Punting the Ball

If you've been reading for the past month or so, you know that I'm kind of in the middle of a major endeavor.

A large part of the reason I haven't been doing the typical "check out my half-marathon progress!" posts are because, to be completely honest, the majority of times that I stumble upon those training recaps on other blogs, they make me squirm. Reading posts about blonder, thinner, more spritely ladies saying how they, "are so out of shape and haven't run in forever!" who then turn around and post about how they busted out an "easy" 5-miler at a sub-10mile might be inspiring to some, but to me, they make me feel like an utter, utter failure (and that's why I've stopped reading them).

And while it's true that I have no problem throwing some snark out there, the last thing I want is to make OTHER people feel like shit. Although if I'm being honest, I sincerely doubt that would happen.

Because for the most part (up until the last week or so, since I'm being honest), training for a half marathon has been, in a word, HELL.

I've said this before and I've never won any friends out of it, but to the people who say that "anyone can be a great/fast/distance runner if they work hard enough!", I call BULLSHIT. Running is like writing, or any other hobby; anyone can learn to do it, but I truly believe it takes a certain amount of natural talent in order to excel. That's why there are millions of blogs and books and only a comparatively small list  of NYT best-sellers, and why 27,000 runners cross one line in Hopkinton but only a handful cross Copley in under 3 hours.

We can't ALL be good at EVERYTHING.

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But as the thousands of people who don't list, "Published Author" as part of their Twitter bio and all those individuals huffing and puffing their way around the track at 5:30am can tell you, that doesn't have to stop us from trying new things, from setting new goals, from pushing ourselves to the brink.

Sure, I might not have the "natural" body type for a runner -- my flat feet, disproportionately large calves, wide hips and the extra 50lbs I'm currently hauling around my waist are proof enough of that. Even my good runs, some times, are bad runs; aches, pains, foot spasms and asthma attacks all coalesce into one epically unsatisfying experience, each mile slower than the last.

Let me put it this way: on the second 5-miler of my training plan, I got lapped by a man who wasn't a day under 80.

Twice.

At I watched that old man's grey ponytail disappear further and further over the horizon, quitting as an option became more and more real. During those same 5 agonizing miles, I envisioned my bloody, blistered self in the middle of a battlefield, white flag waving frenetically in one hand and a single, sweat-soaked towel being hurled "in" -- wherever "in" was -- with as much strength as my defeated body could muster.

I didn't, though. Instead, I dry-heaved my lunch, cursed myself for not drinking enough water beforehand and continued to put one foot in front of the other. Mostly because I was in Cambridge with no money for a cab, bus or measly T ticket home, but also because I remembered all of the dreams I've had and all of the goals I've set, without ever following through because I'm petrified of failure, of not being good enough, of coming in last.

The student newspaper.

The double-major in Classics.

The graduate degree, from law to publishing to law again, and finally to health communications (so about that GRE...).

And then, when all the pictures of the things I was too afraid to try were done with their slideshow, came the words. Oh, the words.

Slow.

Fat.

Failure.

Those are the images and words that sometimes float through MY head, as I'm slogging up the Mem Drive side of the Charles River, 2-miles into a 5-mile long run half-blinded by sweat, calves and shins beating their omnipresent drum of ache with massive blisters burrowing ever-deeper into the insoles of my feet.

Sometimes, I quit. More often, though, I let those thoughts and feelings fester, until I can feel my blood boiling just below the surface of my skull. I get angry at all the times in my life I've let petty excuses, circumstances and plain old laziness get in the way of what I've wanted. I get so angry, in fact, that before I know what has happened, my legs have picked up speed and I'm barreling down the river, one foot in front of the other until suddenly, I've fulfilled my mileage and I can collapse on the ground, spent in more ways than one.

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I know that there's a prevailing idea that we're all supposed to be Susie Can-Do in this ol' blog world. That we're supposed to surround ourselves with positive energy, tack inspirational quotations all over the place, tell ourselves "YES WE CAN!" and to be the ball.

But sometimes? I find it much more effective to let those nasty thoughts creep in, to scream, "NO, I CAN'T!", and to punt the mothereffing ball as far away from myself as humanly possible.

So to answer the question that keeps popping up in my inbox, yes, I am still training for the BAA Half Marathon on Columbus Day weekend.  It hasn't been easy, it hasn't been pretty and it sure as shit hasn't been fast. At this point, I've pretty much come to terms with the fact that in all likelihood, at the end of the 2:30:00 official deadline to cross that finish line, there will be a big ol' DNF next to my name. My barely 12:30 minute miles and I have come to peace with it. But in the meantime, we keep swearing and sweating and screaming and -- yes -- sometimes punting.

But most of all, we keep running.

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Because really, what's the point of having the ball if you don't have to punt and run to catch it?