The morning of my birthday last Fall, when I was standing on the beach among hundreds of athletes about to test our mettle in front of friends, family, strangers, and each other at the Malibu Triathlon, it hit me how courageous it is to race.
Every single one of those activities we could have done by ourselves, or with close friends, i.e. not in front of a crowd to watch and judge us. True, it isn’t like anyone really cares, (ever), if we race well or not. The world will keep turning if we PR or DNF some random race on a Saturday in mid-September, or a coveted Championship event, but it’s still a risk we take to put ourselves on display, pushing our bodies and minds in unattractive and straining ways that hurt our limbs and egos fully aware that most of us won’t win, or even execute a “good” race, (or what we perceive as “good”), but we still do it, often, because the truth is we don’t race for them, we race for ourselves.
As I stood submerged in sand that morning, after having battled with the validity of indulging my competitive nature for decades, I received the ultimate birthday gift, the belief that being a racer is brave, and an honest version of being selfish in order to be selfless.
However, after completing a decent performance at Ironman Arizona in November that was quickly followed up with an embarrassing and painful showing at CIM in December, I hobbled through the end of 2022 with a sore hamstring and janky ankle, swollen and confused, it felt like I was living out a bad ending to a great book.
Meanwhile, my confidence took a cue from the chilly climate and holed up hibernating in a cave somewhere chomping down cookies and chugging craft beer, but left me stuck babysitting its annoying twin, anxiety. That little dipshit followed me everywhere. Even at the start of January it was still clinging around my neck, taking my breath away, and try as I might, I just couldn’t shake it.
My vision blurred as I stared down another year of massive races, Boston, Kona, another shot at CIM, (plus a smattering of others along the way), they all seemed like a mirage; my gut knew I was running out of idle time, but I was numb, my heart wasn’t ready for any of it, yet.
A few months ago, during a mid-week efficiency-infused morning, I registered for the Surf City Half Marathon (just the Half, not the Full this time) held in early February. The only reason that I did not strike it from the calendar and eat the registration fee while stuck in my anxiety-riddled staycation, was because I remembered the gift I received on my birthday, the belief that I am a racer. No matter what. I crave struggle and chances to face fear, with or without confidence, disappointment is a luxury of having the opportunity to try, so why would I let pride and anxiety beat me now?
Photo Credit: Hillary Biscay.
Last Sunday morning I woke up before 4A, drove over an hour in pouring rain to Huntington Beach, fastened my hair in a high-ponytail, and joined in with thousands of other runners, courageous racers like me, on the starting line of the Surf City Half Marathon.
Suddenly, I could breathe again.
Cut to, a tall redheaded middle-aged woman with a crazed ponytail heaving to catch her breath while running down PCH faster than her body was prepared for on the first Sunday in February. Yet even with labored breathing and a hyper-fast heartbeat, I was at ease. Even feeling heavier than usual, I was at ease. Even though I was simply one person among thousands, nowhere near the front or rear, but insignificantly in between, I was at ease.
Happy, and at peace.
Doing what I love most, challenging my physical and mental limits surrounded by like-minded friends and strangers (both in the race and on the sidelines) running as fast as I could from start to finish.
Thankfully, my hamstrings held up, my feet were steady, the clouds had parted, (literally), and just like a signal that my heart was in it, my rested and rejuvenated confidence shimmied up by my side just as the GPS flooded from Red to Green on my watch; two steps before crossing over the starting line, I finally felt like myself again.
I did run six minutes slower than the last time I raced the Surf City Half Marathon in 2019, (I clocked a 1:29 that year, dang), but I told a friend in the corral before the start that I was hoping to run a 1:35, and I did.
Therefore, considering I was not in Half-Marathon shape at all, I had only completed a single speed session (in months) the Sunday prior, and was prescribed a plentiful day of training the day before, i.e., unrested, I was stoked to have cranked out a 1:35:20, (7:15min. mi. avg.).
That’ll do, for now.
Post race meet-up at Duke's with my TeamSFQ teammates, my coach, Hillary, and my athlete, Anna, who absolutely SMASHED her race!!! Photo Credit: I'm not sure??
The song and video choice this week is the new single from Pink, Trustfall. It is a beautiful and catchy song, and much of the video was shot on my favorite stretch of PCH in Malibu. Enjoy.:)