Rose & Margaret's Belly Dance Experiment

A recent Running Chicks ab work challenge has reminded me that I need to do some serious core work.  So when my sister Margaret suggested we try out a belly dancing class at our local 24-Hour Fitness, it seemed like a great way to work our abs and have fun doing it.

I love music and dance and it’s one of my great disappointments in life that I have absolutely no skills in either.  That did not keep me from being a fixture in my gym’s zumba class until it got so crowded you couldn’t move anymore. 

Here’s one of many things my sister and I have in common: we both lack some key ingredients that make for a successful dance class.  Things such as grace, rhythm, coordination and the ability to move our hips independently from the rest of our trunk.  Nonetheless, we decided to take the risk and headed to the gym.

Fortunately it was a small class where it was easy to see what was going on.  We started by walking in a circle with “sexy hips”.  That’s where it all started to go bad.   We gradually added on different hip rolls and twists, arm movements, grapevine steps.  First the teacher would demo, then we’d do them slowly for a while, then faster, then we started putting the pieces of the dance together into a sequence.  Let’s just say I felt sorry for anyone behind us.  I can’t tell you how many times I realized either Margaret or I (or both of us) were facing the wrong direction.  Or doing the totally wrong thing.  Ooops. 

I had a sneaking suspicion that all of our moves looked the same.  The instructor would roll her hips, then shake them, then glide,  and I’d look in the mirror and while I was carefully trying to mimic her and felt like I was doing the same thing, I appeared to only be swaying my hips side to side with the jerky movements of one of those funny toys we had in the 70s, the ones that were birds and they’d bob up and down drinking out of a glass.  Very magical when you were a kid.  My hip movements?  Not so magical.

It was particularly entertaining when we started doing movements where our chests were supposed to move while our hips either stayed stable or did something different.  Ha!  That was so not happening.  Judging by my sister’s progress in that area,  I’m thinking we might have some genetic mutation that makes it impossible to move our hips and chests in different directions. 

I spent much of the class imagining I was in an episode of The Great Fitness Experiment and wondering when Charlotte was going to jump in and do the splits.  (If you haven’t read this book and blog, check it out, it’s awesome! You can find it at http://www.thegreatfitnessexperiment.com/).

But here’s the thing: just like Charlotte and her “gym buddies” we still had fun even when we sucked.  It was very non-judgmental kind of class.  No super skinny super serious “you’re all losers if you’re not as good as me” kind of chick in the class.  You know what I’m talking about, she’s in your yoga or body pump class acting like she’s better than the instructor.  Fortunately our class was just a bunch of regular women laughing and dancing and using our sexy hips.  And that made it totally fun.  Add to that a feeling of soreness in my waist and abs that tells me SOMETHING was working and I’m pretty sure I’ll go back.  I could use a good laugh.

Nina & Me

Long before anyone had heard of "Marley and Me" there was Nina and me.

Nina wasn't even supposed to be my dog, not really. It was 2000 and My grandfather (who'd lived at my house his last few years) had just passed away. My dog Snuffy, always a social animal, was despondent. As his depression dragged on I realized I needed to get him a companion. I fell in love with Nina the first moment I saw her at the shelter. She was a beautiful shepherd beagle mix with huge brown eyes ringed with black, as if she'd had eye liner tattooed on her. She leaned up against the cage, stared me in the eyes and gave me the "I'm so abused and pathetic" look that I later came to know so well. It was all part of her schtick, though I didn't know it at the time. Nina had been returned to the shelter a couple of times and I knew she was at risk of being put down, so I agreed to foster her for a while. That foster care placement became permanent by the time we'd gotten home.

Nina clearly had issues. Though she was 6 months old she hadn't been housebroken yet. She knew no commands. Most troubling, she had the strongest escape tendencies of any dog I've ever seen. Nina was a Houdini dog. She could escape out of any enclosure ever made. And if she wanted to go somewhere, she'd eat through doors and walls and break through windows if she had to. Nina was born to be a free spirit.

