Picture, if you will, a runner in her hotel room after a race. Coated in salty sweat, muscles quivering and convulsing, everything throbbing with pain and exertion. She’s laying on the bed. She’s strewn across the floor. She’s standing in the shower, or laying in the tub of cold water, screeching in pain when the water hits chafe marks, when her muscles can’t stand to move this way or that.
She’s crying. On and off, tears are coursing down her face. She can’t control it – every nerve ending is on fire, every fiber of her soul is exposed. This is what the marathon does – it strips us raw, exposes our heart, wrecks us to our core.
One of these women rips her pace band off her wrist and hurls it across the room. Today was not her day.
The other woman lays in the tub of ice cold water, trying to soothe her aching muscles. She’s sobbing, too.
Both of these runners are me. The first, after Albany, the dark hole of a BQ attempt that was not to be. I wasn’t strong enough, not mentally prepared enough for the fight. Perhaps it simply was not my day, because it sure didn’t feel like it was.
The second woman is me after Erie. Crying in disbelief. Crying with joy. Crying with the pain. Crying with the ache in her heart that the people she carried with her as she ran – her Granddad who passed seven years ago that very day, and her Grandma she lost just this summer in the thick of training, on another race day – are not with her. Except they were. And they still are.
In the days leading up to the race, I kept thinking about Sarah “Mac” Robinson’s post “What the Fire Left.” This summer burned hot and painful for me. I was destroyed by it, rebuilt by it, shaped by it. The long hot runs and brutal workouts. The losses that seared my heart. The simmering burn of that goal on my mind, every single day – BQ. The coals that sometimes needed a kick and a spark when the burning goal grew dim in the wake of everything I was struggling through. Is this worth it? Why am I putting myself through all of this?
I focused on preparing everything that was in my control. I created an absurdly detailed packing list. I made sure I had my pre-race meal plus a backup if the promised microwave did not appear in the room. I triple-checked my race outfit to make sure there were no issues, no missing laces or popped seams (I have a bad history with this). Nothing that was within my power was going to get messed up.
Of course, one of the big things out of my control was the weather. The week of my friend’s wedding was the absolute perfect temperature. The air was dry and breezy and cool, and it was in the 50s. I would have no such luck at Erie. Every day that I checked that last week leading up, the forecast race starting temperature was 65*. It looked like there was be cloud cover, and a breeze, and the humidity wouldn’t be too insufferable (not compared to Georgia, anyhow), but any long distance runner knows that 65* is not ideal race day weather. Still, I knew I could handle it. I had trained in an absolute sauna. My body could handle more than it ever could before.
I left work at 4 pm on Friday, and picked up Shannon from work; we did a quick driver change so that I could eat dinner while he drove; I had a leftover serving of pasta with marinara, one of my race week staple meals. I ate it cold. We arrived at the airport in plenty of time, got settled, changed gates (ugh), got Shannon some food, and I snoozed during the flight. We landed a little early, got our rental car, and drove to Kim’s house to crash out. Shannon let me have the twin guest bed and he took the air mattress, because he is a saint. We went to bed very late because of the flight, but I didn’t set an alarm and I got a full night’s rest, just as needed.
Kim came back from her morning long run on the trails, and after we were all cleaned up and packed, we grabbed lunch at Panera and also got some donuts at Peace, Love, & Little Donuts – for after the race, of course. I enjoyed the return of Autumn Squash Soup, along with a half salad. My favorite day-before lunch.
After that, we parted ways, since Kim was driving up to Erie the next day. Shannon and I hit the road in earnest. I had been hydrating like a fiend since Friday, but somehow made it through the drive without requiring a rest stop. We headed straight for the race site, and I took in the gorgeous island/peninsula. It was HOT. I knew a storm was scheduled to come through, which was going to cool things into the 60s overnight and give us the much-needed cloud cover. But as we drove north and went to packet pickup, the sky was only dotted with clouds, and had that hazy color of a very hot day. I swallowed my panic. It’s supposed to rain. It has to.
I got my bib; they took my photo with it (a new-this-year security measure against race cheats). We looked a bit at the merchandise and got a “running couple” bumper sticker, but otherwise decided to head to our hotel to relax until dinner.
We had about an hour and change of downtime, and I got my race gear together at that point so I could get to bed as early as possible. I attached my timing chip to my shoe first thing and arranged all my gels, filled a handheld bottle just in case, plugged in my iPod to charge, followed by my Garmin. A little after 6, we headed to a Bob Evans that was just across the way. When we stepped outside, my fears of the storm not showing up were slaked.
