I’m straddling the chasm between joyful bliss and grin-and-bear-it survival mode. It’s a narrow split but a long fall if I lose my balance.
This round of training for my spring marathon puts it all in my face with the perfect symbolism that distance running affords.
I love my runs. I hate my runs. I feel exhilarated with kick-ass confidence. I feel broken and want to quit. It’s too easy. It’s too hard. I’m fucking exhausted, and I’m almost halfway through the schedule, with a long, hard road ahead.
I don’t know if I can do it, and sometimes I wonder what’s the point.
My legs throb when I get up to walk this evening after today’s race-pace 7. It wasn’t a bad run, just a challenging one. And tomorrow I have 14 miles on the schedule. It’s getting hard.
I’d read stories by elite athletes who describe the pain and agony of distance running, but until now I could only relate to a fraction of their experience. I’m training at a whole new level, and now I understand just a little bit more.
The flip side is that I’m pushing out of my comfort zone, learning, and growing. Some days, I’m proud of that. Some days, it’s whoop-dee-fucking-do.
I’m terrified I won’t make it – afraid my goal is too much of a stretch. Maybe this game is out of my league. Maybe I should return to knitting or something more domestic. I’m not an athlete. I’m a girl.
As the training goes, so goes the rest of my life.