Heartbreak

At the expo on Saturday, I was rummaging through all of the merchandise and fancied a t-shirt that had a heart  broken in half with Heartbreaker written across it along with some other text. I looked at it and wanted to kick Heartbreak Hill's butt right then and there. Mentally, my game was 100% on.

Instead, two days later I found myself unwilling to continue the race to make it to the notorious Heartbreak Hill. My heart sank. It is sunk. Since Monday, I've thought over the race and my decision to pull out at the half way point countless times. Unfortunately, each time seems to muddle what once seemed like an easy and appropriate decision.

Well before the start of the race it was evident that Boston was not going to be a PR endeavor. Initially, it almost felt like some relief--the weight of my own expectations were lifted from my shoulders. There was a lot of back and forth conversation, but although other people deferred to next year, I knew this wasn't an option, with all the travel and expenses that had already been incurred, so I tried to be as ready and positive as possible.

There was no way to predict what was about to come. On Monday, I arrived at athlete's village right around 7:30 am. It was already warm. I sat in the village, trying to keep out of the sun and my skin cool for the 2 hours before departing for the starting line. I peed three times from 7:30 until the gun went off. There was no way to get any more fluids in me, and I had been consuming gatorade and water in excess for the past 4 days. My pee was clear.

Standing in the corral awaiting the gun, beads of sweat ran down my chest. My plan was to take it as a nice long, easy run. Well, that didn't happen. Maybe it's because it's a race and I can't hold back, I don't know. Out of the gates I was at or faster than original goal pace---and it felt great! My legs just wanted to go! A good sign that the training had come together. After cruising through the 10k the heat, coupled with the pace, really started to impact my running. I couldn't get cook despite drinking at every station and running through the sprinklers.

Not Good.

So I decided to bargain with myself. Make it through Wellesley to see the girls. It's time to pull out. My feet were scorching. My shoulders felt like they were on fire. Running for possibly two more hours just seemed silly. Why? Just to have another crappy finish time? At that point I guess finishing wasn't the priority. It seemed stupid. My body was hating me already---13 more miles!? This felt worse than Chicago in 2007. Maybe it's because I've had some decent marathons since then too, that I just wasn't ready to put up with that crap. I pulled out at the Red Cross tent at 13.4 miles. Absolute in my decision, I started to process what I had just done.

I thought about all the people on the course cheering for me. The teammate from college--her kids making posters for me--waiting at mile 24. A college friend and husband in Newton--I wouldn't make it to them. Matt--who was bopping around the course, and how I wasn't going to make it to his next spot. I thought about all the people who had sent me cards, words of encouragement and had been my biggest supporters. I thought about all the people who contributed to my fundraising efforts for Girls on the Run. I thought about my team who sent me off in the best way possible. I thought about all my hard work over the past four months.

Only then did I feel like a failure. I feel like I had let people down. I let myself down. But how? There was no way I was going to achieve what I had set out to do anyway! Then I finally let myself cry. In the car, on the way to retrieve my belongings at the finish, amid all the finishers, with their sense of accomplishment and triumph. Medals around their neck and gimps in their step. I longed to be one of them but it wasn't in the cards.

A few days later, I'm still trying to figure this all out. I'm not satisfied with any of it. You don't bust tail and make sacrifices for that long to have a freak hot day on the east coast ruin you. That's how I feel about it. This was supposed to be my curtain call race so to speak, with plans to take a break from marathons for a while. Totally unacceptable. I'm too stubborn. Now my head is all over the place though and I keep looking for which way to go--and I don't know. Run another race? What if that sucks too? Do you try for a marathon? Try for a 1/2? Say that it's over?

Right now there is no answer. I wish I could put my new Boston jacket on and wear it with pride. The tags hang on it, the burnt orange color a reminder of the blazing inferno, as it taunts me. I can't wear it---will I ever?

When running is such a large part of your identity---how do you bounce back, after heartbreak?