When she proved difficult to train I finally sent her to a doggie boot camp where I found out she was smart enough to learn commands like sit and heel, the question was if she really wanted to do them. Boot camp staff had one problem with her: every night she escaped. They couldn't figure out how. One night they put her by a nanny came and showed me a tape of her shoving her paw out of the front of the cage and sliding the latch. She was that smart.

At the vet where I boarded her she was known for causing mayhem. One time there was a new vet tech and when he came up front I asked if he'd put her in the sealed top kennel to keep her from escaping. He said to me in a condescending tone, "The kennel is 7 feet tall with concrete walls. It's not like she can scale those". I smiled, said, "Oh really?" and pointed behind him, where Nina was sauntering back out to the lobby.

Nina was famous among my friends and family for her dramatic escape attempts. She'd jump her 80-pound self on the counter, push out the window screen, leap over the bushes and end up in the neighbor's yard. You'd open the door a half an inch and she'd be a block down the street before you realized she had even gotten up.

Nina's escapist tendencies seemed to be fueled at least partly by anxiety and we spent a lot of time at the Animal Hospital becausue of it. The first time I left her alone on the 4th of July I came home to find her prancing around on the roof of my front porch covered in blood. She had jumped through a closed window, cutting herself badly on the way out. I could never leave her alone during fireworks after that, not matter how much xanax she had.

Another time she chewed through some chicken wire that was covering her 6 foot high indoor kennel. Unfortuantely she hadn't chewed a big enough hole to get her whole body out and I found her hanging on the wall of the kennel, half her body on each side, chicken wire dug into her stomach. I had to use wire cutters to get her out, and she seemed to be quite proud of herself when she pranced into the Animal Hospital wearing a wire tutu and trailing blood.

Nina got into trouble so much that I joked around when she met other dogs she probably told them her name was "God damn it Nina". She got into cabinets, chewed the lid off paint cans (covering the basement floor in paint), tore down window blinds, ripped up carpets, dug up bushes. But she was also a sweet and affectionate dog, jealous of anyone else who might divert my attention, human or dog. A hug from a boyfriend or another dog sitting on my lap and she'd try to push them away so I could focus on her. When I cried she was there to comfort me and if I screamed she came running to see what was wrong, poised for battle. When I pet her or we'd snuggle I'd make a play on her name, "Nina, Norena, Bobena, Fofena, Sosena" and she'd wag her tail so hard the entire back of her body would wag too.

Nina was unusually smart and I joked that she was an evil genius. I could write for days on all the tricks she pulled. My favorite was the night she wanted to be on the couch by my other dog Slim refused to move. She finally went and found Slim's favorite toy. She brought it to me and started shaking it. He ignored her. She brought it to me and indicated I should throw it for her. I threw it. She stopped to look at Slim and he ignored her. She grabbed it again and stared at Slim intently. Slim jumped off the couch and Nina dropped his toy and took a flying leap onto his spot on the couch. I swear she was smiling triumphantly. I have many stories involving her tricking us out of food somehow. Evil genius.

Once when my mother was staying at my house Nina started staring at her intently. My mom ignored her. Nina started whining and rubbing her. A few minutes later my mom went into a diabetic emergency. Nina had been trying to warn us. For years after that whenever Nina did that I'd make my mom take her sugar and every single time it was at a dangerous level.

Nina also warned me about her own health problems. One day she rubbed her neck against me non-stop for hours, whining. Finally I looked at her neck more carefully and there was a cyst there. The minute I saw the cyst she stopped whining and laid down. Another time she was acting weird when I was running on the treadmill. Although she'd always been afraid of the treadmill she suddenly leaped on and started running behind me, then fell off the back. She laid there with the belt rubbing her stomach, refusing to move until I turned her over to look at her stomach. Another cyst.

