Leading up to my fifth consecutive running of the Boston Marathon, I received a lot of national attention. Since I'm transgender and Boston confirmed it's policy on transgender runners, basically that they follow USATF rules and recommendations, there been a lot of hype around me. Runners World interviewed me and even used my picture as the article's cover photo! Moneyish magazine also did a great article and included some of my comments. As expected, it is a very controversial topic and everyone has their opinion. Thankfully, I had the good sense to stay, mostly, away from the negative comments and discussions.
My training suffered leading up to the race and was pretty pathetic. Since August, I struggled to find motivation. I rarely ran above forty miles per week. Those long Saturday runs happened maybe three times in the last six months. I tried getting a coach, expecting a miracle of sorts to break my lack of motivation. I'm still working on getting a coach, still naively hopeful it will solve all my problems. I did have one solid block of four weeks of intense, focused training, but it was nowhere near enough
I've considered exiting the running scene. I'm just not passionate about it like I once was. It takes SO MUCH TIME just to train. And race fees eat into our grocery budget. My time is precious with a family to take care of, a homestead to run, a full-time job, and now Master Gardener duties. For the past few months, I often had to squeeze in my workout during my lunch break. I even went on short half-hour runs, which I NEVER do. And I never seem to get enough sleep. I used to get by with six hours of sleep but now struggle when I get eight. Maybe it's because I am aging. My body is definitely not the one from high school or even from five years ago. But despite all these complaints, after every run I feel better and am grateful I took that first step out the door, or rather that first step out of bed.
So I knew I'd be nowhere near my PR, but I was hoping to get under three hours again, or at the very least run faster than last year. That did not happen. Five minutes slower than last year. I had done a lot of speed work, well a lot more in relation to my total mileage than what I usually do. So I knew that would help.
I don't do well in rain. My first 100-mile DNF was at MMT. It was a hot day. Then it rained in the late afternoon. And again later that evening. A lot! I was fine in the hot weather but quickly lost my mental grit in the rain and in the dark. So I dropped at mile 70, even though I had plenty of time to basically walk thirty miles to the finish. A night of rain and darkness just got me down. At Boston in 2015, I had my worst, now second-worst, marathon. I also spent a good hour in the medical tent warming up after rain and wind along the entire course.
This year, it completely puzzled me how the other runners were running. Hardly any of them ran the tangents, instead sticking to the middle of the road, or even the outside of the curves. I mostly ran the tangents unless it was extra windy, in which case, I used other runners as a wind block. Usually my watch records an extra half mile or so. This year I don't know how much further I ran since my watch discarded my activity. I'm a
Normally with such a poor performance, I quickly spiral. I jump into the drama triangle and blame everything and everyone except myself that I can. I get super depressed. And it takes a couple months to come out of it.
After the race, I was content, almost okay. But deep down, a wound was forming. Questions swirled around in my head. Did I do my best? My quads were sore like never before, but I could have pushed through, right? Why didn't I 'dig deep'? I could have pushed through the pain and cold and rain and self pity, couldn't I? I wanted to curl up inside a sleeping bag and hide from my family and from the world in general.
All this while I was laying on a cot in the medical tent at the finish getting warmed up from a body temperature of 93 degrees and afterwards on the bus and drive back to the campground.
The rain was an excellent reflection of my mood: dreary, miserable, and relentless.
So how do I get through the stages of grief? How do I get back on the proverbial wagon. I feel it's like when people set New Year's resolutions or when the addict resolves to do better after yet another relapse. False hope. Resolve that lasts a couple weeks or a month, tops. Instead of getting all gung ho and setting new goals, I'm taking a more meditative approach. It happened. Nothing I do can change the past. No matter how hard I work for the next year, yesterday's time will still be there. So I run for fun. I run, not to meet some arbitrary time, but to get outside, to get the heart pumping, to feel the meditative rhythm of my feet carrying me over mountains and across streams, to simply be in the present. No more multitasking while I run by listening to podcasts to catch up on my unlistened list, or thinking about tasks around the house or at work that need done. Just run. Slow down. Make the morning last. Savor.
