ouch.

Boston 2 Big Sur. 2 marathons, 2 coasts, 13 days apart. Seemed like a great idea in the fall, coming off the high of my first ultra, feeling pretty invincible—I signed up without hesitation. Got some nice down time in the late fall, and started up my training mid-winter. I made solid progress and was on track to set a new PR (personal record) at Boston. The plan was to run Boston fast, then moan and groan and bask in my own glory, then have a leisurely jog at Big Sur. Perfectly good plan, as far as anyone could tell.

Until about mile 16. I noticed myself slowing down before I felt any pain, but over the next few miles keeping my pace became progressively more difficult. It was my hip. It felt like inflammation, like a pulled muscle, like your throat when you’re a kid with strep and it brings tears to your eyes every time you swallow—it f@#king hurt. My mind went into problem-solving mode: am I dehydrated, or hyponatremic? How bad is it and is it getting worse? Do I drop out to prevent further damage? Can I rehab it enough to run Big Sur, and possibly still make my record? Why didn’t I set tiered goals for this race? And why the hell did I tell so many people that I was running?

I determined that I was neither dehydrated nor hyponatremic, that the pain was bearable and that if it became unbearable I would simply stop and walk or drop out. I realized that my goal time was passing me by and that no matter what happened for the rest of the race at Boston, I would not be in racing shape at Big Sur. There being nothing I could do to hide my time tracking from my scattered friends and family following online, I decided to create those tiered goals I’d failed to make prior to the run. Top goal was the PR. Midlevel goal was to requalify for Boston which would have meant coming in under 3:40. And bottom line was I wanted to finish the race. Thank goodness for S jumping in at the top of Heartbreak to jog with me for a bit—she boosted my spirits immensely. So I finished, in 3:54.

People love to draw the easy parallel between endurance sports and life, but this particular race showed me a new aspect of it. I was angry and sad and embarrassed that my body gave out like that. I felt cheated by the world, and I felt judged by every person on the sidewalk who saw me walk. I experienced a flood of ugly negativity. I also felt grateful, however, to have the use of my vision and my legs. I felt blessed to have never lost a loved one to disease. It wasn’t a simple formula, i.e., I feel bad+think happy thoughts=now I’m all better. I finished the race in turmoil, uncertain of how my body would react in the coming days, praying I hadn’t made a stupid choice continuing to run, and horrified to tell my family and friends that I’d bonked. And I was proud to have finished the race. Over the following weeks, I’d ratchet back and forth between positivity and hopelessness, elation and frustration. And that’s the parallel I have been considering. That all the work I’ve put into creating coping skills—be they stress related, or sport related—isn’t ever finished. And that the point isn’t to reach into the bag and pick one perfect mechanism to get through a tough spot, but rather, if necessary, to cycle through every damn one.

Big Sur was a much better race. In spite of the altered (and therefore brutally hilly) course, I ran a more consistent and much less painful race. And as I came up on the finish, K and K were there to spur me on to another 3:54, neck and neck with my time at Boston.