The one health problem she didn't warn me about was her last one. The vet said it appeared to have come on very suddenly. One day on a short walk with my sister she collapsed, panting and drooling, her tongue purple. By the time we got to the Animal Hospital she was fading fast, choking on the fluid in her lungs. We don't know for sure what even happened but the vet theorized that there was a fast growing tumor either inside or pressing on her lungs that had quickly gotten dangerous. They tried to save her but told me she was fading fast and I should come back to say goodbye. I saw her laying on the table, looking small and pitiful with a tube in her throat and wires everywhere. She looked me in the eye and for the first time since I'd seen her at the shelter she didn't wag her tail when she saw me. She was too weak. Her heart gave out while I was petting her and I heard her take her last breathe. My girl was gone.

I was shocked and heartbroken. Somehow I'd thought Nina would outlive all of us. She'd always been disgustingly healthy and had scarcely slowed down even though she was 11, old for her breed. She never lost her sense of mischievousness and never seemed to stop plotting. Yet she was loyal and loving and I knew without a doubt if I was ever in trouble Nina would be the dog to rescue me, she was the only smart enough to do it. And after over 11 years she was the second longest relationship of my life. We'd been through a lot together, Nina and me, and I'll miss her terribly.

Why Women's Events Are Awesome After All

Last night I participated in a super cool race, the Women's Moon Walk/Run in Olympia. It was put on by one of my favorite organizations,  Guerilla Running in Olympia. 

I knew that the Guerilla people would do an awesome event, Rachael and Craig always do. But I was suprised by how much I loved the comaraderie of a "girl" event.  I'd often scoffed at girl-centric events like Nike Women's Marathon, Race for the Cure, the Disney Princess races.  They seemed too cute, too PINK.  Frankly I'd never had done the Moon Walk if it wasn't one of the Guerilla events, but I knew it'd be more about "girl power" than cute.  And it was.

For those who don't do these kind of events, runners and walkers are a very welcoming and supportive community.  What other sport cheers on the person in last place as much as the person in first?  Where else do the best athletes shout encouragement at the others?  That happens all the time in running races.

Walking on to the field last night I did see way too much pink for my taste.  But I also saw so many women of all shapes and sizes and abilities and it occurred to me that in the safety of the women-only event many of the beginners and slower people felt comfortable in a way they wouldn't if there were guys around. Many people, including me & my companions, were dressed up for the event.  We saw all variety of tutus, running skirts, crowns, dresses.  It was fun to be silly girls and enjoy checking out everyone's outfits.  What I liked best is it really lacked that frantic competitive energy that the shorter distance races in particular often bring out.  No intense looking guys stretching or running strides to warm up.  There were fast women in the race of course but no sense like they were going so fast they'd knock you out of the way.  Even the leaders were smiling while they passed us on the out and back. The best way to describe it is it just had a different vibe, a laid back, supportive, we're girls and we are kicking butt AND looking cute kind of vibe.   And it was awesome!

Stars v. The Body

Sometimes the hardest part about being an athlete is learning to listen to your body.  Or more specifically, separating your body from your mind so you know for sure which one was talking to you.

I was signed up to do a triple marathon this past weekend,  three marathons in three days.  I’d signed up months ago before I was injured and figured it’d be a great training for a 6-day race I was scheduled to do in August.  Fast forward several months, two nagging and slowly healing injuries later,  with the August race already canceled, I was struggling what to do about the triple.

I did a marathon last month and I’d spent a chunk of the race crying because I was in so much pain from my injuries.  I’d taken it pretty easy in the ensuing month and my knee in particular (the worse injury) was feeling less cranky.  I couldn’t get a refund on any of the three races, so I was out the money no matter what.  Finally I decided I’d do the first day of the triple and see how it went.