The wind was howling and we watched the storm move in as we ate dinner: pancakes and eggs and bacon (bad Jew) and breakfast potatoes. The rain was imminent, and it was just starting to sprinkle as we drove back across the road to our hotel, and it opened up seconds before we had to spring into the hotel, laughing.
Intermittently watching the torrents of rain outside, the spectacular flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder, I finished prepping my gear, brushed my teeth, curled up in bed with a book, and turned the light out before 9 pm.
The alarm blared at 4:00 am; as usual, I didn’t need the backup alarms I had set (Shannon, too). I had slept not horribly, but fitfully, and was grateful for Friday night’s great sleep. I set right to work getting ready, making the coffee I had set up the night before to try to get things going, warming up my pre-race oats in the microwave and adding Justin’s maple almond butter (from the packet for easy, TSA-approved transportation). I had a Picky Bar in my packed race bag, too, in case I got hungry more than an hour before the race, but I knew my stomach would probably be fluttering.
We were both dressed, packed, and out the door just after 5 am, and Shannon drove us through the dark while I navigated. I soaked in the social media cheers for as long as I could before my phone refused to find any sort of signal on the peninsula of Presque Isle. It was time to get my brain in the game.
A long line of cars split off to the two main beach parking areas; we were in the right line and were directed to beach 8. Despite fears that the rain the previous night would flood the area, the damage was minimal and parking wasn’t impacted. I had put grocery bags over my shoes to protect them, but ended up not terribly needing it. I got in the bathroom line indoors as soon as we came through, then went to some picnic tables to try to find a sheltered place to rest my legs and sit. I squeezed in between a few other friendly athletes, and began to wait. The wind was howling and blustering. The clouds were moving fast, but I tried not to let this worry me. It made the air chill and cool; I kept my Fleet Feet/ARR racing team tee on to stay warm for the time being.
A little while later, just as I was saying the words, “I wonder if Mark is here yet,” I spotted him from the back, and scooted through people to say hi. Soon after, I found Caitlin and Lori, and a few whiles later, Kim arrived, as well as my dad. I breathed a sigh of relief at his arrival; I worried about him driving in from Cleveland so early in the morning, and the possible traffic situation getting onto the peninsula.
With about 40 minutes to go time, I headed back into the bathroom line. I will now delve into a little “TMI” that will become relevant – runners are chronic oversharers, so chances are if you’re reading this blog, you’re aware of this and are also in this category. If not, sorry not sorry. I was little concerned about my GI going into the race. I had a successful #2 as soon as I woke up, and hoped the black coffee I had with breakfast would help clear the situation further. Weeks before the race, I had done the math and realized I would be getting my cycle. This is kind of a female runner’s worst nightmare. After some experimenting, I switched from tampons to the Diva Cup, especially since so many female athletes swear by its efficacy. My cycle had indeed started the day before the race, with some mild cramping that was mostly soothed by a hot shower. Before bed, I took some ibuprofen, hoping it would help clear my system a bit as it so often does. Probably why #2 upon waking was immediately successful.
After the hotel, I had no further success. I was determined to think positive and believe that my system had cleared and I would be fine. Insert foreshadowing here…
Following the final potty break, I finished getting situated by the picnic tables: I stripped off my tee so I was just in my Oiselle crop singlet and bum wrap, made sure my iPod was situated, took my pre-race gel with a final swig of water (I did my best to taper off my hydration so I wouldn’t have to pee too badly during the race, though I was fully prepared to pee myself if it came down to it with a BQ on the line). I took last pre-race photos, and Mark and I and the rest of the cheer crew pushed our way to the start.
I got last hugs and kisses from my crew, Mark and I laughed at the presence of a little drone (which was taking videos of the start), and shoved our way into a spot nestled between the 3:30 and 3:35 pace groups. My main goal was a 3:32:30, and the middle of my pace band reflected even splits for this goal; Mark also gave me mile splits for 3:30 and 3:35, so I had wiggle room and could relax and find my pace better. The race organizers had O Canada as well as the National Anthem. As the latter played, I said my final pre-race prayers, whispered the Sh’ma, to myself, called on the spirits of my Granddad and Grandma to be with me – telling them once more that this race was for them.
Moments later, the race was off and running.
