I looked at my watch.

2 kilometers is roughly 1.24 miles.

The time on my watch was roughly 3:02. Theoretically, I could run a 7:30 mile and make it.

Theoretically.

But that is usually all I need--the possibility.

I hurt so bad everywhere in my body that tears were coming out of my eyes. I was making painful expressions on my face, but I was running as fast as I possibly could. I was passing all the people who just shuffled by. It was a blur, a parade of still images seamed together in my minds eye, seeing them all a moment in my memory after I look away. Around and around and around the seemingly endless corners as the crowd is beginning to thicken. Maybe I will see Jan. Maybe I wouldn't recognize her.

I wanted to quit. I wanted to throw up and cry and be conquered, in surrender.

I also could not stand the thought that I let the last mile kill me, and so finally, once and for all, I won the battle with my body. At this point, ultimately, qualifying for Boston didn't matter; all that mattered was the march forward, trying.

Well, I didn't make it. I gave it my best shot, and because of the choices I made, I failed to reach that goal. It happens, sometimes. Not often do I fail to reach my goals, but considering what I was asking of myself this day, I think it is fair to say I did not set myself up to be very successful. This, in retrospect, was another test of guts.

And in that case, I won.

Run your own race...