Hi, it’s been awhile. I apologize for the delay. School has occupied most of my time, but I have not forgotten that I owe this little space a recap of my Twin Cities Marathon. This is quite long post was written the day after the race on the way home. My emotions were raw at the time, but I needed writing to help me process the race. Anyway, here is my recap:

On October 8, 2017, I should have been running the Chicago Marathon. It should have been my redemption race, from the marathon two years ago when I went too fast and didn’t hydrate properly. It should have been my third marathon.

Instead, I watched the marathon from my couch with my right leg strapped to a machine that moved it back and forth slowly. Three days prior, I had had labral repair surgery on my hip, which left me home-bound and on crutches for a month. The pain arrived just a week after I got notification that I had been accepted into the race via lottery. After months of tests and appointments, it was clear that surgery was my only option, if I wanted to live pain free, and that meant no 2017 marathon.

I had the option to defer my entry a year, as long as I was willing to pay the race fee again, but decided against it. I figured I would run again, but I couldn’t guarantee I would be in marathon shape two years later and didn’t want to risk the $180.

The road to recovery was longer and more brutal than I could have ever anticipated. Week after week, I went to physical therapy, still noting pain during my exercises, but asking when I could run again. In February, I got permission to start a return-to-run program, and while it started out fine, the pain eventually returned. My progression regressed from four months post-opt to one, and we had to start nearly from the beginning.

During this time, I thought I had to give up on running for forever. Not just marathons, but all running. It was as if my body said no more. This broke my heart. Running had always been my kind of church, something that made me feel whole and strong, and without it, I felt miserable. The worst part was not being able to run on my wedding day, something I had always envisioned I would do. Before I put on that white dress and begin a new life with my husband, I would go for a run and think about what that all meant. At that time, though, I couldn’t even run 10 minutes.

At one point, my friends and I went to see a psychic, as part of my pre-wedding activities. She gave me a rundown of what she saw in the tarot cards, but I only had three specific questions for her: was I marrying the right man, was I making the right decision by going back to school, and would I ever be able to run again. Her answers were yes, yes, and no. She told me that running and I were done and that I should take up water sports.

By the end of the summer, I had officially finished physical therapy (mostly because insurance had refused to pay for any further sessions, despite my doctors’ orders), and I was again cleared for a return-to-running program. I went slower this time, took it day by day, and eventually, I was running a few times a week. A big goal was to run eight miles on my birthday and then 10 a few weeks later.

Running was back in my life, and I fit it in as I could with school, my graduate assistantship, and my part-time job. Then, in November, my husband lost his job, and with me having left mine to return to school, it was a major setback for us. I didn’t handle it well, and the only thing that could comfort me was running. So I ran when I was angry, when I was scared, when I was sad, when I didn’t know what else to do. I ran in the rain, snow, on the ice, in the dark. I kept running and running.

By March, I had built up some fitness, with no hip issues, and decided to do some races, so I signed up for an 8K and a half marathon, but of course, there was one race I really wanted to do. A few months earlier, I had had a dream about running a marathon, and I couldn’t shake the want to be out there, struggling with my fellow runners, getting to the end of 26.2, and knowing that I was part of a special breed. The Twin Cities Marathon registration opened, and I didn’t hesitate in giving over the $110 race fee.

It had been four years since my last marathon, and I missed training. I longed for schedules and daily logs, tracking splits and averages. School was getting harder, my husband still hadn’t found a salaried job, and I needed to be able to control something and put my anxiety and energy into something that wasn’t worry about our finances or homework.

My goal for the summer was to train hard. I signed up for a local running club and took the plan they gave me and made it harder. Instead of training four or five days, I went for six. I went from 20-30 miles a week to 40-50. I added tempo runs, hill work, and intervals at the track. Running became my life as I made more and more running friends and got a part-time job at a local running store. And, it was amazing. I loved being in marathon-training mode and feeling (not to mention dressing) like a runner every day.

At the height of my training, when the mile started to ramp up, I returned to school and my grad assistant job. My days were long, jammed packed from the moment I woke up to the time I went to bed, and in these times, I started to resented running. I hated getting up at 5 a.m., after having gotten home at 10 p.m. the night before. I began to have more terrible runs than good ones, and my stomach turned at the thought of having to run the same routes over and over. But the marathon was just a few weeks away, and it would be my redemption.

I didn’t realize it until after I completed the Twin Cities Marathon, but I had a lot riding on this race. It was not only going to be my redemption from hip surgery, but a glorious win after struggling with my husband’s job search and our financial instability. I wasn’t just going to finish this marathon, but I was going to crush it. I had trained harder than ever and was incredible shape. I wasn’t just going to get a PR, but I was going to get a massive PR. I was going to cross that finish line, and I was going to feel assured and accomplished in a way that I hadn’t in years. It was going to my big win.

During hard workouts, I imagined what I would post on social media about being laid up two years before and how I finally had completed my third marathon. “You can do hard things,” I was going to tell everyone. While everyone I know was raising families, buying houses, and moving up in their careers, this would be my moment to shine. At this point in my life, I can’t have what they do, but I could have this marathon finish.

We got to Minnesota Thursday night, staying with my brother and his family, so that I could relax and prepare for the race. Earlier in the week, I developed a cold, but I was sure that it would pass. Over the next two days, I snuggled with my nieces, and battled my increasing nerves. I couldn’t eat a lot, but I made myself anyway. I spent a lot of time in the bathroom, and I didn’t sleep much. I had waited months for this weekend, and it was finally here, but for whatever reason, I couldn’t enjoy it. The anxiety and excitement took me out of the moment.

