The Death of a Dream

Part 1: The Race

I spent the last three weeks, the whole taper, focusing on my mental game. Qualifying for a third Olympic Trials (and setting a two-minute personal best) would be the hardest thing I’d ever done. I needed to get my mind right. I accepted how hard it would get and came up with strategies, mantras, smaller goals to get me through. I visualized the course; though the very act gave me anxiety about the suffering I was in for. Even if I wasn’t as physically ready as I’d like, I was mentally ready. And all that mental work started to convince me that I was ready physically: there was enough evidence to prove it was possible and not totally bonkers. 

Race morning, I was surprisingly calm. (All things considered.) I’m here. I’m ready. One step at a time.

Then they delayed the start ten minutes. Anxiety starting seeping through cracks in my fragile façade. “This wait is killing me, I just want to get started,” I said to one of the many fit, elite strangers standing around. She gave a small smile, as if to say, get over it. 

Do I want to get started? I just don’t want to be here, waiting, anymore. 

Finally, the gun cracked. I immediately executed my four-word race plan: Stick to the pacers. 

But the pacing situation confused me.

There were two, Phil and Tim. I had met Phil already, but he said he might go with a faster group if one formed. I didn’t dare go faster than 2:37, so I needed to stick with Tim. 

But who was Tim? And where was he? 

Pacer 2 looked exactly like Nick Willis. But why would Nick Willis, a Kiwi 1500-meter specialist, be pacing a marathon?? About half a mile into the race someone said, “Hey Nick!” Pacer 2 responded in a New Zealand accent. Right, so it is Nick Willis. I tried to be grateful I was running with an Olympian once again. Phil mentioned there were actually three pacers, Tim was towards the front.

His immense 1500m expertise aside, Nick did not seem to know what he was doing. He asked the guy who said hi to him how we were doing and the other guy responded, “a little fast.” 

But I had checked my watch, we were actually slow. 

Why the heck was I checking my watch?! I promised myself I would trust the pacers and not check splits. The benefit of having pacers is to not fret over the pace!

A little farther and Nick asked Phil how we were doing. “A little slow, but we’re okay,” said Phil. 

Phil’s declaration that he might go faster than 2:37 scared me. But his calm confidence assured me I should stay with him. He knew what he was doing. When another woman told him we were too fast, I wanted to defend him. The first mile was too slow! We’re making up for it! 

But also: Fuck. It does feel fast. Anxiety and stress bubbled up. Only two miles in.

I glued myself to the pacers: Phil and Nick. 

The sheer size of the pack made getting in a rhythm hard. The bumping, the tripping, the kicking. Slipping on the slick middle line. Everyone already glistening with sweat. 

I tried to tune out and listen to the drumbeat of our collective footsteps. Tried to focus on the legs and rhythm of the person ahead of me. But while I was doing that, I inadvertently annoyed some dude behind me. “Get over and move ahead!” I tried to move aside, but also: what the heck dudes? Can’t you see this is the women’s OTQ group, get out of our way! 

At mile four, a man shouted, “YES! Now we are on 2:37! Let’s go!” Okay, fine. That dude is helpful. He can stay. Maybe that’s Tim?!?

He was with another guy, also hyping us up, both wearing Bandit. They seemed to be helping one specific woman, but that was fine by me, because they were indirectly helping us all. 

Stick with Phil and the Bandits. Relax. One mile at a time. 

I was with them still. But I was not relaxed. At all. 

The anxiety was at a rolling boil. I knew it was too early to freak out, which made the freaking out snowball. I shuffled through all the distraction techniques I had practiced. None worked. It was like every door in my mind slammed shut. My thoughts immediately bounced back to the race. To the effort. To my spiraling mind. It wasn’t physically hard, but it was already way too hard mentally.

I am not going to be able to do this if I’m already freaking out… 

Whatever, if I have to run twenty-six miles with this anxiety, I will. I’m still here. Still with the pacer. Another mile down.

At mile 7, I saw my husband. As I ran away from him, further down the road, I immediately regretted it. I wanted to turn around, to run back into his arms. This is not going well. I am not going to pull this off. 

Physically I was fine. But mentally, I could not do this. I was overthinking too much. Where did my confidence go? Why were all my strategies failing me? Why was I failing?

I had told myself I could at least make it halfway at this pace (I had done just that a few weeks ago.) But I could not imagine making it farther. The part beyond that, that I had run twice before, that I had pictured every day for weeks, seemed too intimidating, too painful. I knew as soon as I ran past Rusty that I would drop out at my next chance, when I saw Dr. Lesko (the elite coordinator when I was on the Oiselle team and one of the nicest people in the sport) at the half. I could not fathom going further into the beyond, into the pain, than that. 

Somewhere in mile 8, as I was accepting that I would not finish this, I slipped to the edge of the pack and then out the back. As always when you fall back, it seems like no big deal at first: They’re right there, I can still catch up! But then the gap keeps growing and suddenly they’re gone. A constant stream of others flew past. By mile ten (about twenty seconds over pace but the pack impossibly far ahead), I had given up entirely. Get me out of this. Just get to Lesko. 

I tried to tell myself if I made it to halfway on PR pace then I’d keep going. But no part of me believed myself as I made that promise. I did go through halfway exactly on PR pace, if I ran an even split. But I had no will or drive or fight to do that. I had slowed drastically in the last three miles. (And when I set that PR, on this course, I came through the half faster.) 

As soon as I spotted Lesko, I ran off the course. “I’m done.” And I bawled: in her arms, on the curb, in my husband’s arms, all day long. 

It was over. WTF just happened.

A quick intermission to catch up with the other characters in this story: 

Nick Willis dropped out at 13. I saw him on the side of the road as I ran by. (Maybe that was the plan, I don’t know.) 

Bandit Pacers 1 and 2 also appeared to drop out early (perhaps also their plan). When I went to pick up my bag, I saw them hanging out near the finish, but none of the women had finished yet. (Which confirmed to me that neither one was Tim.) 

Tim, who I just Googled and realized I never saw on the day, started fast and was on pace until the last final stretch, but perhaps slowed to try to help stragglers. 

Phil executed a beautiful, fantastic, evenly split race and dammit dammit dammit I wish I had stayed with him.  

As for the giant swarm of women ahead of me and around me in those early miles, which I estimate at about seventy-five, fourteen qualified. 

Just fourteen. 

Part 2: The Aftermath 

Years of dreaming of this—through pregnancy, postpartum, injury, cross-training, hundreds of workouts, ever since I first qualified and wondered how many of these I could make—and I gave up in an hour. One hour. 

