Down in the Valley

I've attempted to write a long-overdue blog update at several different points during the past few weeks. First, I wanted to post about my final days of training and tapering (otherwise known as "running a little, eating a lot and drinking even more wine") leading up to CIM. After comfortably securing my 2016 Trials qualifier, I planned to summarize my experience and emotions as I've done after my other marathons and significant finishes. Lastly, I'd hoped to regale you with how much I've been enjoying my down time in the days since, sampling an extra dessert here and a fumbled smack of the snooze button there. Trust me, it was going to be riveting. But in the handful of times I've had the opportunity to sit down in front of the computer to address my tens of readers, I've allowed myself instead to get distracted by things like the world's most amazing Wal-Mart "portrait studio" Christmas card photos. (Although, in my defense, can you blame me? This is redneck gold!)

Because, truth be told, I don't really feel up to the mental and emotional challenge of writing about any of that. It's something I've always done with a celebratory spirit, as if chronicling the experience is a reward in itself, something pleasurable to savor. I can't tell you how many times I re-read my own Philly entry last year, if for no other reason than to continually remind myself that I had, in fact, actually done it. (And also to double- and triple-check for typos, seeing as I was about two-thirds tucked into a bottle of wine at first writing.) 

But as I'm typing this, I don't have a whole hell of a lot to celebrate as far as running is concerned. Our entire lives, we're fed platitudes like "You can be anything you want to be!" (says the person who's never seen me dribble a basketball) and "If you work hard and persevere, you'll always achieve your goals!" (Also: "don't do drugs" and "stay in school," a directive that half my high school class seems to have disregarded.) Well, I worked pretty damn hard this time around, and at the moment I don't have much to show for it. To get even more depressingly specific, I have very little in the way of quantifiable, tangible results to show for this entire year of running. I haven't recorded a single PR (except for 8k, but that was summarily filed in the "made up distances that no one cares about" folder) nor can I name any specific race about which I feel particularly proud. Had I spent the entire year taking a pastry class or toilet training my cat (yes, despite the fact that she lacks opposable thumbs, SkyMall tells me this is a thing that is possible) or learning a new language, I would've probably emerged with a greater return on my time investment, mais oui?

Riding the high after Philly, there was simply no conceivably logical chain of events other than me running faster the next time around. I would train just as hard, race just as smart, ideally not have to take a very public bathroom break on the side of the road, and continue my solid progression away from sub-sub-elite and toward the coveted A-standard of 2:37. It sounds naive to say out loud, but I truly didn't think there was any way for this not to happen. And yet, for myriad and varied reasons which don't actually matter to the finishing clock, it simply didn't. I made it through halfway relatively on pace while trying to ignore an increasingly persistent tightness and limited range of motion in my (frozen) left hip and glute. Could I have finished? I'm sure. But anyone who reads this blog knows I've never been interested in a participant ribbon.

So at this juncture, instead of turning up the emo music and dwelling on all the things I didn't accomplish at CIM, allow me to present you with a few notable positive memories of the past few weeks via everyone's favorite blogging device, the photo montage. And rest assured, though behind all the flippant self-deprecating banter my frustration is genuine and I've indulged in a few ugly cries, I'm still as determined as ever. My next step is yet to be decided, but I can only move forward.

Jordan celebrating Thanksgiving in Ohio with mom, brother, sisters, aunts, cousins

Jealous of my hairstyle? I have a very exclusive stylist (pictured to my right)

Post-Black Friday Cincinnati shopping nourishment

My CIM roomie, Brett, reliving her epic finish from 2010

Post-race libations at the ready in the elite hospitality suite

Caitlin and Brett deep in concentration while decorating their water bottles

Thanks to Nuun Hydration for the support and the sweet black ops bottles!

Pre-race early bird special dinner with Caitlin, Jeannette and Brett

About as photogenic as it gets at 4:30 on race morning. Note to self: My Craft reflective headband works and doubles as a neck warmer.

Post-race afterpartay: a bunch of speedy marathon finishers, plus me and Jordan

Want to hear more from people who actually finished the race and qualified for the Trials? Then get up in Caitlin's and Drew's blogs. Until next time, we can all live vicariously through them.

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Fall Marathon(s) Announcement!

After much consideration, I am pleased to announce I will be racing not one, but two, fantastic marathons this fall! On October 12th I will be competing for over $6000 in prize money as part of the New England's Finest program at the ING Hartford Marathon. Since moving to the Boston area I've heard nothing but positive comments about this race and New England's Finest, and I'm incredibly excited to have been invited to participate. Last year's winner and a new friend of mine, Hilary Dionne, will be returning to defend her title and improve upon her 2:40 showing. I'm hopeful that we can work together throughout the race and bring out the best in each other.

A mere eight weeks later, I will be putting it all on the line and aiming for the coveted Olympic Trials "A" standard at the Cal International Marathon in Sacramento. CIM is a screaming fast, net downhill, barely legal course that saw upwards of 20+ women qualify for the 2012 Trials (on the last day of the open window, no less). I have no doubt that this is my best opportunity to run fast and attain the "A" standard in 2013, which has always been my primary objective.

As someone who barely runs two marathons a year, much less two in the same quarter, I was initially daunted by the prospect of competing at both these events. However, Coach Jordan is confident in my abilities, both to run fast at each race and to recover adequately between them. I'll admit, having full knowledge of my current state of fitness (or lack thereof) I'm a bit intimidated, but as I've done countless times before I'll simply need to put my head down, grind out the miles and trust the process. And drink lots of Frappuccinos.

Time to enjoy the hard work!  

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(Semi-Injured) Week in Review

45 miles
3 days off
75 mins. hot yoga
6x10 mins. core 
30 min. massage
2 days in Vermont

This week was pretty much a bust no matter how you slice it. I mentioned in recent entries that I've been dealing with a nagging shin/soleus issue ever since returning from Italy, and this week I'm disappointed to inform you that it's getting worse instead of better. Whereas last week I was able to run hard several days in a row, this time I spent most of Thursday limping around after a hard workout Wednesday evening. This is particularly frustrating because the workout itself--5x3 mins. hard on a hilly road loop around the Beverly High School campus, plus 2x uphill strides--went great, and I actually ran a comparable pace to when I did something similar right after the BAA 5k a month ago. So, the fitness isn't completely gone, but it's hard to build any momentum when each step forward necessitates two gimpy steps back. The obvious solution is to take some substantial time completely off, but with the US Half Champs a mere month away I simply can't afford to do so. I'm aware that I'm riding a very fine line right now, but I'm trying to be as smart as I can about doing all the little things to keep this situation in check.

