Crossing the Line
Marathon Mind Monkeys
Tomorrow morning at 8:45 a.m., the gun goes off for the Victoria Marathon. It will be my 15th marathon, if I make it to the starting line. I’ve done the training, have no injuries to report and the taper went smoothly – except for a growing sense of dread.
This race is keeping me awake at night. Between 2 and 4 a.m. I begin to chase the marathon mind monkeys. What if that groin twinge morphs into something agonizing? What if I feel nauseous? What if I don’t finish? What if I finish but it’s a new personal worst? And why, why do I sign up for these bloody races? Even the best marathons, the PBs, have been ordeals. A few races, forever burned in my psyche, have gone decidedly sideways. Somewhere in all those miles, a seed of fear was planted, and now it is consuming me.
Last night, around 3 a.m., I decided to drop down to the half. With firm intentions this morning, I headed to the race expo. I stood in the late registration line to hand in my marathon bib and trim my commitment in two. As I approached the front of the line, a paralyzing sense of loss gripped me. I was certain that if I handed in this race bib, I would never run another marathon. So, I stepped out of the line.
I decided to wander the expo and wrestle the running demons a little longer. The expo was abuzz and there were more than a few familiar faces. Departing a book booth, where I had endlessly thumbed running literature seeking guidance, I encountered Jim, who coaches the group I train with. He is a running sage of rare calm, unfathomable inner strength and incomprehensible speed. His runners adore him. They suffer quad searing hill repeats and tempos for the sole privilege of hearing him murmur a few words of gentle praise as they gasp past him. I tried to articulate my angst. Jim laughed with genuine bemusement. “You’ve done the training, run the race,” he urged. Indeed.
Mustering resolve, I headed for the exit, where I encountered Laura, who runs with our group but has never done the Victoria Marathon. She’s one of the many volunteers who work tirelessly every year to make this marathon a destination race. Despite three hours of sleep, she is as cheerful and intuitive as ever. She wisely counselled that there was no shame in deciding not to run a race. Indeed. Feeling foolish for bending compassionate ears, I headed for home. As I left the expo, Donna and Anna arrived to pick up their race kits. They are my dearest running friends. We have slogged through all of the long training runs for tomorrow’s race together. I spill my marathon turmoil. These special women make a very self less proposal. We will start and finish the marathon together. We will run, not race, this marathon. We will keep the pace comfortable and we will just enjoy ourselves. It’s an incredibly kind offer. Both of these women could reasonably expect to finish at the top of their age group. It’s 11 p.m. and I am still unpacking mental baggage. I realize that I’m not just wrestling with a fear of the marathon: I fear losing my identity as a runner and losing my cherished running friends. Before heading to bed, I check email in the vain hope of some miraculous race cancellation. There’s an email from Donna with “Why I do it” as the subject line. “Hey Peggy, this might not help you in the slightest, but I’ve been thinking about why I race. It’s not about any wonderful euphoria (is there even such a thing?). It’s about finishing something really damn hard. That’s about it.” I laughed. Indeed. So I got up the next morning and, along with thousands of other runners, finished something really damned hard.
“You’ve done the training, run the race,” he urged. Indeed.