Erie is a relatively small race, and I think the final tally of participants was well under 3,000, but the narrow road at the start meant that I had to be patient from the beginning. I ignored my watch for a bit, knowing I would just follow Mark and let his inner metronome guide me. I kept relaxed and got a shiver of excitement. This was it – I was running my BQ marathon. It was happening.
The last couple marathons, I’ve had a pacing plan that had me ease into the pace, starting roughing in the 8:20s and cranking it up a few miles at a time. This time, we decided an even plan was best, since it was so flat, and increasing pace seemed to stress me out a bit. This also meant that I was locking in early. But the pace felt great; my legs were fresh and rested and springy. Mark and I chatted a bit here and there, and I stayed relaxed for the first several miles.
A couple splits clicked off a bit too fast; whoops. I told myself to relax. You’re just on fire today, it’s okay; it means you’ve got this. Mark pointed out these splits as they happened, checking overall time at each mile marker and comparing it to the pace band, and letting me know that, at least very early on, we were faster than 3:30 pace, and we needed to ease off. He didn’t want me to come through the half any faster than the prescribed 3:32:30 goal (so, 1:46:15 half). I had my watch on lap pace rather than overall + insta-pace, and I noticed we had slowed a bit much. “That’s okay, let this mile be slow,” Mark reassured me. “Give a little back.” In my mid-marathon mind, I pictured offering up these extra seconds as an offering to the course. When I could, I took in the view – the course is, for the most part, very shaded, and is lovely and tree-lined. I got a few peeks of the lake early on, and the water was roiling, the breakers frothing high. The breeze that came through at those points was refreshing.
One of the cruelest parts of the course is the tiny out and back plus hard turnaround cone section. Mark advised me to take this wide, and I focused also on my arm carriage to keep my posture and body positioning right so I didn’t get my feet tangled. Shortly thereafter, we came across an aid station staffed by a swim team; most of them were in their speedos. “I didn’t need to see that,” Mark said. I laughed.
I took a sip of water at every aid station, which were a little before each mile marker; I began dumping water on my head and ponytail early, knowing the 65* would build on me as the race went on. It kept me comfortable for a decent amount of time.
At about maybe about 5 miles, perhaps a bit before, I saw Caitlin on the sidelines, cheering me on and telling me I looked strong. I gave her a humongous grin and blew her a kiss. A little while later, I saw my dad, Kim, and Shannon. Seeing my dad there made my heart swell, and to my surprise I saw that Kim had made signs to cheer me on, which she shared with Shannon.
8:04, 7:58, 7:53, 8:08, 8:04; 8:12
Official 10K split: 50:04
The course curved out and wound along the edge of the island. Mark, experienced on this course, had me mind the tangents. I kept to his shoulder to let him pull me along. A couple times I would get distracted and he would simply say “tangent,” and I’d make my way back to where I needed. He noted that this side would be the windiest and weirdest as far as tangents and the portion coming back was a lot straighter, but I needed to mind them carefully now. We kept up an intermittent chatter, and Mark pointed out points of interest, and recalled his first BQ here three years ago. The course began to curve back, and we came upon a short bridge (one that I remember Athens friend David mentioning as a cruel hill, but only on the second loop). Mark mentioned it, too, as we approached, saying, “Now, this is the only real hill of note on the course. Try not to laugh.” I stayed relaxed and on pace up and over it, and as we came down the other side, Mark teased, “now try not to make up that half a second you lost all at once.”
As we headed back on the straighter path, I gave a few more seconds to the course, and soon we were only a few seconds off the intended half split pace, and I stuck right there for a long time. I stayed as relaxed as I possibly could, seeking out Mark’s shoulder all the way and trying to stay in the moment. An hour into the race, Mark asked how I was feeling, and I shook out my arms, saying I felt good, felt relaxed still. At that point, I very much still did.
8:00, 8:13, 8:05, 8:05, 8:09: 8:06
As we approached halfway, Mark checked in on me, and we formed a game plan for the second half. He told me that he honestly wasn’t sure he had 26.2 in him that day, as he hadn’t run more than 15 miles in the previous month and a half (work has been hell). He offered a couple options: he could stay with me as long as possible, through probably about mile 20, or he could drop out at the halfway point and pick me back up on the other side of the course. Since it was starting to get a little hard, and because I know well that my darkest miles are 23 and 24, I opted for the latter option, knowing I would have to tough out the mental block of “omg I’m only halfway” alone for a handful of miles. This, to me, was better than the alternative, and in the end was the right call. (I would like to note – for the record – that since Erie now requires that if you are pacing a runner, that you be registered, which is a new policy this year, that Mark was indeed registered and ran with a bib. Since he did not run the full course, after the race was over, he went over to the timing officials and asked to be disqualified. People, take note. That is how it’s done fairly.) Mark said he felt good about leaving me here for the moment, noting I was breathing better than I had been a couple miles before. I had noted a couple moments that my GI had twisted, which probably accounted for the less-than-relaxed breathing, but the feeling had passed.