It was over. WTF just happened. 

All day long and through many tears, I wondered what happened. I had truly started to believe I could do it, that there was a reason I was there, healthy, able to line up with hope in my heart. Why come all this way to fail? What was the point of this? All the time, the effort, the money spent. To fail spectacularly. 

I gave up. Plain and simple. Why didn’t I push through? Why did I allow myself to give up at the half? As soon as I made that decision I slowed. 

A few hours post-race, tear-stained and moping at a brewery, I came up with two lessons to learn from this: 

1. I was not, in fact, ready. 

I had one amazing workout and many great long runs but I was not running better than ever across the board, as I needed to be to achieve this goal. While I told myself I had the endurance, if not the speed, it wasn’t enough. 

Marathons should feel easy from the start. When I ran my PR at CIM in 2018, I was repeatedly trying (and failing) to hold myself back in the early miles. When I first qualified in 2014 (then a ten-minute PR), I was calm and relaxed for the first twenty miles. Last Sunday was not like that at all. Maybe the pressure got to me, but I tend to like pressure. I just couldn’t relax at that pace. I wish I could have turned my brain off—it was the fear of the pain to come rather than current pain—but I couldn’t turn it off. I couldn’t override my brain telling me, This is not okay for this early. Because it really isn’t okay. It should feel mostly easy in those early miles.

2018 CIM, feeling a heck of a lot more relaxed.

I wish I had another year, more time to feel relaxed at that pace. I wish I hadn’t gotten hurt last year. I wish I was tougher, more willing to stick with the pace until I fell over and could go no more. But even then, I don’t think I would have made it twenty-six miles. I wasn’t truly ready.

I don’t regret going for it, despite that. I needed to know. 

A part of me regrets not staying in and finishing, even when I knew I wouldn’t qualify. Not getting the medal, the backpacks and jackets they gave to all finishers. (But would I want one? I didn’t even take one of the participant shirts. I don’t need a memento from a heartbreak.) I regretted leaving all my water bottles behind, carefully planned with notes of encouragement. A super caffeinated gel that was sure to give me a boost at mile 13.5. I never got its jolt. Silly to regret bottles and gels left behind, but it’s effort not attempted, dreams abandoned. 

I also never got the benefit of CIM’s infamous downhills. I dropped when the rolling uphills finally ended. But when I think about this course, in my mind it goes steadily up. I know it doesn’t. I know it’s downhill, that’s why we all fly across the country to race it, with OTQs and BQs and PRs on our minds. But the effort imprinted on me—even in two successful attempts that ended in PRs and OTQs—is that it goes up. Because that’s how a marathon works. The beginning is easy, light, relaxed, and then the effort gradually weighs on you. Until the last few miles feel like you’re running uphill dragging a boulder. I couldn’t handle the early miles. There was no way I’d make it through the tough part. I couldn’t have finished, especially as emotionally spent as I was.

I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t force it. But it’s not so easy for me to accept that. I hate admitting it. I tell people to believe and fight for it. And yet I didn’t. I couldn’t.

My whole schtick is dreaming big. By believing in yourself you can achieve unfathomable things. This gets misinterpreted sometimes as overly wishful, soft thinking. As if I’m ignoring the hard work you need to put in, the support you need, the heavy dose of good luck at the right moment.

Of course I know there are limits to dreaming big. Otherwise, I would wish myself into world record shape, skip right over the dang Trials and win the Olympics. (Wouldn’t we all?) 

But I think those limits are farther out than most of us imagine. If we work hard and believe, we can achieve amazing things. Ludicrous, outlandish things that seem scary to say out loud.

What if we allow ourselves to chase those scary dreams? What if we put them out in the world, let people know how highly we view ourselves? What if we pair that belief with hard work, lung-busting workouts, hours of sweat pouring off us, exhaustion so deep we want to lay on the floor? What if we sacrifice “normal” things: mornings sleeping in, evenings going out? All because we truly believe we can be great.

And what if we fail? Did we not work hard enough? Did we not want it bad enough? Did we not believe in ourselves enough? 

Or were we never capable in the first place?

Which is worse? To be delusional? Or to have given up?

And I wonder: am I still elite? Do I still belong? If I had a little more time, could I find that woman in me again? There’s a certain snobbery is pursuing a crazy goal. Thinking yourself good enough in the first place. But also, honestly, wanting to let people know when you made it, as if they had doubted you all along. I wanted to tell everyone—strangers, acquaintances, that old man at the gym—that I made the Olympic Trials, for a third time. I wanted to get another sponsorship, to run and lounge around in free gear. I wanted to get into the pro field of big races again.

Talk about humbling. Do I deserve to think that way? I’m not a qualifier. Not this time. I didn’t make it.

Was 2018 the best I’ll ever be? Are my days of PRing over? As much as I try to ignore it and think about masters who are kicking ass, people keep reminding me I’m getting older. Subtly and not so subtly saying this is the end. If I accept I wasn’t ready for it now, how can I think I will ever be? When I’m over 40 and officially a master? 

After thousands of miles to the Trials, maybe this is the end of this road. Where does that leave me?

The 2016 Trials.

This brings me to the second lesson, one I know I still need to learn:

2. My identity should not be tied to this. 

I know that and I’ve read so many posts and thoughts from other women who realized somewhere along the way that they weren’t going to qualify for the 2024 Trials. I always envied their maturity, their acceptance. I didn’t have it. I know it’s not healthy to rest your identity as a runner on making one race every four years, but this is how our sport works. Qualifying for the Trials opens up sponsorship opportunities, assures entry into elite fields at other races, and is just damn fun and incredibly rewarding. It’s validating. It shows that the hard work was worth it; that the relentless self-belief was legitimate; that the time, effort, and money was well spent. 

I’ve always said making the Trials is my version of making the Olympics, and it’s not lost on me that what I’m feeling is a fraction of what the pros feel. Our sport puts so much pressure and emphasis on making the Olympic team every four years, as if that is all that qualifies you as great. Those that don’t make it have to find that mature, accepting attitude where they acknowledge the cruelty of the whole system, of everything coming down to one day, of so few athletes actually making it. They are still amazing athletes, still the best in the country, even if that day doesn’t go how they want. 

It’s a lesson I still need to learn. Maybe that’s what this is all for, to teach me that making the Trials isn’t everything. (Though even as I write that, I think, Maybe if I learn that, if I gain that maturity and perspective, it will help me get back for 2028. So, yea… I still need to learn it.) It doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. 