The Stars & Stripes Marathon on Saturday was the first race where I really held myself back.  My main goals were to not aggravate my knee and to have fun. I purposely walked the entire first half of the race, moving at a brisk pace but not my fastest pace.  I told myself if my knee didn’t hurt I’d start adding in some running the second half, and that’s exactly what I did.  Small increments of running, 1-3 minutes at a time, testing my knee, moving myself along, but trying not to strain it.  It was really super hard to go slower than I needed to, and my finish time was slower than I’d ever gotten, but I finished the race upright, with no pain, so I was very excited.  And I had lots of fun.  I even got my sister to walk the last lap with me.

The day of the second marathon I woke up with some stiffness in my knee but no other pain or soreness.  I knew I could push through that, especially if I walked most or all of the second race.  I had a huge debate with myself.  My mind said, “At least do the double marathon, you’ll get more stars”  (go up in rank in the Marathon Maniacs) and my body said, “Hey I was really good yesterday, don’t push your luck.”  I thought of all my friends out on the course. I thought of the money I’d put into the race.  But in the end I listened to my body.  It was super hard but I knew I would not finish that second race feeling as good as I had after the first race.  And there’s always going to be another chance to get stars.

Assumptions

Yesterday I started thinking, as I often do, about the assumptions we make about people.  We notice someone, maybe a stranger on a bus or another shopper in a store and sometimes we make a judgment about them that’s totally wrong.

A few weeks ago I tried one of those Bar classes for the first time. The instructor was asking me about injuries and I mentioned I was trying to not aggravate an injury because I had a marathon coming up in a few days.  Another woman there, very tiny, decked out in fancy workout clothes, looked up and down (the girl body check look) and said, “Oh, I assume it’s your first”.  She’d looked at me, honestly probably twice her size and made an assumption that I must be an inexperienced marathoner.  Her jaw damn near dropped to the floor when I responded, “No, I think this is about #16 for me.”

I posted that story in my Running Chicks group and there were several stories of people making assumptions about my friends because of how they look. One woman had someone make a crack about walking when she ran into her at a 5k, but my friend went on to win the 5k outright, beating the men.  Apparently some people think she looks chunky but she’s all muscle. She gets the “Is this your first marathon?” question with the girl body check a lot.  She enjoys telling them she qualified for the Boston Marathon – twice now.

Another woman tried to register for a race where there was a 50k and a 20k and the person said, “I assume you’re paying for two people?” then seemed shocked that she was running the 50k.  A couple woman had outright been told things like they were fat, they didn’t “look” like a runner, etc.  

My sister is a larger sized person and she just walked a 5k this weekend. It was something like her 4^th or 5^th race in the last 6 months.  A few days later she was at work and they were doing that ice breaker where you tell people 3 things about you and one of them is a lie.  One of her 3 things was “I just did a 5k this weekend” and every single person picked that as her “lie”, then looked incredulous when she told them they were wrong. Assumptions.

Sadly, I’m guilty of it too.  I was on the bus yesterday and I saw a very heavy woman sitting a few rows ahead of me. The bus was crowded but no one was sitting next to her because she needed more than one seat.  I looked at her and thought, “That used to be me.  I hope she finds the courage to start exercising and do something about her weight”.  Then she got off the bus and took her bike off the rack and rode away and I felt ashamed. 

There was a time when I was 300 pounds, 275 pounds, 250 pounds and people would have thought that about me too.  (Well actually many would have been way less charitable, but that’s another post.)  And I could have said to them, very honestly, I work out 5 days a week, because I did.  They didn’t know how I looked when I started, they didn’t know where I was in my journey. Just like I don’t know anything about that woman on the bus biking home. That’s the problem with assumptions, they’re often wrong.

Take This Test and Shove It

I know I’m not going to be popular for saying this but I’ve got a grudge against JFK.  My Grandpa’s rolling in his grave right now since JFK was our first and only Catholic president and therefore was, in Grandpa’s eyes, perfect.  But JFK was also responsible for the unique grammar school torture known as the Presidential Physical Fitness Test (PPFT).