But enough about me for the time being. This weekend was meant to be about Jordan and my boss, Eric, both of whom were racing the Vermont City Marathon in Burlington. When I'd originally agreed to tag along for the holiday weekend, I'd envisioned myself sunbathing beside the water--Burlington sits on Lake Champlain--or poolside at the Hilton. This seasonally appropriate dream was squashed midweek when the weather forecast turned downright wintry. Sure enough, as I sat crammed in the way way back of Eric's family's SUV driving northbound on Saturday morning--Jordan having already been in Burlington for over 24 hours to work the expo--I could only shake my head and chuckle as seemingly angry snowflakes mixed with an incessant and insistent rain pelted our windshield. What a beautiful winter we're having this summer!

Unfortunately, conditions were not much improved come race morning. If anything, they were slightly worse. Light rain isn't necessarily inclement, but a steady downpour accompanied by 40-degree temperatures and a 20 mph wind is unpleasant to say the least. For Eric, who was embarking on his first attempt at 26.2, and Jordan, who was hoping for a respectable sub-2:30 finish in his first marathon since winning Thunder Road in 2010, the weather did little to assuage their nerves. Ultimately, the result would be a mixed bag. Jordan never settled into a groove and ended up reluctantly pulling the plug just past 15 miles, while Eric persevered through some dark late-game miles to finish just under his 3:30 stretch goal in a remarkable 3:29:45. If he starts running more than three days a week, I predict a Boston qualifier in his future!

The two leaders, Chris Zablocki and Matt Pelletier, grinding up the monster hill at mile 15. They would go on to finish in astounding times considering the conditions, 2:18:24 and 2:19:02 respectively. Not coincidentally, I'm standing in the exact spot where Jordan would decide to call it a day a few minutes later. 

As for my own future, I have no choice but to stay the course and hope things improve next week. I've got enough time to put some decent training together before the half, but only just. Fingers and toes crossed that the proverbial tides (and this weather!) turn by the end of May!   

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Philly Marathon Race Report

Goal #1: Run a PR (sub-2:41:06)
Goal #2: Run sub-2:40
Goal #3: Run sub-2:39
Goal #4: Place top 5
Actual: 2:39:02 (chip), 2:39:08 (gun); 4th place female (2nd American)

Going into this race, I knew that on a perfect day in ideal conditions I was primed to run between 2:37:30 and 2:38:30. This would be at least three minutes faster than I'd ever run before, but I had unwavering confidence that it was possible. Every workout I've done in the past four weeks has been better than any workout I did before the Trials--and some of those weren't too shabby. 

It wasn't a perfect day.

It rarely is.

But throughout the mental and physical roller coaster that is the marathon, I persevered. I remained positive. I showed my sisu (and a whole lot more, if you happened to be hanging around near mile 15). But first:

The trip into Philly was uneventful. Jordan and I broke up the 7-hour drive into two days, stopping Thursday night in Greenwich before finishing up on Friday afternoon. The elite athlete coordinator hooked me up with a great room at the incredibly nice Loews hotel, located about a mile from the start and finish line in the heart of downtown Philly. Friday night we met Pezz for dinner and caught up on all the Charlotte gossip. Considering she just debuted in 2:32 as the third American at Chicago and was ready to run sub-1:13 in the half, I figured any time spent with Pezz was bound to rub off on me and translate into a fast race on Sunday. 

Dinner with Pezz on Friday night. "We can have one drink, right?"

Wide awake at 6am on Saturday to catch a stunning Philadelphia sunrise.

On a perfect, crisp Saturday morning we jogged together, and I was pleased to note that my legs felt the freshest I could recall in recent memory. For the rest of the day I tried to balance spending money at Anthropologie with not expending too much energy, and after an ill-fated attempt to meet up with some Charlotte friends for dinner (90-minute wait?! Have fun with that.), I wound up at the aptly-named Marathon with Katie DiCamillo and her dad. ("We're pretty busy right now, so there's going to be a wait...of at least 10 minutes." "Um, yeah, we can handle it.") Katie, who ran a ridiculous 32:31 to place second at the Stanford Invite 10k this year (a mere two full minutes faster than my 10k PR, NBD), had planned to debut at NYC a few weeks ago. So did a lot of people. Instead, she re-routed to Philly and was aiming for a sub-2:35 clocking. I had no doubt she was capable.

I went to bed, and then I woke up, and then I got ready, and then it was 6:55. On the starting line, surrounded by friends from all different aspects of my life--Allison, Sarah, Dalena, Danielle--it almost felt like we were about to head out for a nice Sunday long run. Jordan was there, too; having long since requested an elite entry, then gotten injured, then gotten un-injured, he gamely offered to play queenmaker for the first half of the race for me and Allison. Although I would like to think I'm the kind of person who would insist on doing this thing myself, I didn't hesitate to accept his offer. (I guess I don't really know what kind of person I am.) But I've run behind him dozens of times in workouts over the years and he's never steered me wrong. Why should today be any different?

The first few miles were lightning fast. Left to my own devices I'm certain I would've gone out too aggressively; as it was, despite Jordan's plan of taking us out in 6:10 we were 6:02 through the mile. It felt like walking. The next few mile markers were off, or so I was told by Allison and Jordan. I don't wear a Garmin, and didn't today, and rather than concern myself with any miscalculations I simply focused on doing what I've done so many times before: tuck in and relax.  

We were clicking off the miles effortlessly, 5:55 to 6:00 without a second thought. After four or five miles I felt rather than saw Allison slipping quietly off the back; she'd said in advance that a half split of 1:20 was desired. We were out too fast too soon for her, and I hoped the same was not true for me. 

It felt ridiculously easy until seven or eight. I didn't know the course, willfully hadn't studied the map, and was surprised to discover that the ensuing three miles were almost entirely uphill. Until that point I'd practically been breathing out of my nose; now I found myself struggling to stay physically and emotionally composed. Not mentally composed, but emotionally. If you don't think there's a difference, then you've never truly raced a marathon.

It wasn't exactly hard, but it was no longer easy, and that worried me.

You've got a long way to go.

I pushed the negative thoughts aside; there was no other choice. I knew Jordan planned to take me through halfway, but suddenly I was desperate for more of his help. As the course wound its way back toward downtown Philly, signaling the precise demarcation between Part 1 and Part 2, I spoke for the first time in over an hour.

"Can you go farther?"

