I’m fairly convinced that it’s the runs that make you suffer that teach the most. I’d even go so far as to say if you have the perfect run — the one you envision, train for and execute exactly as planned — you learn almost nothing. Because the only variance unanticipated is the exact time on the clock. Suffer, though, and you learn more about yourself than you likely thought possible. Perfect execution is a goal for professionals; I’m here for the journey. To learn. And learning equals success. So I accept that there may be suffering along the way.
Having been ill twice this winter, once with Covid, along with an injury (or three), I never came close to expecting perfect execution over 30 km/18 mi. What I wanted to do was persevere. I wanted to not give up, not stop due to breakdown. If I walked, I wanted it to be with intention. To remain in control, however much I might slow down.
The course did me no favors. The climbs were sparse, but diabolical: double-digit gradients on ancient cobblestones and gravel, equally steep on both sides. And we met them on 3 aggravating laps.
Then there were the out-and-backs, 1/2-mile lengths of asphalt and concrete along the harbor, with 4 lanes wrapped in among themselves. Bumper to bumper traffic to one side, massive diesel ships to the other, and 4 rows of runners slogging back and forth. Four times I faced that inferno of overwhelming stimulus, and by the last I had to pull my visor down low and stare just ahead of me to block out the input.
Layers and defenses stripped away as my reserves fell depleted, left raw and humbled as I pressed forward; I did not break down. I slowed, I chose specific, limited sections to walk (aid stations to ensure fueling, hills and some false flats particularly when my calves began to seize) but I remained in control. I found the way forward. I greeted the finish line with intention, and relief.
Although I’ve found my way to some podiums in the past, under certain circumstances that favored me, it’s never my goal. What I want to be able to win is the day. To tell my kids, or anyone who asks, “Yes, I won.” Not because I was first, but because I learned.