If you went to grammar school (or if you didn’t grow up in the Midwest, “grade” school) in the 1970s you know exactly what I’m talking about.  Once a year we were subjected to a series of tests ostensibly designed to evaluate our stamina and strength.  I think it also had something to do with keeping us fit enough to fight Russians too. I don’t remember all of the components exactly but I know there were several including: pull ups, some kind of thing involving running across the gym picking up an eraser and running back, a touching your toes flexibility thing, a rope climb thing (although I think the girls didn’t do that one) and the mile run, my particular torture.

I hated the PPFT more than anything in school. Mind you I loved school, except for gym, which I hated with a fiery passion. But even gym was a picnic next to the PPFT. I can’t even summon the words to explain how much I dreaded this, even thinking about it now I want to throw up.  Seriously.  It's the only time all year I tried to fake sickness and stay home, that's how much I hated it. I never faked sick.

School in the 1970s wasn’t like it was now.  There were no anti-bullying campaigns, no tolerance for differences, no “everyone gets an award so no one feels bad”, no political correctness, no talking back to the teachers (unless you wanted to get whacked with a ruler).  And unlike today where it appears half the kids are fat, there was one fat kid in school -- and that kid was me. Grammar school was a freaking jungle where the strongest survived.  A jungle where we had gym every day and gym involved getting hit on the head with dodge balls and being mocked for having no sports skills and being picked last for teams if you weren’t athletic or popular.

Unsurprisingly it was completely impossible for me, the lone fat kid, the pass the stupid PPFT test.  A straight A student, the nuns also gave me As in gym for showing up.  Or maybe to make up for all the abuse I took there, particularly during the PPFT. 

The Mile Test was the worst. Literally 30 years later I remember how all the other kids could run a mile and I couldn’t.  I'd try of course. I'd go out too fast trying to keep up, they'd drop me in a few yards and I'd crash. I remember the humiliation of being out of breath, wheezing, having to stop and walk, the other kids taunting me as I lurched towards the finish line, sweat pouring down my little red face, bent over with hands on my knees, the nuns tsking disapproving at me, telling me I was the only one who didn’t pass and how it was making our school look bad.  I always passed everything, excelled at everything, everything except that ridiculous PPFT. Somehow it didn’t occur to the nuns that all that taunting probably didn’t help my performance.  Every year the anxiety got worse.

I grew up in a family where no one was athletic, no one did sports, pretty much no one ever got off the couch unless it was to go to the refrigerator for a beer. Instead of creating any interest in athletics or activity the PPFT taught me to avoid activity, to fear it. It taught me that there was nothing worse than trying something active and failing because there’ll just be a bunch of mean kids standing around laughing at you and mocking you while nuns glare at you disapprovingly.

Those messages burned themselves into my brain.  To this day whenever I feel like I have to be timed running I freak out a little. When my running group does mile tests I seriously cannot run a mile without stopping.  I run miles without stopping all the time, but when they are timing me, I can’t do it.  When I test myself during speed work on my own I can run a mile somewhere in an 11-12 minute range.  When I know they’re testing me in the group, and the rest of the group is already done, watching me, waiting for me as the last finisher, suddenly I’m running as fast as I can and I'm down to a 14 minute pace. And somehow I’m anxious, as if somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind I actually think a bunch of adults are going to taunt me for being too slow, which of course they are not, they’re too busy chastising themselves for being slower than they wanted to be. Stupid PPFT.

The races I’ve struggled with the most, the races that have devastated me the most, have all been ones with cut-offs. Give me a timed race where you do as many laps as you can in 12 hours or whatever and I’m good to go.  Tell me I have to be halfway through a marathon by a certain time, even if it’s one I can generally do, and I freak the hell out, before, during and after the race.

Today I read an interesting article (http://www.voaspokane.org/LisaBliss) about a great runner named Lisa Bliss who is running Death Valley completely unsupported to raise money for charity.  In the article she says, “I realized I had no desire to do something at which I knew I couldn’t fail. How mundane! I want to risk failure. What’s the worst that can happen? I fail to succeed?”