"Yes," he said.

I was instantly relieved, but apparently I should've been more specific. Five minutes later, his job executed perfectly up until that point, he was done. He had carried me this far, and now the second half--which was "half" only in the most literal of ways--was up to me.

"Nothing fancy."

A strange mantra, perhaps. But as Jordan left me--solo, in no man's land--around mile 14, those were his words that stuck with me. "Believe in yourself," he said. "I believe in you. Know that it's going to hurt."

And then: "Nothing fancy." Meaning: you don't have to trick it up right now. You don't need to do anything other than what you're doing, what you've been doing for the past 80 minutes, to transform this goal that you've been fixating on for the past six months into reality.

But I was beginning to struggle, in more ways than one. Not only was I completely by myself, entering what would already be the loneliest section of the course, but I was also in desperate need--truthfully, had been for 30 minutes--of a bathroom break. As silly as it sounds or as tempting as it is to make light of the situation, in reality that could've been a game-changer in the worst of ways. Anyone who has faced this sort of dilemma during a race or workout knows how distracting it can be at best, debilitating at worst.

So--and I don't necessarily want to celebrate this but can't in the spirit of transparency leave it out--I pulled a Paula Radcliffe. If you don't know what that means, it's probably for the best. Maybe this course of action cost me my coveted 2:38 (it most certainly cost me my gloves), but as Jordan said later, better a Paula Radcliffe than an Uta Pippig.

The next four miles were the worst. I was rudderless, completely alone and with no reliable grasp of how fast (or slow) I was running. In fact, shortly after 16 I was overtaken for the first time by another woman. She was running shoulder to shoulder with a young guy, and I instinctively latched onto him. She was Fifth Place.

Do not let them get away.

He is the new Jordan.

The girl yo-yoed 10 to 20 meters in front of us, but I stayed glued to the unnamed guy's back. At one point, somewhere around mile 20, I found my voice.

"I hope I'm not bothering you," I said, as polite and civilized as if I were tapping him on the shoulder in the middle of a crowded room. "But you're helping me more than you realize."

"Hell no," he responded, then nodded to the girl just ahead. "And don't let her get away." 

In another scenario I would've been somewhat amused and not a little bit suspicious of his seemingly abrupt shift in allegiances, but right now I was clinging to him for dear life. At 21 he accelerated and I matched him stride for stride, edging past this Fifth Place woman. Another target loomed just ahead, a woman who had been at least 100 meters ahead of me at the most recent turnaround. I passed her without hesitation, then turned to Fifth Place and gestured for her to do the same. I was now in fourth with no other women in sight.

But I was passing men, and lots of them. I didn't feel spectacular but wasn't dying either. There was no wall, only the grim resignation that the remaining minutes would not be remotely pleasant. Yet now, more than at any other point in the race, my self-talk was wholly, unequivocally positive. It was as though my brain, deprived of oxygen and taxed beyond the point of sustainable reasoning, only had room for a handful of fragmented thoughts.       

"This is my day," I told myself. I remember that moment, that realization with striking clarity.

Today is for all the people who told me I could. Today is for all the people who told me I couldn't.

Mile 25. Photo courtesy of P. Ciccarello

Since July, I've been envisioning the clock at mile 25. In all my scenarios it read between 2:30 and 2:31. Today, it flashed 2:31:40. Slower than I wanted, and with one significant uphill remaining before the final downhill push. (Not that I knew any of this in advance. Maybe I should actually do a modicum of research before tackling my next marathon course.) I didn't have much left, but I pushed as hard as I could. Five minutes. Four minutes. Three.

Just like all the previous times, I crossed the finish line with little fanfare. It's difficult to comprehend, really, how much thought and effort and work points toward one moment, one end, only for it to pass almost before you realize it's upon you.

Katie finished 15 seconds ahead of me, and Fifth Place finished in fifth place a few minutes behind me, and together we comprised the top Americans today, on this unusually weighted Philadelphia Marathon day given that NYC was canceled a mere two weeks ago. Pezz was the first familiar face I saw, and she came sprinting towards me, and it meant so much to know how sincerely she felt overjoyed at an accomplishment that paled in comparison to hers. Then Jordan was there, and I found my phone, and saw the posts and texts and calls that were already overflowing with genuine happiness for me.

It humbles me every time.

When I wrote my blog about the Trials, it felt like the the natural end. The end of a chapter, the end of a pursuit, the end of a very distinct period of my life. Today, here, this feels like a beginning. I still don't consider myself an elite runner, honestly. Maybe I never will, and maybe I never will be. But right now, in this moment, all I can think about is the future. I can't wait to run faster. It's not a "what if" or a "maybe," but when. I've done the work before, and I'll do it again, and everything from here on out is a step toward the marathon trials of 2016.

It wasn't the perfect day.

But today was perfect.
   

Receiving my fourth place award with the Philly mayor and race director.

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Philly Marathon Results

2:39:02; 4th place female (2nd American)
Results

Will blog soooooooooon!

Maintaining the perfect sorority squat even on post-marathon legs

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US Olympic Marathon Trials Recap

Goal #1: Finish
Goal #2: Finish not last
Goal #3: Finish with a PR (sub-2:45:00: 6:18 pace)
Goal #4: Finish top 50
Goal #5: Finish sub-2:40 (6:05 pace)

Actual: 2:41:05 (6:08 pace)
49th place out of 152 finishers
Results; Mile by Mile Splits
Splits (that I remember): 10k @38:00; 10 mile @61:10; 20k @1:15:55; 13 @1:19:30
Slowest mile: 6:23
Fastest mile: 5:58
Goals Achieved: 1-4


My alarm went off at 5:15, but it was unnecessary. I'd been thinking of this morning, dreaming of it, consciously and subconsciously, for almost a year. I looked over at Jordan, who was also wide awake, and we both wordlessly swung our legs over the side of the hotel bed and stood to our feet. It was time.

An hour later, our backpacks filled with various race-day miscellany, we slowly trotted down the darkened early morning streets of downtown Houston. Leaving the Residence Inn behind, my destination was the Hilton, then Caitlin's room, then the George R. Brown Convention Center, and then my destiny. Not listed in order of importance. As Caitlin and I filed into the elite athlete holding area, flanked by Jordan and Garrett, the incomprehensible reality that we were actually doing this became ineluctable. My entire body tingled with nervous energy, though on the surface I remained quiet and calm. Caitlin, Megan Hovis and I situated ourselves along a side wall, soon to be joined by my friend Allison. Almost one year ago Allison and I roomed together at the 2011 Houston Marathon, both of us walking (hobbling) away from that event feeling more discouraged than triumphant. This year, this time, we were determined to work together with Caitlin for our vindication. With 30 minutes to go we were herded down the escalator and outside to the elite athlete staging area, and you could almost feel the collective sharp intake of breath as we were thrust into the cold, wind-blown shade of the downtown skyline. After a few minutes of jogging, a stride or two, a bathroom trip or four and a hasty discarding of clothing into the bag drop, I found myself being led to the starting line.