But… it also does matter. I loved pursuing this dream. Dreaming of 2024 as I shuffled along while pregnant, as I rehabbed postpartum, and as I tried and failed and tried and failed to get healthy. Getting out of bed early to flail around in the pool or drown in sweat on the bike. I loved even the miles I hated: in the dark, in the rain, in humidity that left me more soaked than rain. The hours spent on extracurriculars: yoga, core, lifting, rehabbing. Feeling validated in going to bed early, in learning to love beets and kale, of giving up those “normal” things. A snobbiness and righteousness that I secretly carried: if only you knew what I’m training for.

I loved having this focused goal, a hope that maybe I could make it come true. If I worked hard enough. If I believed enough. 

I never made it to my destination, but I loved the journey.

I hate that it’s over. 

The 2020 Trials. I made it to 2 Trials. Is that it for me?

Trying to Keep the Dream Alive

During one of my last track workouts, as I fell off the pace, I realized I didn’t want to go to CIM. It will be the death of a dream. I don’t want to watch it die.

But, if I truly don’t want to do it, I wouldn’t still be here: at the track, in the cold, mid-3K repeat. I would have quit already, gone home, gotten warm. Yet my feet continued to pound the track. I hadn’t stepped off, I hadn’t given up entirely. Not yet.

On the cooldown, I tried to talk myself back into fighting for this dream. My main disbelief comes from the fact that I have to run nine seconds faster per mile than I did for my last (and best, by far) marathon pace workout. As I drove home, I listened to Des and Kara’s podcast. (Highly recommend! Despite this next bit…) They were discussing first marathons and bad marathons and, if they were a coach, whether they would tell their athlete to go out hard or conservative. Kara, my running idol, said that if you had trained at 5:20 and the pack went out in 5:15 it would be dumb to go with them. “That’s a lot of time in a marathon.” 

Whomp, whomp. That’s exactly what I was trying to convince myself was not crazy. (For the record, Kara also admitted she’d probably go out hard regardless, because that’s how she races. Also, was she just talking about first marathons? Let’s hope so.) 

Maybe the way to tell how bad I want something is to notice how bad I desperately hold on, despite the evidence. I feared watching the dream die, but I couldn’t let it go. What was the alternative? Giving up without a fight? 

It wasn’t just that CIM would be the death of a dream, I didn’t want to go if achieving the dream wasn’t even an option. I don’t care about any other outcome. I could go for a PR, but even if I made it, I would be bummed I missed the standard. I’d wonder if I should have gone for it. I don’t even think I have the drive to go after “just” a PR, because that’s not where my heart is. When the race gets tough and I have to fight, I don’t think I would. Not for anything less than the original dream. I have to at least try. And if I fall apart spectacularly, have to drop out in agony, whatever, at least I will know I tried. I can miss my goal in two ways: (1) not even trying because I think it’s hopeless/too crazy or (2) going for it anyway and finding out for sure. I’m choosing the latter.

Once I accepted I was going to go for it no matter what, I had something to focus on during the taper: my mental game. I need to get better at arguing myself back into trying, to not giving up on myself, even when it seems impossibly hard. 

I had to come up with my reasons why this isn’t crazy. 

1. Sorry, Kara. Advanced Marathoning says it’s not stupid 

Back in 2014, I thought I had to hit goal marathon pace in practice exactly, but I proved in Pittsburgh (and again at CIM in 2018) that I could run four seconds faster on race day than in practice. I didn’t believe that was possible until I did it. Maybe nine seconds is possible, especially with the help of the pack. 

“It always seems impossible until it’s done.” – Nelson Mandela

And just two days ago, looking back through my much-bookmarked copy of Advanced Marathoning (trying to remind myself of what race day warmup consists of) I instead happened upon a post-it on a page about how if you have a pack to run with, going out 8-10 seconds per mile faster than planned is okay. 

Which brings us to… 

2. The power of the pack

A lot of my confidence and hope relies on the power of the pack. In Pittsburgh, despite being unsure I could make it when I didn’t run that pace in practice, I ran alone. I still made it. I run all my workouts alone, even the half marathon a few weeks back. Having a group to work with, to not constantly fret over the pace, is a huge advantage I don’t usually have. 

With the OTQ pack in 2014

The benefit of having a pacer is well studied and undeniable; world records fall with pacers. The only time I’ve ever run with a pack was in 2014, at CIM, when I first qualified. It was an immense help. This time will be harder, the task greater, the pace faster. But I’m a more seasoned athlete now. Back then I had to take ten minutes off my PR, I had to prove I was an athlete good enough to qualify. Now I just have to prove I still am. And just take off a measly two minutes.

Now, about those two minutes... 

3. I fight harder for big, meaningful goals. With deadlines. (That happen to be this weekend.)

I’ve thought about CIM in 2018, when I set my current PR, a lot. The last 10K was ugly. How am I going to fight through that this time? And run faster than I did then? 

I talk a lot about having big goals and I also come up short a lot. But when the goals really matter, when something big is on the line, something that matters even more than a PR, I have an extra fight. CIM is the last day to qualify for the 2024 Trials. It’s my last shot. There’s no giving up in the middle and thinking I’ll be back another day. In 2018’s CIM, I was going for a PR, but the time was flexible (I wanted to run 2:38, or break 2:40, or just get a PR, I already had my qualifier secured) and so when it got ugly in the last 10K, I didn’t have as much fight as I would if those times meant something more. 

And finally: 

4. The trajectory is trending up

This year has been unlike any other. I was on crutches in January and yet somehow ran near my best ever by November. I feel like I am on the upswing more than ever, like my fitness and breakthroughs are coming at an alarming rate that I’m not used to. Who knows what I’ll be capable of on Sunday. 

....Still, it’s going to be hard as shit. 

Going into a race is willingly walking towards torture. (Why do we do this??) You know you are in for hours of suffering, of forcing your body to push through exhaustion and pain, or battling your mind as it goes to the deepest, darkest, ugliest places. It’s terrifying. 

I’ve been reminding myself that its only about two and a half hours of pain, after four years of dreaming of this, working toward this, running through pregnancy and the postpartum period (wishing I could be in this shape), of biking and swimming and elliptical-ing through injury (wishing I could be this healthy). Thousands of miles, hundreds of hours spent working my butt off when I could have been sleeping in or relaxing. In the grand scheme of everything, suffering for a couple hours is a drop in a bucket I’ve already filled. What’s another 2.5 hours? It’s worth it. Otherwise, I may spend hundreds of hours regretting I didn’t go for it, I didn’t give it my all. 