I saw Caitlin as we approached the half, and got an enormous boost once more from seeing my family (Kim among them), grinning hard, knowing I was pretty much right where I needed to be.
Official 13.1 mile split: 1:46:20 (5 seconds off goal pace)
Shortly after the halfway split, Mark wished me well and ducked away, heading to pick me back up a few miles later after a few miles’ break.
As I had worried, the next few miles started to become hard. I had hoped to stay relaxed and okay well beyond the halfway point, but it was not to be. My GI was not fully cooperating. My feet were beginning to burn already; usually this doesn’t happen for me in a marathon until the 20-mile mark or later. Kim theorized later that it was related to the extreme flatness of the course; that sounds about right to me. I noted the pain especially as I took that hairpin turn a second time; even taken wide, I cringed at the pull and searing fire in my feet. By mile 16, the burning feeling was there to stay. I kept wanting to back off pace, but I refused, pushing myself to try to keep close to where I needed, even as I was falling back a couple seconds at a time. You can do this. Keep pushing. Get to Mark. I came upon Caitlin and she checked in on me. I gave her a “so-so” hand signal, but told her I was okay, and pressed on. I saw my family once more at about 18.6ish, and by then, I was deep in it, and it was visible on my face according to Kim post-race. I was struggling.
8:05, 8:06, 8:08, 8:13, 8:18
Right around the mile 19 marker, Mark reappeared, and checked in first thing on how I was feeling. “Pain cave,” I confessed in a grunt. He set right to work trying to get me back on pace; I was about 20 seconds off my main 3:32:30 goal. As I watched my lap pace tick up fast, I wanted to cry to him to stop, to slow it down, this was too much, but I told myself to shut up and keep going, trying to keep an invisible, unbreakable thread linking us together from breaking. Over the next couple miles, he pressed me hard to get back on pace and I tried to keep it together; he had me break it up piecemeal: keep on pace these next 4, then focus on the final 5K push.
Official 20-mile split: 2:42:32 (26 seconds off pace)
We arced around the course, and came upon that little bridge once more; this time, it felt like a mountain. The sun had been out for several miles, but now we were going to be largely exposed for the remainder, out of most of the shade until the finish. That wind that had cooled things early and blustered and finally died away before it became a deadly headwind, had also blown out the cloud cover far earlier than anyone had hoped. I was seeing carnage all around me. Since the halfway point, I had been seeing runners drop to a walk. Some stopped along the sides to stretch. Even when I began to struggle after halfway, I was still passing people who were struggling far more. I was dumping more and more water on myself. I grabbed two cups at aid stations when I could, sipping from both, then drenching myself with the remainder. Mark also passed me extra cups when he could. He pointed out the runners around me who were breaking apart, telling me I was staying strong, that I had this, that all of that summer heat training was paying off, right here, right now. I knew it to be true, but I begged for the pain to stop.
8:09, 8:21, 8:23
Sometime in the final 10K, I believe at 23 or later, I looked behind me and saw the 3:35 pace group. My heart leapt into my throat and my body surged forward; in response, my right calf and toes cramped, and I backed off and forced myself to relax and breathe. Keep pushing. They are back there, but you WILL NOT let them catch you. They are your competition. You can not and will not lose to them.
Mark told me with about 5K to go that I needed to maintain 8:30s to get my BQ. I grunted that I thought I could do that, and kept glancing at my watch, begging my splits to stay that low. So, so many times, I wanted to stop. I wanted to walk for just a moment. I wanted to throw in the towel and quit. But each and every time the walking devil whispered in my ear, each and every time the quitter inside me cried for mercy, I told them to shut up. You will be so mad at yourself if you give in. You will never be able to forgive yourself if you quit now and don’t get your BQ. Now FIGHT.
Mark pulled out of reach more than once, and a few times I saw him slow down when he saw how far back I had drifted. Other times I wanted to sob out loud, please slow down, I cannot keep up. I kept pressing.