How to describe the feeling? Surreal, yes. Overwhelmed, for sure. Nervous, excited, anticipatory; all accurate. But as I queued up behind the starting line, the starter's commands nearly drowned out by the noise of the crowd, my peripheral vision a blur of broad stripes and bright stars, everything else was superseded by an almost eery sense of calm. Caitlin and I turned to each other and grinned, our faces mirroring the same understanding: this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and it was time to make the most if it. Less than a minute later, we were off into the early morning sunshine.

As Caitlin described in her own fantastic race recap, the first 10 miles passed almost imperceptibly. I don't remember any physical effort being expended, although I'm sure it was. After completing a flat 2.2 mile loop of the downtown area, we circled back through the start (and finish) area before heading out on an 8-mile loop that we would cover three times before finishing our journey exactly where it began. (Is there symbolism there? Maybe. Who has the time to uncover it all.) During these early miles, Caitlin and I worked diligently to cultivate a pack of like-minded runners, to varying degrees of success. Allison was invested, and though her words were minimal, her consistent stride and quiet confidence spoke volumes. At one point our group would swell to almost 10 women, but the entire first half of the race found Caitlin and I bearing the brunt of the leadership responsibilities. Every so often another woman would join or another would drop back, but by midway through the second loop our formidable cadre had whittled down to four, the original three plus Laura Farley. Laura and I had never met before, and may never again, but for the next hour I would swear she was one of the best friends I'd ever known. That's part of what the marathon does to you, of course. It breaks you down physically, scrambles you emotionally, blunts your powers of reasoning and perception--sometimes all at once.

And we ran.



We passed together under the finishing clock after the second loop, a mere eight miles separating us from the sweet relief of no longer pushing our bodies past the point of sensible resistance. My feet had long since relinquished any protest, instead succumbing to the cruel concrete and myriad turns that the criterium course had forced upon them. To say that I had developed a few blisters would be equal parts completely accurate and wildly insufficient. I could sense that Caitlin was faltering along with the fragile equilibrium of our group. I turned back once, then twice, beckoning her to follow, but from that point onward it was eyes straight ahead. I wasn't feeling so chipper myself, and as the 20-mile marker came and went so did my contact with Laura and Allison. I asked, begged, pleaded with my body to stay in contact, but it had other plans. As the two of them slowly slipped away, so did my hopes at sub-2:40. My foggy brain couldn't do the math, but it didn't have to. Somewhere deep inside, with the inner metronome finely honed over miles and trials too numerous to count, I knew. And so I trudged along in the grim resignation of no-man's land, fervently willing myself to stay positive even when innate, primitive self-preservation instincts screamed at me to STOP.

I didn't stop. Each step was a renewal of will. I focused on one runner ahead, then the next. A few minutes later I realized I was approaching my friend and one-time training partner Megan Skeels. As I pulled up alongside, I could tell that she was foundering. "Tuck in with me," I implored. "We can still break 2:40." It was a lie; we couldn't. But part of me was still trying to convince myself, to reaffirm why I was still pushing and pushing and forcing every muscle in my body to endure this assault. Megan shook her head; the movement was slight, but it said enough. I pulled ahead, turned and motioned her to follow, then continued on in my single solitary provision of hell.

I've often heard it said that the marathon is a war of attrition, and never has that truth been more evident than in these final miles. As terrible as I felt, as certain as I was that the next step could be my last (did I mention exaggerated suffering? another unfortunate side effect), I was still passing people. And not just people. People I had absolutely no business finishing before. Names I knew, faces I recognized from running magazines and articles and training groups and the actual profession of running. I was dying, but then again I suppose it's all relative.

With two miles to go, I saw Jordan. This was the second or third time I'd spotted him, though he swore he had shouted at me almost 10 times. It was entirely probable, just like it was probable that my mom had screamed my name as I passed at mile 8, just like Rebecca Thomason and my high school coach and Matt Jaskot and my dad's running partner and my former teacher and a dozen other people had stood less than an arm's length from me at some point during the morning, pouring their energy and enthusiasm into me. No, seriously. I mean, don't get me wrong, I heard plenty of generic cheering. I also heard lots of voices shouting my last name, which was splayed across my chest via my bib number. (And, astonishingly, although every customer service representative and solicitor under the sun seems to bumble their way through the pronunciation of "Nedlo" as though it were written in Farsi even though it's perfectly phonetical, I didn't hear a single inaccurate rendering.) But I was overwhelmed, amazed and utterly humbled by the number of people who called me by my first name. It is highly unlikely that I will ever run another race in any venue or capacity for which I can say the same. Utterly, completely blown away by the support of the crowd.

But I digress. I saw Jordan, and I heard him say, "You can still do it!" I knew he meant that I could still break 2:40, and just as surely I knew that he was wrong. But shortly thereafter, I heard the voice of someone else: "You're in 54th place!" First of all, I had no idea if they were right. I had no idea if they knew how to count, or if they'd been paying attention, or if they even comprehended how significant their words would be. What I did know is that although my goal of sub-2:40 was gone, I could still finish out the final 10 minutes of this run, the most important run of my life up to this point, with purpose. With determination. With a resolve to pour everything of myself into each step. With gratitude for the opportunity I was given--no, for the opportunity I worked my ass off for--and the single-minded focus of simply putting one foot in front of the other, as fast as I could, for as long as I could, for as long as it took until I crossed the finish line.

And then, unceremoniously, I did. There was no fanfare, no announcement, nothing but the full-bodied release and wearied relief that any competitor, at any level, feels when they encounter the intersection of weariness and satisfaction. I wasn't at the front of the pack, not even close, nor was I within miles of contention for the coveted Olympic spots for which this race exists in the first place. But I was, emphatically, finished.