“If you had one shot, one opportunity to seize everything you ever wanted in one moment a few hours, would you capture it? Or just let it slip?” --Eminem, Lose Yourself... mostly

I’ve been visualizing the course and the race. I’m reminding myself that it will be hard. The hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’m adding to my mental arsenal of mantras and quotes and strategies to call on. I’m really focusing on what I’m going to do when I want to give up, when the pack starts to slip away. I’m picturing those moments, and how I’ll respond. 

“You want to spend all your time thinking about what you’re going to do, not what’s going to happen.” – Mike Smith, NAU coach

It’s going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I can do it. I am capable. 

Every time I’ve gone into a race trying to qualify, I’ve qualified. 

Every time I’ve gone to CIM, I’ve PRed. 

Time to try to make it 3 for 3. Time to try and keep this dream alive.

Keep dreaming big, 

Teal 

Fumbling for the Switch

I feel myself giving up on this dream. Imagining the finish, the women celebrating OTQs, I am picturing other women, not myself. I am accepting how to get over the fact that I won’t make it. Trying to come up with other goals that are still worth fighting for.

This is self-preservation. My mind trying to have an admittedly healthier attitude to my goals. I know that they don’t matter, that my family loves me no matter what, that my self-worth should not be based on running an arbitrary time within an arbitrary window. That factors like weather and sicknesses will always be out of my control. 

In the words of Laura Green: no one cares. Whether I make it or miss it by many miles, no one cares. 

But I care. 

I do this for me. Really and truly me alone. I know it’s a selfish habit and in times of guilt I try to rationalize it (it makes me healthier, happier, more energized, a better mom, etc. etc.) but truly I do this because I love it. Because I want to see how fast I can be. Because I love that “holy shit I can’t believe I just did that” finish line moment. Because I want to believe in myself again. Because it does add to my self-worth and makes me feel good about myself. Because I love the training, even when it’s not going as well as I like. I love starting my Wednesday with a “medium" long run (what any rational person would call a long run) and feeling slightly exhausted but also fulfilled all day long. 

There are days, months, years where it breaks my heart. The heartbreaks have been racking up the past couple years. I’m desperate to hang on to this goal because I don’t want to admit my best days may be behind me, that I’ll never get to the level I was once at, that I’ll never line up at a Trials again. Age catches up to all of us eventually, I don’t want to believe it’s already caught me. But it’s been five years of struggle. (Admittedly, having a baby took more than 2 of those years.) And annoyingly enough, I don’t appear to be getting any younger. 

Still, I love it. I care about it an unhealthy amount, I know that. But I need to care, or I’ll give up. 

There’s a switch that needs to be flipped on race day and hard work out days. You have to think it’s super important in the moment or you’ll give up. The marathon is so grueling that there will be a moment where it’s overwhelming, it’s too much, you want to give up, give in, not care. Your mind is begging you to slow, even slowing your body down against your will. You need to fight back, you need to care about it like it’s everything in that moment. As ridiculous as it sounds, it needs to seem like life or death to push yourself to new depths. You need that adrenaline, that belief, that unreal power that allows someone to lift a car off a child. Your brain will seize on any crack in your armor, any speck of “this doesn’t matter.” It will compromise, give in, and give up. 

But then you cross the line, stop the watch, end the workout, and it needs to not matter anymore. Flip the switch back. Running doesn’t matter in the real world. Leading into big workouts and race day, the switch needs to be on “unimportant” or the anxiety and pressure will be overwhelming. Moreover, the switch probably needs to stay like that—nice and chill and comfortable—until mile 15 or 18 or so, until that moment of reckoning, or you’ll be too stressed to run relaxed. 

But… 

HOW?! How to flip the switch at the right moment? How to not care that much, to let it go, until that last moment? And how to run fast from the beginning—nice and chill and relaxed, but also fast—if you’re trying not to care? This last bit is the struggle I’m having in my workouts. Trying to relax and take it mile by mile and let the fast pace come to me… but when it doesn’t, and the times slip, how to stay engaged and fighting? While also relaxing so you’re not forcing it? I want to force it. It seems my only chance. But I know that’s not how this works.

Trying to channel this finish line fight...
even when the finish line isn't in sight.

If I put too much pressure on myself, I’m not likely to run well. But if I give up on my goals now, I’m not going to run well either. I wonder if my recent workouts going poorly is me giving up: too many years of struggle, too many doubts seeping in, too many excuses. My mind trying to preserve itself. 

The pressure I put on myself seems astronomical but it’s because I want it. I know no one else cares, I know it doesn’t matter. But it matters to me. I think I thrive under pressure: I need that do-or-die reason to fight. I can feel myself trying to let it go, starting to let it go, and maybe that is healthy. But the part of me that is still grasping on, knows I need to grab it with both hands and hang on like life depends on it. (Even though I know it doesn’t.) 

I need to believe or I don’t stand a chance. 

No Buildup's Perfect

“Erase from your mind that your preparation must be perfect. Hard work plus dedication equals a shot at your dreams.” – Kara Goucher

In March, a day after my failed attempt at 16 miles at sub-2:45 pace, Brother asked why I was wallowing over the workout. He laughed, “Marathon pace workouts?! Those things are so freaking tough; no one hits those dead on.”

I snapped back, “But I did! Before CIM! That’s how I knew I could run the Trials standard.”

And so I kept wallowing. I wasn’t sure I could run 2:45 pace in a race if I didn’t in practice. So I attempted the workout again. And failed again. And yet… on race day I did run sub-2:45. Because marathon pace workouts are so freaking tough, and it’s rare to hit them dead on.

Just because I didn't run well on this one day... 

I feel like I’ve done you all a bit of a disservice. Here on the blog and in interviews I rattle on an on about the one workout that helped me get to the Olympic Trials the first time, to the point that people have reached out to me to ask more about it. (Which is awesome! I always love hearing from you guys!) The gist of the workout: a long run of 18-22 miles with 12-16 miles in the middle at goal race pace. (I peak at 16 pace miles after building up to it over the years and over the course of each season.) I’ve always said that if you nail this workout, you are ready to nail the marathon. It’s a hard grind that you’ll likely do alone, in the middle of a high mileage week. If you can nail it then, you’ll be ready on race day when you’re tapered and high on adrenaline.

