The Scarlet Letter(s): D.N.F.

In my perfect mind, this title would be more like: "I AM BOSTON QUALIFIED AND NOW I'M TRAINING FOR A SUB 3:00:00!!!!" 

But alas, if anything lately, I have learned that reality has quite a funny way of smashing lofty expectations. In case you're foreign to the term "DNF" it translates to: Did Not Finish. As in - you quit during the race. Your name proooobably won't be on the "Results". And you'll probably beat yourself up about it, cry more than the 3 & 4 yo. you live with, and find yourself grieving over a unit of measurement that your feet pound repeatedly on until you hit the numbers 26.2. Can I tell you a story? Great. Have a seat.

For 7 months, I basically dedicated half of my life to running. From April-June, I built up allllll the base miles - aka: Running sloooooooow and looooooong. No tempo runs. No track workouts (How DARE there be no 800s!!). Just boring, blah, building. And from July-Oct., I tackled perhaps the most challenging training of my LIFE. It really was one whopping life lesson on adversity and overcoming said adversity. A stomach ulcer. A pelvic issue. Frantically calling PTs/nurses and double checking to make sure my uterus wasn't going to fall out (more on that later) at one point. Frantically google diagnosing a hip issue that I dubbed to be my glute tearing off. Recovery. More recovery. Setbacks. Important runs skipped due to said, bodily mishaps. Going to bed early, waking up early, getting out the door early, and basically reconstructing my entire life to fit this marathon training schedule. Why? Because every time my mind was telling me, "No, no, no, AG....you can skip. You've worked hard. Just sleep in. Just skip the warmup and jump straight into the workout," I equally saw an ambitious runner crossing the FINISH line and the time chip reading: 3:25:00. I saw her crying and screaming with joy and finally being able to share that she was Boston qualified. 

 7. Flipping. Months. 

It was an entire summer learning to retrain my brain. I'm not kidding. Physically, my heart and lungs and legs will be fine. Mentally, it is a constant war zone with my brain screaming, "STOP!!!!" and combatting it with, "YOU'RE FINE! The pain is okay!!! This is normal; whoooo! Yeah? Ok? Ok!" But seriously - there were runs I genuinely would get so nervous about (enter my love/hate relationship with the infamous tempo + 18 miler with marathon pace work at the end) - questioning to myself, "Is this really possible??" "I'm a novice!" "Are you kidding me?! 8:50 pace felt hard yesterday!! And I'm supposed to finish the last 4 miles of 18 at 7:50 pace?!" "What if my body can't do it?"

I've run a bunch of races before. A full marathon, 1/2 marathons, 5Ks...but this was my first training cycle that I dedicated myself to the fullest of my potential. I even had what I ate and when and what times the day before a long run, down to a science. My last, crucial long run...the lovely 22 miler....I averaged 8:35/mile for the entire run. I finished fast on dead legs, and for the first, time in my life, I truly felt what it was like to get OUT of my head about how awful I felt, focus on the mile I was in, and just go for it. 

And then, there was race day. I had this perfect vision of what the weekend would look like, prepped as much as I could in advance, and lo and behold - it was perhaps the most stressful race weekend of my LIFE. Every race, I tell myself, "Next time will be better." It's not so much the actual races that are awful, but the sequence of events leading up to them (a car breaking down, no sleep, a ride falling through the night before...all the warm fuzzies;)). For Long Beach, I had high hopes for a super low key, chill, and just fun weekend. When I crashed at my Airbnb at 3PM the day before the race, I could tell that I had way overcommitted myself in the days prior. Between driving, work, early mornings, and scheduling myself back to back...it took a toll on my mental sanity. I had been force feeding myself all. week. long. Purely due to so many "What ifs?" and pre-race game planning and figuring out how to navigate all this...and all of them coming true. Sleep + satiating my body felt like a chore. And I carried all of the stress by myself. What I truly wanted though, was someone to be present with me. I follow so many runners and know so many personally, whose families or significants or a friend tag team it with for the race weekend for all the "festivities" - the expo, the famous "pre race pasta dinner", checking out the race site, game planning it, chillin', just....being present.

But mine was the opposite. It felt like sheer chaos, miscommunication, and carrying all of the stress and game planning by myself. Everything felt rushed. My cortisol levels felt totally maxed out, due to a circumstance earlier that day. Everyone showed up late, service was slow, and I didn't eat dinner until 8PM, and could barely stomach anything when it finally did arrive. I went to bed feeling annoyed, stressed, sad....NOT ideal things to feel the night before a big race; whilst trying to save the adrenals! 

Surprisingly though, I slept pretty well...but my appetite was totally diminished. And so, the force feeding of oatmeal + 1/2 a bagel continued. I was a little concerned that the entire week of this + the stress the day before would catch up with me, but once I got to the race site, I felt totally pumped and ready to go. While my significant went to park the car, I warmed up, found the START line, and was pinching myself that the day was finally here. I was ready to go. In my head, all of the chaos leading up to it would be a huge part of my Boston Qualifying story - to show others that a crappo beginning doesn't = a crappo ending, hard work pays off, and with a little (ok; A LOT) of tenacity, dreams can absolutely come true.

It's a freakin' marathoning dance PARTAY!  

My plan was: Start with the 3:35 pace group to warmup the first 3-4 miles, ease into marathon pace, speed up if ya got it in ya the last 10k, or just hold on if ya think ya gonna fall over. 

