Instead, with less than two weeks to go, it fell apart.
At the end of an easy run, my Achilles started to tighten. Pretty immediately, it felt more serious than a random niggle that is forgotten by the next morning. As I watched the NYC Marathon with my Oiselle teammates, the tension in both my Achilles and my mind rose.
I took the next day off. Inspired by a comment from teammate Carrie Mack, I took the day after that off too, feeling hopeful it was one more day than I needed. My leg felt fine by then, and I wondered if I was being overly paranoid, perhaps a bit wussy. Am I just making excuses? The symptoms didn’t all match up with Achilles tendonitis, but horror stories from friends with Achilles injuries scared me.
I ran the next few days; it was tight the first day, then eased up, but by the third day, it was back to nagging. I took Saturday (what would have been my last long run) off as well.
The roller coaster of the week—will I run or not?—drove me crazy. I had the same feelings as before Grandma’s Marathon in 2015, when I got a stress reaction 3 weeks before the race. In the week between feeling a potential injury and the diagnosis, I was a wreck fluctuating between trying to cross train/hold on to my motivation and trying to come to terms with the season possibly being over. Both times I just wanted to know one way or the other—WILL I RUN OR NOT? SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME!—and every day I woke up with a different gut feeling. More than anything, I didn’t want to compromise my training for the Trials (which was set to start after a quick post-Richmond break). If I raced, even if I raced well, and it set me back a few weeks, I didn’t think it’d be worth it.
I couldn’t get an official doctor’s appointment until after Richmond, but my coach hooked me up with a PT who could see me informally (and quickly) and she diagnosed it as a calf strain, not Achilles tendonitis. That was a huge relief (less recovery time) and she told me if I spent the week cross training, I could still race. I elliptical-ed the next few days but did one last easy workout the Wednesday before the race, to see how it felt and make a final determination if I could race. My leg felt fine, but it was harder to hold the pace than it should have been. (Likely because I hadn’t run for days.) I cross trained the next day, with a quick 10-minute jog to try to get my body back in running mode. The day before the race I did my usual easy shake out, the only normal run of the last week. When I got home my husband asked, “Feeling fast and ready?” I replied, “Let’s just go with able to run.”
That day, I realized my attitude needed to change. I was grateful to run, yes, but I was also making excuses, focusing too much on the training upheaval of the last two weeks. If I wanted to get the best out of myself, I needed to prepare myself like any other race, ready to give my all. I told myself the few days before the race had been pretty normal: a short tempo (though it felt hard… shut up, pessimistic Teal!), a day mostly off, and a shakeout with strides. The calf, for all my obsession over every sensation I felt there, seemed fine.
I wanted to salvage the season right at the end, to prove all the work I’ve put in and changes I’ve made (working with a coach and sports psychologist) had an effect. I trained differently, so couldn’t compare to past seasons (possibly a good thing). Maybe I’m in better shape than I think! Maybe the unusual last few weeks will leave me super tapered and super hungry! Starting at 5:55 seemed reasonable and, in the place in my brain where hope and ambition run unfettered, I thought maybe I could pick it up later on.
Race morning was cold (yay!) but windy (not so yay). For the first two miles, it blew directly in our faces. I tried to tuck in to a group, but as always the case with early racing, groups were still fluid, splitting and reforming left and right. Near the first mile marker, a man pulled up alongside me and a few others and asked what we were hoping for. I was the only one to respond, “5:55” and as I did we hit the marker in 5:54. “Bang on.” The man said he was shooting for 5:50s, but this was good for now. My main theory for my poor performance in Twin Cities is that I ran alone and had no one to gauge off, so I was happy we formed an alliance. But after another half mile or so my watch read 6:05 pace. Our pack held steady, other runners weren’t passing us, so I tried to trust the collective pack more than my watch. But no one else had mentioned their goals. After another quarter mile or so, I started to doubt the group and forged ahead. Mr. 5:50 came with me. We hit mile 2 in 6:05.
For the most part, my sports psych efforts focused on not to berating myself when I hit a slow split. Relax, breathe, let it go. To my credit, I did that with that second split. Fine, we just need to get in a better rhythm. The wind somehow slammed us again as we made a right turn onto Arthur Ashe Boulevard and formed a new pack of maybe three guys and two other women. Mr. 5:50 beckoned us to share the work and I tried to do my part. I felt better when I was the one pushing and leading; I’ve honestly never felt like drafting helps me that much (Am I not doing it right?? Is the benefit so minuscule you don’t really notice it?) but I did appreciate the power of the pack and people to stick with. Mile 3 was 6:00. I wanted to scream, “We’re still going too slow!” But also: Relax, let it go. Don’t tense up too much. Mr. 5:50 is still here, he’s fine with this. It’s fine.
As we turned down an out and back, our pack started to reel in Kate, a Oiselle/Raleigh Distance Project athlete. I wanted to pull her into our group, but instead somehow I got dropped in the move. My pack pulled ahead, with Kate a little off the back, and me all alone behind everyone. What just happened?? Mile 4 was another 6 flat.
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Mile 4: What just happened? |
But after a disappointing next mile (6:03), as we headed up the last uphill and out of the park, things seemed to be going downhill fast. Kate caught me and I couldn’t stay with her. If I have any big regret after a race, it’s almost always that I didn’t fight harder to stick with someone. As always, as Kate ran away I told myself to not let the gap grow, that I could still catch up. Instead, she became another regret: the ones that got away.
And as always, the thoughts of dropping out came. Why am I doing this if I’m just running slowly? Usually I tell myself to continue because at least it will be a hard workout to help me later on in the season, but this was my last race of the season. It wasn’t going to help anything. Am I risking hurting my calf just to have a mediocre race? But truthfully my calf felt fine. Am I just making excuses? The pretty stupid reason I kept going: my clothes were in a bag at the finish. If I stopped, I’d have to find a way to get there and that seemed like a (very cold) hassle. I could stop when I saw my family around mile 10, but that seemed like the wrong message to send my daughter. (Even though, at two, I’m sure she wouldn’t understand or care.)
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The "Another Disappointing Race, Guess I'll Just Try and Finish" Face. |
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Around mile 10. |
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The last mile. |
Certainly the season didn’t end on the best of notes. I can’t be sure how much the calf strain affected me (what would I have been able to do if the build-up had ended normally?). But I can’t dwell on it too long. I have to find a way to get that fight back (and maybe an entire year of disappointing races is the fuel I need). Training for the 2020 Trials started yesterday. Time to turn the page.
Dream big,
Teal