I wondered if I would lose my lunch before this race was over, or shortly after. In the last couple of miles, I saw the 3:30 pacer walking along the sidelines; I wasn’t sure what had happened, if he had had all of his runners vanish either in front or behind him, or if he had had to fold early himself. I saw a woman who was being held around the waist by her partner; she looked about to pass out, tears rolling down her face. I had seen a few Oiselle singlets early, and one woman who had looked strong early, I passed in later miles, and when I saw her agony, my heart ripped in two. Keep fighting, I told myself. Do it for her. Wings out.
I called on my grandparents. I called on G-d’s strength. I called on my legs to please, please keep it together. I saw Caitlin along the side around mile 25, and she encouraged me and began to run along the sidelines, several feet off the race course (many feet away from me; Mark darted over there briefly, perhaps to tell her to make sure she didn’t actually come on the course so I didn’t get DQ’d, or maybe telling her what he thought my status was, I’m not sure). I kept wanting to start kicking, start pushing, make this agony end sooner, but my body was rebelling. In the end, I had no idea how fast or slow I was going. I just kept running.
In the final 1.2 miles, my legs disconnected from my body. I felt loose and syrupy, my mind a fog of suffering. I felt like I might vomit. I felt like I might pass out. The GI cramps I had been fighting on and off for the last several miles were coming to a head, and I passed gas that felt…productive. I didn’t care. I kept running. Caitlin shouted that I was almost there as the course swerved an S-curve.
The finish banner was so, so far away. I felt like I was sprinting at 5K pace or faster. Please, please get there. Just get across. Just. get. across. I know my family was screaming for me. I saw 3:34:XX ticking on the clock. I ran as hard as my body would let me. I did not throw up my arms. I did not fist pump the air. I did not grin and celebrate that moment that I crossed the line. I simply crossed it with the last shred of strength I possessed.
Final sprint (only .9 over course measurement for my best tangents ever in a marathon): 8:05 pace
Final chip time: 3:34:09
Not a moment after I stopped my watch, my eyes sought out a volunteer or medical. I searched the crowd for my family to see if they could get me help. I stumbled. I felt faint. Apparently I was pretty ghostly pale. A volunteer scooped me up and got me to hang onto a railing along the side. I was a bit overly concerned about getting my medal, and was happy to finally get it. I managed to save my watch data as they walked me to medical and asked what was wrong. “I feel like I’m going to pass out,” I said, stumbling sideways. “I think you should check my BP.” They laid me down on the ground on a jacket (they were out of cots on the warm morning) and helped me drink my fluids. Soon, my family surrounded me and helped me lay down. Shannon held my little carton of chocolate milk for me, and I was able to drink that fine a little while later. After a few minutes, I felt a blood pressure cuff be placed on my arm; all good. Which in itself is interesting, since my BP tends to spike after hard efforts; but I was glad it wasn’t basement low. It was normal.
I felt loopy and disoriented, and I heard Mark reassuring my dad that this was normal, explaining the effects of the marathon on the human body. As everyone chatted around me, I saw Kim’s grinning face, and it hit me. “I did it,” I said to everyone. “I’m going to Boston.” And tears poured down my cheeks.
When I was ready, Shannon hauled me to my feet, and everyone kept me walking. My entire body was shrieking in pain. My feet in particular were flaming, like I had been walking across hot coals (and, I suppose, if you’re a fan of Matt Fitzgerald’s book “How Bad Do You Want It,” I was). I walked as long as I could stand it, getting more hugs from my amazing support crew, before we started to drift our separate ways. Kim helped me back to the car, and I gave one last hug to my amazing coach, pacer, and friend, Mark, thanking him profusely for getting me through that race, and through the entire last year that led to this moment. “You’re the one who did it,” he said. (Apparently after the race, when I was laying on the ground, he told Shannon, “Dude, your wife is an animal,” recalling how he couldn’t keep up with me the last mile. I think I went into the state that my friend Chrissy refers to as “lizard mode.”) Before I got into the car, even though we were going to the same place so we could get lunch together, I hugged my dad hard and told him I loved him, and how much it meant that he was there to see me run this race.
Shannon drove us off the peninsula, and as we navigated the slow-moving traffic, my cell phone signal returned and my phone began pouring in messages. My heart grew three sizes as I read through these. I began to cry again. I sat there shaking and sobbing in disbelief, in exhaustion, in overwhelming love for all those who helped me get here, all those who had supported and believed, and in pride in my fight. I had not quit. At that moment, my mother-in-law called and she was shouting and laughing and telling me how proud she was as I continued to cry.