I waited for Caitlin. She came soon after. And we hugged, and high-fived, and probably would've cried had either of us spared the energy. When she could barely walk, I propped her up. When we didn't know where to go, my parents magically appeared to guide us to the escalators back to the elite holding room. We'd been there only hours before, but as different people. I came here as the 152nd qualifier of over 200 women. I started the race today as seed number 140 based on those who actually toed the line. Just over two and a half hours later, I finished as one of the top 50 female marathoners in the country. There has been plenty of talk about how the women's qualifying time needs to be lowered, and while that could comprise a separate post unto itself, I categorically agree with the sentiment. And to the same people, I say: make the standard whatever the hell you want. I will run it. I'm just getting started as a marathoner, and I will be at the 2016 Trials. No matter what.



But today's effort isn't about 2016. It's about right now, today, the ability and capacity that I had to give during this moment. Though I'm not completely satisfied with my time, I can honestly say I gave every part of myself at every part of the race. That may not be enough to earn an Olympic berth, but it unquestionably embodies the Olympic spirit, and I sincerely believe the same can be said for every single woman who toed the line today. We didn't all run together, not literally, but in some sense we did. We are all Olympic Trials Qualifiers. We all ran the Olympic Trials.

We all ran. We all run.

We all have a memory to last a lifetime.

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US Olympic Marathon Trials Results

2:41:06
49th place out of 152 finishers (~200 starters)
Results

Recap to come but I wanted to post up the results. Looking forward to sharing all the details with you when I have a few free moments. What an amazing experience!

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NYC Marathon Weekend

Friday, 11/4: Rockefeller Preserve w/Madeleine
78 mins. + strides
10 miles

Saturday, 11/5: Central Park w/Jordan
4.5 mile w/u
Target: 8x1k @3:30 w/2 min. jog
Actual: 8x1k @slow w/2 min. jog
4 mile c/d
Total: 14 miles

Sunday, 11/6: West Side bike path, Prospect Park, Brooklyn w/Jay, Heidi and Jordan
1 hour 48 mins. + 7 mins. ; 16 miles

Wow, what an amazing weekend of all things running-related. If you aren't a fan of the sport you could probably think of better ways to spend a few days in the Big Apple, but as far as Jordan and I are concerned it was an absolute blast.

Things started out as is becoming routine these days with a lengthy car ride. Less than 48 hours removed from pulling our overladen Uhaul trailer up to Fort Sewall Lane, Jordan and I were back behind the wheel headed south. Our destination on Thursday night was Madeleine's place in Pleasantville, just north of NYC, and we reached it around 11pm. The sun wasn't even contemplating rising when the three of us awoke the next morning and set off for the amazing Rockefeller State Park trails. We could barely see for the first 40 minutes and spent a few dicey moments dodging fallen tree limbs from the previous weekend's snow, but it was blast tromping around in the woods for a bit before heading into the city. From there it was a whirlwind of activity as we moved from place to place meeting with various editors in conjunction with the Runner's World media summit. I've never been part of those types of meetings before, and it was valuable experience for me as I transition into my new role at Karhu.

Once the trip's primary business was finished, it was time to fully soak up the NYC Marathon weekend experience. For once, I was attending a major race without the intention of either running or working the expo, which is a rare experience not to be taken for granted. Over the course of the next two days we spent time with literally dozens of friends all involved in the marathon in some capacity or another, whether that meant racing or working the expo or supporting a loved one's race efforts. We saw friends from Charlotte, friends from Brown, friends from Brooks and Mizuno, friends from local running accounts and many more as we enjoyed great meals, visited the enormous expo and took down a pint or two. On Friday night we rubbed shoulders with the running industry elite at the Runner's World VIP party in Midtown, then bumped fists with the running nerd elite at the LetsRun.com soiree in Union Square. It was one part work, one part play and all parts exhausting, and by midnight I was already several hours overdue for bedtime.

Come Saturday morning, after a few much-needed hours of sleep and even more needed sips of coffee, it was time for a workout. Jordan and I waited until almost 11am before venturing out onto the bustling streets of Chelsea, a short but hectic two-mile jog from Central Park. He'd written 8x1k on my schedule at a pace I was confident I could nail despite the fact that we planned to use the soft surface of the reservoir and carriage trails. We entered the park and were immediately swept up in the excitement of the next day's race. The finish line and clocks were set up and the air fairly crackled with energy and buzzed with the voices of countless different nationalities all converging for one singular purpose. The spirit was infectious, and I trotted toward the reservoir with 100% certainty that I was about to knock the workout out of the park.

But remember earlier this week, when I learned that the way you feel during the warmup doesn't necessarily indicate how the workout will go? Turns out that can work against you just as easily as it can work in your favor. After two intervals I was in disbelief at how hard I was working to run so slowly. After the third interval it was so bad that Jordan took my watch away so I couldn't see the evidence. I would've dropped out in an instant had I been solo, but he encouraged--read: mandated--that I press on. After a particularly dismal seventh interval even Jordan was ready to pull the plug, but at that point I'd come so far that I wasn't about to quit. It was humbling and not a little embarrassing to know how royally I'd failed at this workout, particularly since it shouldn't have been that challenging to begin with, but what can you do? At the end of the day it's still time on the feet (barely) under marathon pace, and sometimes that's all you can ask for--particularly when you're wrapping up one of the most exhausting weeks of your entire life. To be sure, I spent a few minutes pouting on the cooldown, but with such an exciting weekend on tap and the crisp fall sunlight on my face it was hard to stay despondent for long.

If Saturday's run was decidedly lackluster, Sunday more than made up for it. Jordan and I met Jay--who, by sheer coincidence, literally lives one city block away from the friend we were crashing with--and then ran down to the West Side bike path to rendezvous with our friend Heidi. Jay had mapped out a route that would take us across the Manhattan Bridge and into Brooklyn, where we'd head all the way up to Prospect Park before finishing near the 8-mile mark of the race. Even more brilliantly, he'd timed the run so that we'd arrive just a few minutes before the elites were scheduled to pass. The run flew by in what seemed like only a few minutes, and before I knew it we were lined up with the other spectators eager to catch a glimpse of the day's contenders. Though I didn't know many of the top male competitors, our friend and roommate for the weekend Mike DeCoste would be shooting for 2:30 pace and of course we had Spada and Theoden and many others in pursuit. On the women's side, our good friend Kim Smith was gunning for the win and would be joined in the elite start by our friend Camille, my former D2 rival Sarah Porter and several other familiar faces. We stood literally inches from the course as Mary Keitany flew by well clear of the field, then cheered like crazy as Kim passed after the next chase pack. The men followed shortly thereafter, still bunched together in a small pack with Meb tightly wedged in the middle. At that point it was too soon to tell how the race would play out, and we were all eager to watch the remaining drama unfold. From there our group hopped onto the subway, each bound for different destinations to finish our race spectating. Turns out that Keitany's early recklessness would catch up with her, while Kim's patience meant she was able to secure a top five finish and a London Olympic birth. Records were shattered on the men's side with a simply extraordinary performance by Geoffrey Mutai, while Meb hung on to best his own personal record by several seconds. No matter who you were rooting for, the finish was inspiring to witness.