I doubled checked with the 3:35ers: "You're going to hold around an 8:10 pace, right?" A guy going for a sub 3:30 had a race game plan close to mine, so we stuck by each other at first. I couldn't tell if the GPS was off on my watch or if the pacers had seriously run the first mile at a 7:40 pace. "Mmmm...this feels like marathon pace. Not an easy 8:10," I thought. As I slowed down around mile 3, I found my sub 3:30 friend. 

"They went out hot!" he said. I was relieved to know that our splits had been averaging the same, and my watch wasn't off. We stuck by each other until mile 4, and then I said, "Alrighty; I'm gonna pick it up to marathon pace! Good luck to you, man!!" And off I went. I was in the 7:40s, and it felt amazing. I felt like I was flying. I passed the 3:35 pace group and their fastest "8:10 pace" I'd ever felt. Today was the day - I just knew it. I felt SO joyful, smiled all happy-go-lucky for the cameras, waved all giddily when I'd see my significant, took my first gel at mile 6, and felt on fire until mile 11.

Mile 11. Oh my gosh. Freaking mile 11. I will NEVER forget this moment. My stomach had felt a smiiiiiidge off a couple miles after taking my gel - mile 9ish? - but nothing crazy. "Hopefully this all will just settle down and not get any worse," I thought. Well, that's like expecting the stupid girl in the horror movie to say, "There's nothing to worry about!" and nobody in the entire dang group in the haunted house getting killed. Let's put it this way: All of the pasta and oatmeal I had been force feeding myself...was slowly, agonizingly coming back up. And suddenly, I was stopped on the side dry heaving. But nothing came back up. So, I kept going. It donned on me that for feeling as awful as I did, I was progressively getting faster.

"Ok; if I feel this awful and am still maintaining 7:35-40 pace, I can finish this dang thing!!" 

Because this dude's booty shorts are #thebest 

But as fate would have it - everything felt worse. I could not keep anything down. It was a mixture of praying and swearing. Even a sip of water triggered the sloshing, stomach knotting, dry heaving sensations I was trying so hard to settle down. At this point, I was begging God to "please just ease my stomach".  Had it been mile 22ish, then puking on myself or dry heaving my way to the finish would be more acceptable. But 11 miles in? Not even at the halfway point? I needed Divine intervention. I had never felt this awful during a race or training in my LIFE. My significant found me at mile 13, and could tell by my face and rounded shoulders and shriveled up stride that I was feeling awful. Originally, the plan was that he would meet me at mile 17 and pace me until the finish. He jumped in 4 miles early. 

The next 6.5 miles were a mixture of feeling a little better, dry heaving, and repeat. I had not taken a gel since mile 6 (we were around mile 15 at this point), and so I forced myself to suck down just 1/2 of it. It exacerbated everything. My pace went from a crisp 7:40 and feeling on fire, to 9:40 (yes - 2 MINUTES slower), shuffling, and slowly, painfully, watching any hope for my BQ that was left...fade away. It wasn't until I squatted down near a bush to try and throw up that it all donned on me. I saw the 4:00:00 pace group go by, and that really was what sealed the deal. I had a choice: A) Suffer and shuffle to the finish line just to say "Yeeeeee; I finished!" B) Accept that today wasn't the day, and D.N.F.

"I can't keep going." 

I broke down - literally weeping - as I stepped onto the sidelines, watching the other ambitious marathoners power through. I ripped off my bib#, said, "F*ck this," (instead of "F*ck Yeah!" -Shalane Flanagan;)) (just keepin' it real, folks) (Ok; I did apologize for my #DirtyWord afterward), and felt like a piece of me had just died. It was ridiculous and yes - a little pathetic. I went from feeling strong HERE:

Yeeeeah; feeling on top of the world! 

To here....

"Oh eff; I'm about to purge."

The next few days literally felt scarring. I felt like I was in a haze. The race and the failure I experienced were on replay. My 2.5 year relationship rather traumatically, unexpectedly, but mutually ended 3 days later. And mentally, I was in perhaps the loopiest headspace I've ever been in. My heart felt like it had been ripped out of my chest, blended in my Ninja, clumped back together, frozen, and then hammered to pieces all over again. But as I sit here (sane), healing, and in a coffee shop writing this, I learned something:

Even though I didn't get the race experience I had hoped for, time I had dreamed of, and am no longer doing life with the person I thought would be my forever - it all is still a part of my story. "Did Not Finish" does not mean that I still WON'T finish. My relationship finishing does not mean that I AM "finished". I believe that hardship, reality shattering expectations, and adversity mold us in ways that in the present, dark moments, we simply do not realize. I believe that looking back on these moments will make success and aspirations becoming fruition...all the sweeter. Throughout my training, I was reminded over and over and over again: Crappy now does NOT = crappy later. There is still hope. There is still joy. There is death, but there also is resurrection.

One of my favorite bloggers, Janae @ Hungry Runner Girl posted the day everything fell a part: Sorrow prepares you for JOY. And I am clinging tightly to the graphic she shared below.

"In my head, all of the chaos leading up to it would be a huge part of my Boston Qualifying story - to show others that a crappo beginning doesn't = a crappo ending, hard work pays off, and with a little (ok; A LOT) of tenacity, dreams can absolutely come true." And although this was my intention for Long Beach...the truth is that it is STILL my intention, STILL a part of my story today. And come December, stay tuned to see what marathon/goal I am tackling. ;) Feel the suck, but then pick yo'self right back up.

(Also: Stay tuned for a whole new blog/website transition in the near future. Some dreams of mine + FUUUUN stuff coming up SOON! I'm mildly geeking out!)