But what happens if you don’t nail the workout? Is the inverse true? Does failing at this one workout mean you’ll fail at the marathon?

No, because it’s only one workout. Every season is an accumulation of workouts, long slogs, hard tempos, intervals, easy days, strides, core, strength, eating right, sleeping enough. No build up is perfect. It’s too long, life is too messy, the weather is too uncontrollable. Every season has its share of bad days. The trick is to focus on the things that go well and forget the rest. (“Remember the compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.”)

Before Pittsburgh, those failed attempts weighed on me. How could I be confident enough to go for a Trials qualifier when I didn’t run my tried-and-true confidence booster? But I was giving that workout too much power; just because I made it to the Trials by one route before, didn’t mean I had to take exactly the same route this time. I looked back over the rest of my workouts and everything else—tempo runs, track workouts, tune-up races—was on par with that magical CIM season. I was in similar shape overall. All that work didn’t disappear because of a couple of bad days. So I put my faith in the total, in the accumulation of miles, rather than in one or two big workouts.

And honestly, I wasn’t wildly off. I’ve had some seasons where I’ve tried to force things when I didn’t have too much evidence to go off, with disastrous consequences. (If there are more bad days and than good days, it’s probably time to reevaluate your goals or give your body a break before it breaks.) But I did run pretty close to my goal (four seconds per mile slow the first time, six seconds the second time), even if it took some convincing for me to see that. I whined and moaned at the time that it wasn’t close enough; it wasn’t perfect. But I wasn’t that far off. I looked back at my past marathons (other than CIM) and realized I often ran about five seconds per mile faster on race day than in a workout. Hoping to run a little faster on race day wasn’t being totally unrealistic.

(I still think marathon pace workouts are the most important workouts of marathon training; they are the most similar to the marathon physiologically and psychologically. They deserve to be given top priority and hard effort. But if the effort is there and the pace is a few seconds slow, it’s not the end of the world. They aren’t the only workout.)

... it doesn't mean I can't run well on this one.

The thing about nailing the most important workout is it’s an easy confidence boost; if you run a long effort at race pace, you’re ready. It’s harder to see that you might still be ready, even if you don’t quite hit it exactly. It takes confidence and knowing your body and the kind of shape you’re in, based on the total season. That can be tough. Experience and looking back on old training logs can help, as can coaches and outside perspectives.

Of course, you need to have an accumulation of something; you can’t run well on optimism and hopes alone. I know I also blab on about dreaming big and believing in yourself, but obviously you have to do the work too. Dreaming big gets you out of bed in the morning to do the work (and maybe also into bed early to get that crucial sleep!) Believing keeps you in the game when doing the work/running the race gets really freaking hard. But behind it all is a base of hard work. Of grinding, of sweat in your eyes, sun beating down, muscles aching to quit, stomach urging to rebel, of hard freaking work. Dreaming and believing won’t get you anywhere without those really tough workouts.

But that doesn’t mean they all have to go perfectly.

Dream big,
Teal

Taper Time To-Dos

With fewer miles and shorter workouts, what are you going to do with all that extra time during the taper? A few suggestions:

1. Rest

This is obviously the number one thing you’re supposed to be doing. Run less, rest more. Sleep in, go to bed earlier. Curl up with a good book (I highly recommend Deena Kastor’s Let Your Mind Run, it helps a lot with #5, below) and—if at all possible—procrastinate any to-do items until after the marathon. Spring cleaning can wait until… never, right?

2. Freak out about the weather

Just kidding, don’t do that. (Good luck not doing that.)

3. Plan any last minute details of race weekend

And by that I mean plan where you’re going to celebrate afterward. Around this time is when I start imagining all the junk I’m going to eat post-race, mostly of the cupcake/donut/ice cream variety. (If you have any suggestions of good Pittsburgh bakeries/ice cream shops/burger and beer places, let me know!)

4. Visualize your race

Don’t just picture the cupcakes; also picture how you’re going to earn those cupcakes.

I wrote about visualization before and it’s a relatively simple way to get mentally prepared. Imagine running well of course, but don’t pretend everything will go smoothly. Know that it may be the hardest thing you’ve ever done, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible. I got an unexpected comfort from reading over an old race report. I remember the race going well, because it ended well, but I wrote that it was the hardest race I had ever run. I'd forgotten some of the struggle, but knowing I struggled and still succeeded was comforting. Recognize that in your visualizations. There will be moments of doubt and fear and wanting to drop out. Mentally practice moving through those moments. Feel yourself struggle and then see yourself pulling out of it and succeeding.

5. Build the mental arsenal

Keep looking for things that will help you pull yourself out of those tough spots. I’ve spent the last week or so writing down every encouraging quote or thought I have. I plan to scroll through this arsenal race weekend with the hope that I can memorize the most powerful to rely on during the race.

One of the quotes that really hit me was “The only thing standing between you and your goal is the BS story you keep telling yourself as to why you can’t achieve it.” Every time I think about all the reasons I believe I can make my goal, the old stubborn demons try to pop in and tell me why I can’t. In the Believe I Am Compete Training Journal, Lauren Fleshman writes about making a case for yourself. She suggests writing down all the negative chatter you tell yourself before a race and then coming up with an argument against each one (even if it’s an argument you only wish you could believe). Memorize the big ones and repeat them to yourself three times in a row every morning and night. (The repetition will help you believe, even in the shaky ones.) Deena Kastor suggested a similar strategy in the I’ll Have Another podcast: come up with three reasons why you’ll achieve your goal and remember them when the going gets tough.

I always sign these posts “Dream big” but in the days before a race, my mantra is different: Believe. Believe in God, believe in yourself, believe in the potential God has given you. Believe you’re capable of much more than you know. Believe in the training, in the miles and hard work accumulated. Believe in the taper, in the way your body is soaking up that rest. Believe that when it gets tough—seemingly impossible—you’ll find a way through and prove it wasn’t. Believe and don’t stop, because as soon as you stop the race is lost… but if you keep believing, who knows what will happen. 

Adding one extra piece to my race day attire.

(Note: There won’t be a post next Friday. I’ll be focusing on #1 on this list, but look for a race report in two weeks!)   

Dream big (and believe!),

Teal

Ready or Not...

The Richmond Marathon is Saturday. Am I ready? Yes… and no. I’ve done the long runs, the tempos, the track workouts. Some went well, some didn’t, that’s pretty par for the course; no buildup is perfect. I went in with lower mileage goals and lower expectations to match. But despite doing pretty much everything I set out to do, I still don’t feel as ready as I’d like.