Several hours later, after reuniting with more friends (including a random run-in with our buddy Dave Nightingale in a ghetto grocery store on the Upper East Side), it was time to reluctantly say our goodbyes and head home. We still had a train ride and multiple hours in the car before returning to our barely lived in house in Marblehead. We were exhausted and already in need of a weekend to recover from our weekend, but I wouldn't trade the past few days for anything. If this experience doesn't get you pumped up to train and race, I don't know what will!

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If At First You Don't Succeed...

...make sure you keep your second attempt under the radar.



So, I would be lying if I didn't admit that the Mercedes Marathon immediately came to mind after dropping out of Houston two weeks ago. I was already planning to be in attendance to work at the expo on behalf of Karhu, so that part of the decision was a non-issue. Further investigation indicated that the race offered some pretty legit prize money, which served as an added incentive, and my friend and account partner Scott Strand from the Trak Shak had graciously offered to cover my entry fee. The only other key components that needed to fall into place were the weather conditions and the state of my body, both of which wouldn't become readily apparent until very close to game day. So, with a mindset that I would describe as tentatively optimistic, I penciled Birmingham in on my calendar. Unlike with Houston, however, I made a conscious decision not to herald my intentions via Facebook or my blog or any other medium that might result in hundreds of people becoming aware of my potential failure. The few individuals I did tell seemed to understand and agreed to keep the information to themselves (even Caitlin, believe it or not).

As race day drew closer, I became increasingly intent on registering. For starters, my legs continued to carry the unusual spring and pop that had been present ever since Houston, even after multiple runs on sidewalks and pavement in Atlanta earlier in the week and even after working two 10-hour days on my feet at the expo. It also helped that the anticipated weather for Sunday morning appeared to be as close to perfect as one could hope for: lows in the 30s, highs near 60, with low humidity and bright sunshine and negligible wind. This was what Houston was supposed to be, I thought ruefully to myself as I filled out my registration form on Saturday afternoon.

Though this may sound surprising, the one variable that hadn't factored into my decision to run was the course. Simply put, the city of Birmingham is hilly. Very hilly. And while I knew that the race directors had altered the course a few years previously to reduce the level of difficulty, I also knew there was no way of getting around the undulating terrain that would surely accompany Sunday's run. Further, the "new" course was now a two-loop format, which meant that all the rollers from the first 13 miles would only seem amplified the second time around. But Houston was considered "flat" and that didn't exactly guarantee me success, so who's to say that I might not actually run better on a more challenging course? I chose not to dwell on it.

Race morning dawned cold and perfectly clear. My best friend Brooke--who, along with her fiance Lance, acted as my hostess and personal assistant and chef and cheerleader and general lifesaver throughout the weekend--dropped me off downtown about 30 minutes before the start. I sought refuge inside the auditorium where the expo had taken place until about 10 minutes before the start, at which point I reluctantly stripped down to my skivvies and hit the line. It only took a moment for me to locate some familiar faces: my friend and frequent marathoner Camille Herron, who was hoping to break the women's course record of 2:40, and fellow Charlottean and CRC member Mike Kahn, whose goal rested somewhere between 2:48-2:50. Since I hoped to finish midway between the two, I realized there was a strong chance I might not see either of them during the race. In fact, once the half marathoners split from the full marathoners just before 13 miles, there was a chance I might not see anyone during the race. From both a mental and physical perspective, I fervently hoped that wouldn't be the case.


I'm the particularly cold-looking lower half in the black spandex to
the right of the screen. Photo courtesy of The Birmingham News.

The gun sounded at 7:00 on the dot, signaling the beginning of what I hoped would be a (pleasantly) memorable journey through downtown Birmingham and Homewood and the surrounding areas. I settled into a comfortable pace, intending to check my progress at the first mile marker. Unfortunately the clock for this marker was positioned incorrectly, which became apparent when it read sub-5:40 as I passed. Several GPS-sporting runners around me voiced that it was closer to .85, which meant that I was actually running somewhere around a 6:15 pace. As a non-Garmin wearer, from this point onward I was faced with a dilemma. I had no idea when or if the ensuing mile markers would "catch up" to where the actual markers were supposed to be or whether they would all be consistently off. Right then and there, at mile 1, I decided not to split my watch for the remainder of the race. I would run on effort through the half, try to maintain pace through 20, then fight with everything I had to the finish.

The first 45 minutes of the race passed surprisingly quickly as I cruised along in the crowd. I wasn't necessarily running with anyone, but there were plenty of bodies around. As I slowed for a water stop around mile 8, I was surprised to see a familiar face stealthily trying to sneak by me. "Mike?" I yelled to him. "Are you sure about this??" His previously stated race plan was to run 6:25 pace through halfway, and I was aware enough of my clip to know that I was not running nearly that slowly. My concern about his potential future implosion was quickly overshadowed by my (selfish) appreciation for his presence. The next five miles passed almost effortlessly with him at my side and acting as my wind-blocker during some breezy sections. He seemed to be feeling great, high-fiving spectators and encouraging other runners as we passed. I was content to remain mostly silent and let him act as my entertainment, and I hoped we'd be able to remain together for as long as possible.

As expected, the race thinned out quite a bit once the half marathoners peeled away at 13. Though I never saw a 13.1 marker, a few glances at my watch gave me an estimate somewhere around 1:22:30. Perfect. My legs felt strong and my breathing was controlled, and I'd hardly been winded by the previously feared hills from the first half. At this point I caught up to a short girl in a K-Swiss triathlete kit wearing earphones. As I passed, she called out to see if we wanted to run together. I agreed, but after hearing that her goal was 2:50 I realized that one of us would have to seriously adjust our expectations if the proposed partnership was to work. At about the same time, I saw Trak Shak employee and low-2:20s marathoner Daniel Ellis approaching. Registered for the full marathon, Daniel had paced his brother to a 70-minute half before lingering on the course with plans of meeting me halfway. He arrived right on time with a smile and encouraging words, and I asked him to keep me locked in between 6:15 and 6:20 for as long as possible. He agreed, and almost immediately we began to pull away from K-Swiss and Mike. I turned around and motioned for them to come with us, but from that point on I would only be focused on myself.