Lisa’s quote really spoke to me because the thing is I worry a lot about failing, especially in running. Too much.  After I read that article I thought to myself, “Am I not doing PCT this year because I know I can’t do it? Or am I not doing it because I’m afraid to fail?”  And then I wrote the race director and asked if I could start earlier because really, what does it matter?  If I miss the cut-off again, what’s the worst that can happen?  I sit at an Aid Station for two hours eating popsicles again? I run 40 miles instead of 50? No one actually mocked me for that last year.  Except me. Everyone else thought that was a great effort last year.  Except me.

But getting back to the stupid, ridiculous PPFT, first of all, some of those mean little shitheads that made fun of me in grammar school are now my Facebook “friends” and I can tell you based on their pictures they couldn’t run across the street let alone run and walk for 23 hours.  So I hope they enjoyed their PPFT glory days. And secondly, in my entire adult life no one’s ever asked me how I did on the PPFT test. It’s never come up in a job interview or anything.  (No one’s ever asked me my college GPA either so I really wish I’d partied more in college).  I think no one else actually cares.  So I’m just gonna put this out there: My name is Rose and I failed every component of the Presidential Physical Fitness Test every single year in grammar school.  In fact, I probably wouldn’t pass it now and President Kennedy (god rest his soul as my Grandma would want me to say) can just take his stupid test and shove it.

Mourning

I never mourned for PCT.

Last July I attempted my first 50-mile trail ultra marathon, the PCT.  I trained hard, went out to train on the course several times and knew it well.  Everything went perfectly during the race.  I got my obligatory fall out of the way early on.  I took my best race picture ever (right after the fall so there’s blood dripping down my face making me look like a total badass) yet through some miracle that has never happened at any other race before or since the photographer actually made me look slim in my racing gear. My head was perfect, no freak outs, no feeling like I didn’t belong, no feeling sorry for myself.  The weather was good, dry, not too cold, not too hot.  The trail was in good condition. I was right on with my hydration, electrolytes and nutrition the whole time. I came into the race with no injuries. I had friends crewing for me so I didn’t lose time at the aid stations. I didn’t get lost on the course like a bunch of people did that day. I had a very chatty pacer jump in at mile 30 to keep me entertained. I followed my race plan.  Everything went perfectly.

The only problem was I was just too slow.  Unfortunately it was a big problem. To paraphrase a cheesy old Pebro Bryson song that I really hate, “I did my best but my best wasn’t good enough”.

Thinking about now, it’s probably the worst thing that ever happened to me in a race. Up until then I could find an excuse for every other race I did not going as well as I’d hoped: I didn’t eat enough, it was too hot, I was injured, I’d messed around at the aid stations too long, blah blah blah. 

At PCT I had nothing to blame. No excuses.  As I ran along I felt great all day.  Even after 30 miles I felt great.  I felt so great that I had absolutely no doubt I’d make the interim race cut-offs.  I had no doubt I’d finish that race. I had no doubt I was good enough. I’d never had no doubt before.

I had my first inkling of doubt when I ran into my best friend on the course & asked him how far away I was from the aid station where the final cut-off was.  He had this weird look on his face.  He knew I was determined to make it.  He knew I wasn’t going to, although he didn’t say it.  I kept going on, grinding up and up a really big hill on the one part of the course I hadn’t done in my training.  The clock kept ticking and gradually the cut-off time came and went and I wasn’t there.  I kept going, hoping they’d let me through when I hit the aid station at mile 39.3 where the cut-off was. Then I saw the sweepers coming down right as we reached the aid station. It was over. I wasn’t going to make it.  I’d missed the cut off.  I don’t even remember by how much, I think it was like 10 minutes. 

My legs still felt strong. I asked them to let me go. They said no.  I told them I understood I was pulled from the race but I wanted to run back to the finish anyway, even if it didn’t count, just so I could say I did 50 miles.  They said no, they “had” to make me wait there while the sweepers cleared the course.