At Mark’s instruction, back at the hotel I took an ice bath – or rather, an “ice” bath with very cold water, which was more than sufficient. I wrapped my top half in a hoodie and I was shivering like crazy for the 10ish minutes I could stand it. I found as I first tried to sit in the water, I felt a searing pain as I had chafed in places that no one ever wants to chafe, thanks to my GI issues late in the race (also TMI: had the worst runner’s colitis of my life post-race, probably a combination of getting my cycle and racing harder than I ever had in my life. Luckily the worst of the symptoms resolved within 24 hours). I managed to (ahem) clean myself up again and grimaced as I finished sitting, letting my muscles soak in the cold water. I also took note of the horrendous blood blister on my left baby toe, and the almost blood blister on the pad of the same foot behind the big toe. No wonder my feet were aflame. I also managed to re-chafe that same spot under my left arm on the side of my torso, likely from my iPod strap. The spot was huge and raw, and took days to fully heal.
Halfway through my “ice” bath, I broke down in tears once more, and Shannon rushed over to check on me. I reassured him these were still good tears, though at the same moment, I felt my heart break as I thought about my grandparents.
I finished getting cleaned up, and we packed as quickly as we could and had housekeeping knocking on our door as we had overstayed the late race checkout of 1 pm by a few minutes. I hobbled slowly across the lobby, and we ultimately decided on Applebee’s as the lunch destination, since I knew I’d have some options and would just order whatever seemed remotely palatable, and make sure I was getting fluids in. Over lunch, I picked through a salad, and we chatted and recalled the race and explained about how Boston registration works, and the travel plans entailed. Mark was very confident that my :51 buffer would be sufficient this year, since all of the big feeder qualifying races – including Boston itself – have been ungodly hot. Erie itself wasn’t exactly cool, and I learned later that Lehigh Valley – the same day, on the opposite side of the state – was not only hot, but interrupted for many runners by a slow-moving train around mile 7.
After lunch, my dad headed back to Ohio, with one more huge hug and thank you from me, and Shannon and I made our way back to Pittsburgh. We opted to stop at the Burgatory that’s somewhat near the airport for a 4:30 pm dinner, in hopes that my appetite would have returned for real by then. It hadn’t. I forced myself through two-thirds of a bison burger (more iron, please), and drank a ginger ale with it to keep my stomach settled. It helped. I bought snacks at the airport in case my appetite came back, and I walked laps of our concourse until we had to board (we were the second to last row); as I rounded a people mover on each lap, I passed by a flight that was boarding, on its way to Boston.
My appetite did not return that night, though I was hydrated enough (and ate a Snickers bar) to take two ibuprofen before bed to try to further ward off soreness. It wasn’t until Monday night at about 8 pm, when we came home from the group run (which of course only Shannon participated in), Chipotle in tow, that my appetite suddenly came roaring back, and I devoured a chicken burrito bowl plus half a bag of chips and some guacamole. Thank goodness.
What the fire left
The above post showed up on Erie’s page a few days before the race, and I knew more than anything that this was true. Going into Chickamauga, I had mentally prepared to push harder than I ever had before; at Albany, I now think I took it for granted, and expected the first half and then some to feel as great and relaxed as it had in November. I was not mentally prepared. My mind was not where I needed to be.
But everything since then put my mind where it should be before Erie. Every searing hot run. Every emotional breakdown during or after a workout. The pain in my life outside of running. The victories of hard-fought tempos and long runs with MP efforts on the treadmill, trapped in a breezeless hot box of the gym. That day in Erie, I reached inside of myself and pulled out layers of fight I never knew I had. This summer, this cycle, this race chipped away at my soft outside and left a hard, determined animal that would scrape and fight for every single second. After the race, I remember telling Shannon, A couple weeks from now, I’ll wonder if I could have done more. I’ll think I could have pushed harder and gotten my A goal. Remind of this moment: I gave everything I had today. I gave more than I thought I had inside me.
Usually, that feeling does arise in me a few days after the race. It hasn’t yet. I know what I gave to that course. I know the suffering and pain I offered up as a sacrifice to get my BQ. I know what it takes. I gave it all.
At the end of today, I’ll either learn that everyone who applied this week (including myself) was accepted into Boston, or I will find that I’ll learn my ultimate fate next week when a cutoff is determined. Either way, I know I gave my all, and I’ll be back for even more down the road.