I think it's because coming back from Baby was so unpredictable. Some things were easier than expected, so in some ways I feel like I haven't done enough to deserve to run well. Other things were a lot harder than expected, totally blindsiding me, and they’ve left lasting scars on my confidence.

It's been a long road back, but I've done the work.
My body is ready... now to get my mind there...

Easier than expected: Endurance.
In early summer, I wrote out a plan that slowly increased my weekly mileage and my long runs. It looked a little daunting, considering I was coming back from six weeks of zero running and many months of short walk/shuffles. But the long runs came back surprisingly easily; twenty miles is once again no biggie, which seemed impossible just a few months ago.

As hard as expected: Speed.
I suspected speed would come back slower than endurance and that was/is definitely the case. All season, I’ve run basically one pace, whether it’s a half marathon, a ten miler, 12 miles at goal pace alone on the roads, a trail 5K. I can’t speed up in shorter races… but I also haven’t really slowed down in longer workouts. I may not be able to crush a 5K (when can I ever?) but if I can run that same pace for 26.2… then speed schmeed, I’ll be just fine with that.

Harder than expected:
1. Not having control/ownership of my body. One thing I didn't appreciate fully was the role nursing would play in my running. I figured I’d have to time workouts around Baby’s meals (definitely true in the early days, less of an issue now) and that I probably wouldn’t get to my racing weight this season. (I don’t feel comfortable worrying too much about weight loss while I’m nursing and see no need to rush things in that department.) I didn’t anticipate the ab issues I’d have, which my PT says won’t resolve until I stop nursing since the hormones can cause ligaments to stay loose. Because of that, I haven’t been able to attack core or strength workouts with my old gusto. My body is still not my own, and I can’t treat it as such. I didn’t anticipate that. The fact that I slacked off on these “little extras” makes me feel a bit like I didn’t put in enough effort, that I don’t deserve to run well.

2. But the much bigger issue that I did not see coming, AT ALL, is the hit that labor/delivery gave to my running self-esteem. I knew labor would be a doozy, to say the least, despite everyone assuring me, “You’re an athlete; you’ll be fine.” Well, I wasn’t. I always knew I’d get an epidural—I didn’t see the point in suffering when relief is possible and safe—but I didn’t anticipate how bad actually taking it would make me feel afterwards. All the women who do it naturally? How the fudge do they do that? And why couldn’t I? That mattered not a whit to me before labor, but somehow afterwards I felt really defeated that I couldn’t take it. (Though I do believe there’s something to be said for going in knowing I was going to get an epidural eventually. You can’t do anything your mind isn’t set on.) And ultimately I needed a c-section. While I am beyond grateful for modern medicine and a healthy happy Baby (albeit one with an off-the-charts-enormous head), I still feel like my body failed me. My body that I rely on so much to run well, it couldn’t do this thing it’s made to do.

One thing I hear repeatedly (I even wrote about it myself before Baby) is that labor toughens you. All these women say, “Running is easy after labor, nothing compares.” “If my body can do that, it can do anything.” Well, what if my body can’t/didn’t do that? Maybe everyone who says those things made it through naturally (and to them I say, “Heck yea, you are crazy tough and CAN do anything), but that would put them in the minority.

Maybe I’m alone in this (I hope so... I don't wish self doubt on anyone!), but I feel the opposite; my sense of toughness has been seriously questioned ever since labor. One person who labored naturally told me contractions just feel like bad menstrual cramps, but in my opinion they are at least an order of magnitude worse. Which makes me wonder: Maybe I’ve never had a bad cramp. Maybe I’ve never felt real pain. Maybe I’m a giant wuss.... And it spirals from there.

This attitude is absolutely terrible for the marathon. I do not think I’m a particularly talented runner; I certainly did not start off all that fast. I’ve always thought any success came from being tough and determined and now I’m left wondering… am I really?

This is the part where I’m not sure I’m ready. The marathon is a mental beast and your mind has to be ready to tackle it. I grappled with whether I should run at all. But giving up now—not even showing up at the start line—is giving into those demons that have haunted me for almost eight months. That’s not the answer. It’s time to shut them up.

It will not be easy; these last few days I’ve been preparing myself with mantras and battle strategies to have ready when the doubts start. In a recent episode of Lindsey Hein’s podcast, Deena Kastor explains that when the race gets tough you have to dig deep and "define yourself," and that’s what I feel I need to do. Remember what I am capable of and prove it to myself. Find the old Teal, deep within me somewhere. The one who IS tough, maybe not in the delivery room, but on the race course. Somewhere on the streets of Richmond, when the miles are taking their toll, and the pace starts to slip, she damn well better be ready to come out... or we're going to have to get her out, one way or another.

Dream big,
Teal

Patience

We bought a house.

No, wait. I’m getting ahead of myself. We’re under contract on a house and hoping to close early next month. We haven’t exactly bought it yet.

Which brings me to this post's title: patience. Buying a house (our first) is a lesson in a lot of things: legal speak, perfecting your signature, not having a heart attack over the biggest purchase of your life. But mostly it’s reminding me that I need to work on my patience.

I'm not a very patient person. We order a pizza and I want it immediately. What do you mean they can’t bake and deliver it in 30 seconds??  I’m hungry now. We put an offer on a house that we love and I want to move in immediately. What do you mean we have to wait seven weeks? Who cares about paperwork and packing? I want to live there now.

And, obviously this applies to running, too. I want results immediately. That’s why off days/bad weather/disappointing races are so frustrating. I have to wait six months (or four years) for another opportunity? I want a PR now.

Patience is vital to running. You can’t force things too quickly—you’ll end up hurt or burnt out. One of the biggest keys to long-term running success is faith in the process, the slow accumulation of miles and workouts over years. In some races it comes together beautifully, sometimes not.

When it doesn’t, it can be tough to take. But as I’ve said before: training pays off even when races don’t go as planned. In the meantime, we need to be patient in two ways. First, mentally: trusting that our chance will come again, that one race is not the only race there ever will be, that our faster/stronger/tougher bodies are still there and will prove themselves another day.

And second, we need to be patient in our approach. If you’re looking ahead to a fall race, annoyed by a spring result, keep patience in mind. Don’t double your mileage, dedicate two more hours a day to lifting, and overhaul your entire training process (especially if race day was an anomaly in an otherwise great season). Focus on a tweak or two to make here or there: maybe more miles at goal pace, or foam rolling for a few minutes every day, or a renewed commitment to core work. Doing too much too soon is a consequence of impatience, and it only leads to injury. (And injury will require even more patience.)