And so I sat there at the Aid Station, with a pacer I didn’t really know, and a bunch of Aid Station volunteers I’d never met before, tired, achy, dirty, nauseous, being eaten alive by mosquitoes, my legs stiffening up in a camp chair, trying desperately not to cry in front of these people.  Joking around, acting like it didn’t bother me.  It bothered me.

Later I learned there were several people pulled on the course behind me and I tried to take solace in the fact that I was the leader of the people who were pulled.  The fastest loser. Finally nearly two hours later we were driven back to the finish line. Of course in those two hours I could have easily run back there. 

My friends were waiting for me at the finish and I tried to put on a brave face.  I didn’t want to sit there and sob in front of them and ruin their experiences so I stuffed down all the emotions about the race and the DNF and put on a brave face and moved on from there.  And I went home and had a few drinks and went to bed and then it was a new day and I tried to not think about it again.

But here’s the problem: I never really mourned the race. I never acknowledged to myself how sad I was about what happened.  And by sad I mean crushed and devastated. I pushed it aside and moved on to the next thing.

But more crucially, I never dealt with the bigger issue.  There’s the logical part of me, the part that knows I did my absolute best that day, the part that’s proud of what I did and sad and disappointed that it didn’t work out. It’s even more disappointing because I tried so hard, because the conditions were so perfect, because I had no doubts.

But then there’s the other part of me, the critical part, the part that tells me I was a failure that day. A loser. The part that was mortified to be driven back to the finish line by the volunteers. The part that assumed everyone judged me for not finishing, that was sure they were all laughing at me, the fat slow girl who couldn’t make the cut-off,  thinking I shouldn’t have been there in the first place. The part of me that says I should have never tried to do that race, it was stupid to try it, I never had a chance, because I’ll never be good enough so why try.  The part that dismisses my great effort that day and can’t be even the tiniest bit proud that I did my longest, hardest run ever up until that point the day I did PCT. That’s the part of me that is meaner to me than anyone would ever be. I really really really hate that part of me, that’s why I try to ignore her.

By ignoring those thoughts, pushing them aside, pretending they don’t exist or attributing those mean things to others they seem to take on a life of their own in the deep recesses of my mind.  Ignoring them is not making them go away. Ignoring them is not keeping them from hurting me.

I’d thought I was over PCT.  I’ve done longer distances since then. Had other race successes.  Moved on.

This weekend after a benchmark trail half-marathon I realized I’m going to have to drop out of PCT for this year.  After missing nearly 5 months of training due to injuries I’m about 3 minutes a mile slower on trails right now than I was at this time last year when I missed the cut-off at PCT. I don’t have a prayer of getting my speed back in time to make the cut-offs this year, even if my injuries heal tomorrow.

At first I thought to myself, “Well, it is what it is, you haven’t been able to train, you’ll do it next year” and I thought I felt pretty philosophical about it.  Then I heard those damn voices creeping in, telling me I wouldn’t be able to do it anyway, it was stupid to try the race again after I failed last year, and I realized I have to keep on with this process I started two weeks ago at Newport, I need to listen to those annoying little voices, because they clearly aren’t going away until they’re heard. I let the genie out of the bottle that day and I need to play this through.

And as I thought about it more I really started to mourn – not for this year’s race though, but for last year’s.  So today I’m truly mourning for PCT.  Not because I missed the cut-off last year. No, I’m mourning because I wasn’t proud of myself then for my outstanding effort, for trying my best. I’m mourning because I didn’t let myself cry for the terrible disappointment of doing my best that day and not being quite fast enough to make it.  I’m mourning because instead of comforting myself I beat myself up and imagined I didn’t belong, that I was an idiot for trying.  I’m mourning because I didn’t accept the accept the love, comfort and support of my friends that day. And most of all I’m mourning because letting this fester all year just made it worse.