Simply put, Daniel's presence was invaluable. He helped me remain calm and focused by foreshadowing each turn, reminding me to run the tangents and absorbing the wind when I needed it most. At 16, when I somehow managed to explode an entire packet of Gu all over my hands, he shared the then-brilliant insight that I might consider grabbing a cup of water and trying to rinse myself off. And once we got to mile 20, reaching the mile long Hill that I'd hardly been bothered by before but seemed like an insurmountable mountain the second time around, he tried his darndest to keep my pace from lapsing to a crawl. (If for nothing else than that one mile I'm grateful I wasn't wearing a Garmin. The world doesn't need to know.) We crested the top after what seemed like an eternity, at which point Daniel peeled off with some lame excuse about taking his three-day-old daughter to the doctor. How selfish is that?? Kidding aside, I cannot thank him enough for his help during the middle section of the race. I barely know the guy and yet he took time out of his day to help me pursue my goal. Daniel, if you're reading this, free Karhus for life! (Just kidding. But seriously, I've got a new pair of the Fast Rides with your name on them.)

Once Daniel departed I was completely and totally alone. Somewhere around mile 18 we had caught up to the second place female, but I only managed a few steps with her before she took off like a rocket. I knew that as long as I kept her in my sights there was a chance I'd reel her in again, but after 21 she was a good 30 yards in front of me and appeared incredibly strong. At the 22-mile marker I looked at the clock and did some quick calculations. Essentially if I didn't royally screw things up in the next 25 minutes I would have the qualifier in the bag. 25 minutes, I told myself. You do warmups that take longer than that. I imagined Jordan's voice in my head, telling me to maintain my form and stay relaxed. Easier said than done given the fatigue that was slowly settling into all of my limbs. At this point I also began to pass some straggling half marathoners, which was both a boon and a hindrance. Their cheers of encouragement helped bolster my spirits, but the general lack of awareness from some of them meant that I wasted valuable time and energy weaving this way and that. Fortunately this section was mostly downhill and I was able to somewhat regulate my breathing, but overall I could feel the weight of the race descending on my body in a hurry.

The final few miles are somewhat of a blur. I remember thinking about my parents, about Jordan, about my grandpa, about all the people who believed in me and whose support had taken me this far. I remember thinking about my friend Jenna's boyfriend and his family, who are in the middle of an unspeakably difficult time that makes my marathon labors trivial by comparison. I knew that I needed to pass the 25-mile marker at 2:38 or faster to solidify my sub-2:46 finish, and when I eclipsed that milestone in 2:37:45 I wrapped my brain around the almost incomprehensible realization that it was actually going to happen. Again, Jordan's voice filled my head, entreating me to push for six more minutes, then five, then four. The sounds of music and the boom of the announcer's voice signaled that the finish line was approaching, but I still couldn't see it. At 2:42 I felt a surge of panic. What if I'd calculated wrong? Was it possible that I could miss the time after all?? Less than a minute later my fears were assuaged as the finishing chute loomed ahead. I sprinted--or felt like I was sprinting but was probably only shuffling at a marginally faster clip--with all that I had as the clock ticked closer and closer to 2:45. I crossed the line at 2:45 on the dot and immediately heard Brooke screaming my name from the sidelines. I had done it.


Finished! And looking less than daisy fresh.

Even now, as I type this several days later, the accomplishment seems surreal. Three years ago I could barely run a 10k at the pace I maintained for 26 miles, and at the time I was perfectly complacent with that. More recently, after the debacle at Houston two weeks ago, I started to question my fitness, my ability, my mental toughness--all the things that had allegedly improved so much in the past few years once again seemed so distant and unattainable. Down to the minutest detail, Houston had been engineered as my success story; everything from the elite athlete status to the special race fluids to my pre-race taper had been carefully designed to produce a Trials qualifier. In stark contrast, this week leading up to Mercedes could not have been more different. I ran normal mileage every day, worked the expo all weekend, slept in Brooke's guest bedroom and drank two glasses of wine at dinner on Saturday night. I forgot my CarbBoom gels and didn't get elite water bottles and certainly wasn't afforded the company of an "official" pacer for the first half of the race. Heck, I barely even noticed the mile markers. Instead the entire experience was low-key, laid-back and completely unremarkable--right up until the end result.

Of course, the perfectionist in me wishes I had run faster. Camille, who runs a marathon once a month and earned today's win in 2:43:15, said she felt that the harder than average course probably added four minutes to our finish times. (For reference, she ran 2:38 at Twin Cities in 2009 and, more recently, ran 2:41 for the win at Dallas White Rock in December despite having missed almost half a year of training due to injury.) Whether that anecdotal number is correct will never be known, but even if half that amount is true it certainly helps validate my final time. Either way, it doesn't really matter. I hope that today will be the first of many successful marathons and opportunities to lower my time. Frankly I'll have to do just that unless I plan on getting dead last at the Trials next January. Speaking of successful marathons, turns out my new buddy Mike absolutely crushed his goal and finished less than a minute behind me! It was awesome to see him and congratulate each other at the finish. He was one of the few people who knew my race intentions and, though I don't know him well, I will always feel a special bond after having shared this experience together.

And now, finally, I can say the words that two years ago and even just two weeks ago seemed almost laughable. These words represent the culmination of one endeavor and, at the same time, the beginning of something completely new. They encompass the support of countless friends, family members and CRC teammates. And, more than anything, they affirm for me the admittedly hackneyed cliche that if you put your mind to it, you truly are capable of accomplishing goals beyond your own comprehension.

I am an Olympic Trials Qualifier.

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Top Secret Mission: Birmingham Mercedes Marathon

Target:
1. Finish
2. OT qualifier (sub-2:46)
3. Enjoy the day

Actual: 2:45:00 chip time; 2:45:01 gun time (3rd female, 8th overall)
Official results

Success! Details to come after my 6+ hour drive to Charlotte tomorrow. For now, another glass of wine is calling my name.

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Houston Marathon: The Good, The Bad and The DNF

Target: 26.2 @2:45:59 (6:19 pace) or faster
Actual: 13.1 @1:22:50; 6:20, 6:30, 6:40, DNF

First things first: despite the end result (or lack thereof), I'm actually feeling pretty positive about the weekend in Houston. Physically I am fine, emotionally I am stable (keep your snarky comments to yourself) and mentally I came away with some valuable lessons and, most importantly, a determination that is more fervent than ever to achieve the elusive OT qualifying time.