I went into this race with some time goals. Ideally, sub 4, but I knew that would be tough, and so I relented to a 4:05 or 4:10, knowing I could certainly do a 4:20. Most of all, I just wanted to soak up every minute of that race. I had waited four years for this; it had been a long road, and I wouldn’t miss this opportunity to just enjoy it.

Race day came, and everything felt right. I put on my jersey with a pinned bib, did my warm ups, and ate my breakfast. My brother dove me to the start with plenty of time to drop off my bag and go to the bathroom twice. I found my corral and desired pace group with just minutes to go. It all felt right.

The Twin Cities Marathon is known for having killer hills from mile 21-23, so every veteran of the race recommends starting slow. I knew I would want to go out fast, so I pulled the reigns in during that first mile in downtown Minneapolis. It was a bit slower than I wanted, but I would make up for it, I told myself. After two, I started to pick up the pace a bit, feeling a bit sluggish with tight legs, but knowing I wanted to conserve energy.

I wasn’t even to mile three when my side began to cramp. This never happens. I figured it would work itself out and just kept going. I took water at each aid station and GUs every four miles, but by mile nine, I wasn’t doing well. Not only were my calves cramping, but my legs hadn’t loosened up yet, my stomach felt heavy, and I noticed a cold chill. I felt my arm. It was dry and covered in goosebumps. This was not good. I needed water. I was dehydrated.

My mind started to slip as did my pace. I hadn’t gone halfway; how was I going to continue on? I blacked out a bit, ticking mile off by mile. I knew my family would be at 14, and I seriously contemplated dropping then. I was seeing black spots, and I couldn’t imagine that the worst of the race was still six miles away. When I saw my family, I hugged them all and asked for my handheld. I told them that I was dehydrated and unsure if I could keep going. I did leave them and ventured on.

Around 16, I realized I needed to start walking through the aid stations. I had been fighting the urge to puke for five miles at this point, and if I wanted to keep going, I would have to walk. My initial time goals were out the window, but I thought I might still be able to beat my 4:52 PR, and if I wanted to actually enjoy the race, I knew I would have to walk. Lots of people walk in marathons, I suppose I could be one of them, I thought and decided to walk. The walking helped, and I started allowing myself to do it every mile, through the water stops, mile markers, or down hills. I refuse to walk during runs, but I didn’t want to suffer. I just wanted to finish.

I kept taking water and walking, I saw my family again at 19, and while I felt better than I did at 14, I wasn’t proud to be walking. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other, no matter how fast.

When I got to the hilly section, I actually felt good and ran up them. A part of me thought I would could run the rest, but then I missed the water stop at 24, and fell apart. Despite all the water I had taken prior to the race and during, I was so dehydrated. Thankfully, someone from a church brought me some. At this point, I wasn’t going to PR and maybe not finish under 5 hours, but I kept going.

The last mile felt fine, and I sprinted to the end. I finished about an hour slower than I thought I was capable of, which is something I wouldn’t let myself forget.

At first, I felt OK. I had finished, didn’t I? I got my shirt and my medal and told my husband I would never run another marathon. But as the day wore on, I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I failed. Friends and family texted me, knowing I was probably upset, and tried to reassure me, but I wouldn’t hear of it.

Worse than suffering through the marathon was the emotional beating I gave myself later on, especially as I was turning and tossing at night. I felt like I had given up on myself, that I let the first signs of weakness take me out of the game and that I should have I pushed harder. I worried that I disappointed all my friends and family who had believed in me because I hadn’t believed in me. I was embarrassed with my effort and felt undeserving of any congratulations. And, I fretted over what this meant for future running. This sport was supposed to be my saving grace, but like so many things in my life the past year, it had let me down. Was it finished with me? Was I finished with it again? I wasn’t sure I could run again, or even if I wanted to.

I woke up the next day, and I cried. I cried for the race I should have had, for the race I did, and for the reassurance I expected this marathon to bring me. I cried in my husband’s arms and then in my mom’s. They loved me the best I could, but I couldn’t love me. Not in that moment.

Once the tears were gone, I could see clearer. It just wasn’t my day. That happens to all runners. Maybe I could do another marathon at some point, but I would need a break. Maybe running marathons aren’t what I need from running at this point in my life. Maybe my running relationship needs to be something bigger, something deeper.

At this point, a little more than 24 hours from the race, I am still feeling mixed emotions. I have my sights set on a few other races, but I don’t plan to make any decisions at the moment. I know that it’s time to dive into my schoolwork and attend to the rest of my life, and I am OK with that. Eventually, I will have to go back through race day to learn the lessons I need for the next one, but I know one major lesson in all of that is strength. People keep telling me how strong I am, and this is when that strength is needed the most. I must use it to be gentle on myself, to accept my day for what it was and move on. I need to see the good over the bad and find an authentic optimism. I must not compare myself but understand that this rough day is part of my journey, and only a small part of it.

My third marathon should have been so many things it wasn’t, but my goal now is to accept and appreciate for it what it was. There is much beauty in it, and I will need it to continue forward.

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More than a month has passed since the marathon and writing that. I had strongly considered doing another fall marathon, but ultimately chose not to. I gave running so much of me, but at this point, I need running to give to me. Because I had walked so much, my recovery was pretty smooth and I was back running a week later, and although I told my husband I would never do another race, I am definitely considering one next spring along with a half marathon that I have planned in January. My greatest fear was that the heartbreak from this marathon would make me want to stop running, and I was so unsure of how I could find the joy and motivation to run after that race, but I did. I have had so many beautiful, inspiring, autumn-soaked runs in the last few weeks, reminding me that running isn’t about just one race but it’s a lifetime relationship. Yes, the race wasn’t what I wanted, but it was the race I got. So, I keep running and knowing that one day, in running or life, doesn’t define me.