It’s not easy, and every off-season I’m reminded of my struggles with patience. But I’ve found that focusing on a slight tweak each season helps remind me that I’m making progress. Maybe you’ll get stuck temporarily, feeling like you’ve hit a plateau, but with patience you’ll break through.

I came to DC for graduate school seven years ago and stayed longer than I thought I would. The house we (haven’t yet) bought is in Richmond, Virginia, where Husband and I met a decade ago. For the last few years, we’ve dreamed about moving back, “settling down” in suburbia, where we can afford a big house with a yard, where Target and Trader Joe’s are a quick drive away (and they have parking!!), where Husband's family is nearby. Now, finally, we’re making moves in that direction; we’ve found that suburban house and are currently just three weeks away from closing.

I suppose I can wait a few more weeks.

Mr. RunnerTeal and I met at the University of Richmond and then got married 
(and practiced our handoffs) there a few years later. Now, we're headed back.

Dream big,

Teal 

Visualize Your Way to Success

This post was originally featured on Salty Running.

I ran the Olympic Trials marathon course dozens of times before I ever made it to LA. The repetitive loops, the water stop navigation, the turns through the University of Southern California, the elation of the finish. I ran it all in my mind—never having taken a step on the streets. On race day, my mind was as prepared to handle the grueling 26.2 miles as my legs.

Visualization is a powerful tool for athletes. When we visualize performing an action, it activates the same brain areas we use when we actually perform that action. Visualizing a race primes your mental muscle the way speedy intervals condition your legs and lungs. By mentally rehearsing running relaxed and smooth in a goal race, you get your brain used to that state of things, so you’re ready to run relaxed and smooth on race day.

Want to use visualization to help nail your next goal race? Here are a few ways to add it to your running game.

Dedicate some time to it. I find it fits in well during the taper; I replace some of the time normally spent running with a few minutes of visualization. Find a quiet place, get comfortable, and try to relax.

Rehearse the entire race. I start with the moments leading up to the race: getting to the starting area, not freaking out over the length of the Port-a-Potty lines, staying calm and relaxed on my warm up. Then I go through the whole race, mile by mile or section by section, trying to be as detailed as possible. Watch the course video beforehand if one is available. If not, study the course map and picture yourself running along it, following the twists and turns. Include major hills, terrain changes, water stops, and cheer zones. And yes, picture that finish and the joy you’ll feel knowing you gave it your all.

Stay positive but realistic. It won’t be all sunshine and rainbows for the entire race. Picture certain things going wrong (it’s hot, it’s raining, you have to go to the bathroom) and how to handle them. I imagine having a slower than expected mile and calmly moving past it to focus on running well for the next mile. The key is to anticipate the inevitable pain and possible mishaps, and then practice accepting them and not letting them derail your entire race.

Rehearse the mental techniques you’ll rely on during the race. Whether it is a certain mantra or inspirational people to think about, practice the things you’ll tell yourself to keep you going. I try to anticipate where it might be tough (the later miles of the marathon, a hilly stretch, a section with little crowd support) and picture myself staying strong regardless. For example, a mental preparation for Heartbreak Hill might be: You’re going to feel like you can’t make it and will want to give up. But remember this is what you’ve trained for, all those hill repeats are about to pay off. Stay tough, get up and over this, then it’s all downhill and onto the crazy cheers of Beacon Street.

Repeat. Do this a couple times before the race; I generally do it every morning of race week. It should become ingrained in your mind, like the miles are ingrained in your legs. On race day, you might find you’re more relaxed: you know what to expect and how to handle it. Then just go through the routine you’ve practiced, stay strong in those tough spots, and celebrate your finish.

Dream big,
Teal

Goals

People ask how I got into running marathons and the truth is I needed a Big Scary Goal to get me running at all again. I ran cross country and track in high school, but once I got to college, I ran only in fits and starts and basically ignored it for long stretches of time. (I wasn’t a college athlete, obviously). I wanted to run because I loved running, it kept me in shape, relieved anxiety, blah blah blah… all of the million reasons to run. But the truth is none of those reasons got me out of bed in the morning. Only a Big Goal that requires serious effort would.

And so I decided to run a marathon. That was serious enough to get me going and it worked. Ten years and twelve marathons later, the same principle holds true. I love running for a million reasons, but getting out the door is still not always easy. I need a push, and the push for me has always been Big, Scary, I-Might-Not-Make-It-Unless-I-Do-Everything-I-Can Goals.

Last week I talked about the fear of injury, and the obvious solution for my anxiety would be to chill out a bit on my times and goals. Enjoy running the Trials because I’m lucky enough to be there. Many people, mostly concerned friends and family, have mentioned this and I’ll grant that it’s a fair point. But… it’s not me.

The fun for me is in the pursuit of the goal, in the figuring out what I’m capable of, in having a great run/workout/daydream and imagining the possibilities. Running the Trials is huge, yes. The thrill of making it hasn’t worn off. But just running them, calling it in and enjoying a seriously high profile jog around LA doesn’t get me out of bed in the morning. The dream of racing well at the Trials does. 

A while back I listened to the Run to the Top Podcast with Dr. Stan Beecham, author of Elite Minds. He talked about setting goals that you’re only 60% sure you’ll hit. You might not make it, but you’ll almost surely run faster than if you went after a goal you were 100% sure you’d hit. I found myself nodding along to so much of what he said:

“We need goals that scare us a little bit… goals that wake you up in the morning and push you out of bed.”

“It’s the possibility that I may not be able to pull this off—that’s what makes every day interesting.”

I make these ridiculously ambitious goals unintentionally. Unofficially they’ve been simmering in my system since the last race. Wouldn’t it be awesome if… I would love to run X… The first couple passes through my brain they seem a little nuts. Yeah right, Teal. But, like I said, they simmer, keep gently bubbling up, and they won’t go away. Pretty soon they seem less like daydreams and more like goals. And I’ve thought about them so damn much I can’t imagine aiming lower.

Sometimes, they’re hugely crazy ambitious, and I come up way short. I never even made it to this past spring’s marathon starting line.

Sometimes (yes, less often), they’re hugely crazy ambitious, and I somehow achieve them. Last fall I was scared to admit to many people I was going for 2:43; my PR was ten minutes slower and I had come off a disastrous performance that spring. But dammit, that 2:43 simmered all summer, so I went for it.

