fear

Why is it that negative experiences often have much more power than positive experiences over our thoughts and memory? I had a bad race yesterday and I'm having a hard time shaking it.

True, I have been having foot issues lately that have impacted my training. But I successfully completed my last long run and had a new PR in my last 5K. I had every reason to feel positive going into the Rock 'n' Roll Half Marathon.

I woke up at 4:30 a.m. for the race and felt queasy. That's normal for me. I'm a worrier and I haven't run a half marathon in two years. I get sick to my stomach before every race, even 5Ks. Once I toe the line I'm okay. Not this time. Since it was a large race (over 25,000 runners, I believe), it was a wave start and I didn't cross the line for a long while. I dutifully hit the button on my Garmin to time myself. A new PR is always a goal and despite my bad feelings, I was going to try for it.

The first couple of miles were uneventful. But almost right away I noticed that the Garmin wasn't cooperating. I haven't used it in a while so I had forgotten that for some reason (I think a pace setting), it sometimes pauses . Plus, running through underground tunnels messes up the signal. Time matters-- keeping track of my pace gives me a sense of motivation and a barometer of my performance. Without an accurate gauge I was feeling lost.

The stomach discomfort was not going away. The humidity was building. I felt very off. I left my iPod at home because I wanted to take in the bands stationed along the course. But the music was too short-lived and the tunes in my head were dirges. I felt a little spark of energy around mile 4 when we passed Old St. Pat's and saw the Irish dancers. But by mile 5 my despair returned. John yelled to me from the crowd on Michigan Avenue by the lions at The Art Institute. I knew I did not look good. In addition to the nausea, fatigue, humidity and low morale, my left foot-- my good foot-- was starting to cramp up. At this time I slowed to almost a stop and seriously considered bailing on the race. Walking off the course. Quitting. I honestly don't know why I didn't.

I told myself "just make it to the halfway point"-- so I kept going. Miles 6-9 felt a little bit better. I was walking a lot, but when I ran, I felt like my pace was steady and true. I passed people who were seeded before me. My faulty Garmin told me that I was doing okay. I knew it was wrong, but I thought maybe-- just maybe-- my running intervals were fast enough and that I was "borrowing" time. Just shortly after mile 9, I overheard other runners complaining of nausea and I saw a gal passed out on the side of the course. That made my own feelings of illness once again bubble to the surface.

I walked even more, thinking I'd run the last mile. But by the time I got to the last mile, I was so miserable that I just didn't care. I half-heartedly jogged the last quarter of a mile or so. I felt no sense of accomplishment when I crossed the finish line, only relief that it was over. When I saw John and Teresa just past the finish line, I could tell by the look of horror on Teresa's face that she could readily see my distress. I grabbed my medal with an overwhelming thought of "I have to get out of here." I was starting to panic a bit. I was overheated, dizzy, weak. All I could think about was my ambulance trip for irregular heartbeat a few years ago and I was very fearful that history was repeating itself.

John and Teresa helped me to the car. I carry potassium with me just in case so I took it. I was getting better a little bit at a time so I swallowed my apprehension, walked slowly and we made it home. I tried to eat something knowing that my electrolytes were out of balance but I couldn't choke it down. So I went to bed and stayed there for the rest of the day. Disappointment, meet sickness.

Later in the afternoon I went online and looked up my time, expecting a bad result. I came in at 2:46:53. About 6 minutes slower than the PR I wanted so badly to break. Thirty seconds or so per mile. Considering how much I walked, it meant that my actual running speed was pretty decent. Small comfort though.

I called my mom and she said, "that's great-- I'm so very proud of you." Dear mom. Teresa has been incessant with her encouragement, concern and kindness. I rested and recuperated today. I need to get back out there tomorrow and run 5 miles. I admit that I'm afraid. But giving into that fear means giving up something I love to do. And that's even scarier.