Secondly, race debacle aside, the overall experience in Houston was fantastic. I had a blast cheering on Caitlin, Ruth, Dave and Leo in Saturday's US Half Marathon Championships, mostly due to the cowbell that Ruth loaned me to help take my cheering up a notch. It was just as inspiring to watch Dave qualify for the Trials with a 1:04:20 half-marathon debut as it was heartbreaking to see Leo miss the same milestone by a mere 30 seconds. I have no doubt that Leo, like me, will rebound quickly and achieve his goal within no time. It was also wonderful to see my parents, who endured a ten-hour round trip drive plus countless minutes of circling downtown Houston at one time or another in search of a parking spot, all to stand in the rain and watch their only daughter fall short of the goal she had set for herself. I also owe a debt of gratitude to Jason Sosa and the elite athlete committee for even allowing me, someone who feels like an interloper among the true elite runners, access to all the accomodations and accoutrements that most of the other 20,000 race participants did not have. Caitlin and I agreed that after spending the entire weekend being pampered and catered to (both literally and figuratively), with everything from our amazing hotel to free meals to massages to separate bathrooms at the starting line, it will be awfully difficult to go back to being a "normal" race participant again. Honestly, if I didn't already have enough motivation to take my running to the next level, knowing that this sort of VIP treatment awaits at most major events is definitely an added incentive.

And now, finally, on to the race. I awoke at 4:30 on Sunday morning to skies that were overcast, breezy, humid and cresting 65 degrees. From a marathoner's perspective, the only thing that could've been worse were the predicted thunderstorms that had threatened to move in the night before; in their event, the race could've been postponed or, unfathomably, canceled midway through. I resolved to push thoughts of the weather out of my head as it was beyond my control, and instead I began my mental and physical preparations for the race. The next two and a half hours seemed to crawl by, but finally at 6:53 I was on the starting line. At the elite technical meeting the day before I'd learned that two men would be leading a 2:46 pace group; one planned to run through the half, while the other was committed to seeing us to the finish. The second pacer said he planned to come through the half just on pace and then negative split the second half, which was identical to my race plan. I was relieved to easily locate both of them on the starting line and resolved to stick to them at least through the half.

There was a prayer, a song, a cannon, and then we were off. I don't remember much from the first six miles of the race, other than that I was comfortably tucked in with the 2:46 group and looking forward to seeing my parents plus Caitlin and Ruth around mile 8. I took my first water bottle at mile 5--elite fluids were yet another perk--and even managed to squeeze down half a CarBOOM without incident. The first familiar faces I saw belonged to Jennie and Leo, somewhere around mile 7, and at this point I felt great. A few minutes later the clamor of a cowbell signaled that I was approaching my cheering squad, and I couldn't help beaming when I saw Caitlin, Ruth and my parents screaming and jumping up and down. Aerobically I felt fine, perfectly controlled, as though I could've held a conversation with any of the 10 or so women clustered around me, and as far as my legs were concerned the pace felt very relaxed. At this point I was confident and optimistic that I was a mere two hours away from calling myself an Olympic Trials qualifier.

To be honest, I'm not quite sure where that changed. I continued to feel good through 10, even through 11, though in hindsight that's right around where we changed directions and began to run into the wind. Still, this wasn't a huge problem as I had two guys to block it for me. That is, until one of our pacers--the one who'd pledged to run the entire race--began to fall off the back of our group. I was in disbelief. For a minute I thought I was confused, as there were a few other random guys near us as well, but then one of the girls next to me said, "Did our pacer just fall behind us?" The other guy was still running strong, but I knew he would only be with us for a few more miles. Just like that, my plan for a 26-mile escort evaporated. But I didn't dwell on it. I knew I was strong enough to run the pace without him, and with any luck our group of women would band together. Mile 12 came and went.

As we approached the 13 mile marker and halfway point, I began to notice that my upper half felt much heavier than it had before. My legs were still solid, but my breathing had quickened noticeably. We passed through halfway at 1:22:50, perfectly on pace, but I felt the first sliver of doubt creeping into my mind. It didn't help that our lone male pacer peeled off just past the 13.1 marker and that our group instantly, inexplicably dissolved. I mean literally one minute we were all running together, and the next it was as though a rubber band surrounding us all had suddenly snapped. This was also when I began to feel lightheaded. Over the course of the next two miles I gradually drifted into no-man's land, falling off the pace a little bit more with each step. The lightheadedness turned to dizziness at mile 16, and after seeing a 6:40 split I knew I was done for. I thought maybe I could walk a little bit between 16 and 17 and regain my momentum, but by the time I gallowalked to that mile marker my watch showed an 8-minute split. That's when I knew I was done. I'd tried my best to stay hydrated throughout the weekend and during the early stages of the race, but apparently it wasn't quite enough.

Now, a word about dropping out of races. Some people are adamantly against it in principle, and I respect that. There is certainly something to be said for persevering in the face of adversity and pushing yourself even when the race isn't all sunshine and candy corn. I am not one of those people. To me, if the cost of finishing the race outweighs any potential benefits, then frankly I don't see the point. Yesterday, I knew that struggling to a 2:50 (or worse) finish and spending a month dealing with the toll on my body simply wasn't worth it. If anything, that outcome would actually put my OT goal out of reach by delaying my training and the opportunity to try again. So, while I am certainly disappointed in the outcome of the race and in my relative failure, I am completely comfortable with the decision I made. To be honest, the strongest negative emotion I'm experiencing is embarrassment. There were so many people, from my parents to CRC members to coworkers to Facebook friends, who had taken considerable time and energy out of their own lives to support me in some form or fashion. And let's not even mention Jordan. Knowing that I let them all down and didn't produce the results they were all so confident in is not a good feeling. One of the worst, actually.

So what does all this mean going forward? Well, simply, it means I'll just dust myself off and try again. I'm not sure when or where, nor can I guarantee that I'll knock it out of the park on the second attempt, but you can bet I'm not finished. On the contrary, I'm just getting started. And though it might be easy to dwell on all the negatives from yesterday--and believe me, I indulged in a mini-pity party involving a Domino's pizza and some dark chocolate Reese's peanut butter cups at the Holiday Inn Express last night--I'm choosing to move forward. That's not to say I won't process all the things, good and bad, that I learned from the race. But tomorrow is a new day.

And I think I'll probably go for a run.

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