And so this season, like all the others, my goals are Scary Big/Maybe Impossible, but that’s my favorite kind of goal and the only one that works for me. In one feeble attempt to keep me grounded, I’m trying to be a little flexible about them as the season goes on, so I won’t share them here. I will say, at the very least, I’m aiming to run a big PR on what looks to be a fast course. I hope to enjoy my laps around LA, but I know I will enjoy them far more if I’ve put in the work and am chasing something big.

Despite all that, I know I can’t go for PRs in every race. (Every marathon, yes; every race leading up to the marathon, no.) Some races will be workouts, tempo efforts, fun ways to celebrate holidays. This weekend I’ll run the Philly Half, and I honestly can’t tell you what my goal time is. I’m using it to gage where I’m at and to squeeze in one long fall race before the winter grind begins. I’ll be aiming to crush my PR at the next half I do. But this weekend, I’ll just see what happens.

And then it will be back to dreaming big.

Race Schedule:

Philadelphia Half-Marathon – Nov. 22

Richmond Turkey Trot 10K – Nov. 26

Jingle All The Way 5K – Dec. 6 {PR attempt, because… I mean, c’mon. 

Jacksonville Half-Marathon – Jan. 3 {PR attempt

US Olympic Marathon Trials – Feb. 13 {PR attempt, because… well, see above.

Dream bigger,

Teal

10,000 Frustrations

You’ve probably heard the theory of 10,000 hours. Popularized by Malcolm Gladwell in Outliers, it says that excelling at something requires a minimum of 10,000 hours of practice. You’ve maybe also heard the backlash: how it’s not really true, as there are plenty of examples of athletes quickly ascending to the top of their sport. (One of the most famous is Donald Thomas, a basketball player who became a high jumper when he jumped over 7 feet just messing around with friends. About a year and a half later, he won gold at the World Championships.)

From my own perspective, I'm not sure about 10,000 hours. I have a different theory:

10,000 Frustrations: The number of discouraging, awful, terrible days/moments/workouts/races/thoughts a person must experience before reaching their goal.

(Is this more universally true? Perhaps not. Or maybe all of Thomas's frustrations came during his basketball career?)

I’ve posted around twenty race reports since starting this blog and about half of them are discouraging: every race in Philly, most 5Ks (this summer I ran one at the same pace I needed to run 26.2 miles), the previous two marathons. Maybe that’s not quite 10,000, but I overuse the heck out of the word "frustrate" and an awful lot of those uses don’t even make it to the blog. Last week I mentioned the best workouts of each season, but not the worst: the marathon pace workout that got cut short and became a slow and pathetic shuffle home; the tempo run(s) where I needed to keep stopping for breaks and still couldn’t hit the prescribed pace; the many other workouts and races that were wildly off my goals, making my big dreams seem both ridiculous and impossible.

I had the best season of my life last fall, but I was close to rock bottom in September. After an embarrassing race capped off a terrible month, I jotted down some discouraging thoughts: When was the last time I had a good race? I keep making excuses… Maybe I'm just not as fast as I think I am. That thought/realization/fear was like a punch in the gut. It had been months since Boston, when that phrase had started its endless loop in my head. Nothing since had silenced it.

Mid-Frustrating-Race Face.

What was the solution? How did I move past what seemed like the 9,999th discouraging moment? Two ways: I was ever so slightly flexible and also unflinchingly stubborn.

A week and a half after Philly, I had a tempo run on the schedule. I’m awful at tempo runs; my expectations and actual paces are always vastly mismatched. (Or is it my expectations and actual abilities that are vastly mismatched? That was the interminable question.) I always did them on the same stretch of road, out and back. Like the old cliché, it was uphill both ways. (It’s actually pretty flat, but the effort felt that way. And—I swear to you—the wind was assuredly in my face both directions.) I’ve used this same route for years and tempo runs have never gone well.

So I stopped doing the same thing and expecting different results. I changed it up. I found a new route (a loop that I would have to circle a couple times, but no matter) and it made all the difference. I actually hit my goal pace for the first time in years, if not ever.

Did new twist on old route this morning & had great run. "I took the [running route] less traveled by and that has made all the difference."
— Teal Burrell (@runnerteal) September 30, 2014

Maybe sometimes what we need is a fresh take. I have too many memories of tempos gone poorly on that route; maybe it was getting in my head that it was uphill and windy both ways. I think it’s possible that part of the reason I fell apart in Boston this year—at the exact same place as last year—was the memories and doubts from the year before. As soon as you let a doubt sneak in—“I’ve been here before, and it hasn’t ended well”—it’s all over. Sometimes you need to change things up: training routes, workout structures, race courses or distances. Give your brain a chance to not know the end result before it happens.

What happened next? Loyal readers know the story: I took that one workout (the Only Successful Tempo Ever) and I ran with it, literally. I used it to fuel the remaining workouts before the Army Ten Miler, and they went well, too. I based every morsel of hope I had for Army Ten Miler on that workout—not on the many failures of August and September. And it worked.

Changing things—even the simplest thing like a workout’s route—was the flexible part. Now for the stubborn part:

People often talk about how they get a lot of motivation from wanting to prove their doubters wrong. But I’m incredibly lucky to have a relentlessly supportive family, team, and set of friends, and often the only person who says I can’t do something is me. So when I get frustrated or discouraged, I also get a little mad at that girl that thinks she can’t. When she gets her way, I get a little more stubborn. Next time, I’ll really show her. 

If you look carefully at last week’s rundown, you'll see that my expectations (my A and B goals) often got faster and faster, even when I didn’t get the results I wanted the previous go-round. (Despite never breaking 3:10 or 3:05, I went for sub-3. Despite never breaking 2:50 or 2:46, I went for sub-2:43.) Is this dumb? Maybe. It could lead to more disappointment and frustration.

But I think it’s actually evident of a completely rational belief that training pays off even when races don’t go as well as you planned. You’ll have your bad days—in workouts and races—but if you're stubborn enough to keep fighting, you will get better. Maybe it won’t be evident just yet. But if you’re working hard, your muscles, heart, and lungs are getting stronger. And if you get your brain to believe it too, you'll get there.

I hope 10,000 frustrations is a gross exaggeration, but it seems that way sometimes. As Rocky said, “It ain’t about how hard you hit. It’s about hard you can get hit and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That’s how winning is done.*”

So even if it is 10,000 hits, keep fighting.

Dream big,

Teal

*Thanks, GotMyTShirt, for posting that quote a few months back. (See? I told you all my supporters are eternally encouraging.)