Trade Offs

It's been three months, one week, and five days since I injured my foot. After noticing some pain in my arch a few days prior, on March 20 I ran the first three miles of the Shamrock Half Marathon pain-free before alternating sharp and dull pains set in on the bottom of my foot and waxed and waned for the next ten miles. I crossed the finish line at 30th Street wet, proud, and happy, but in a lot of pain. As soon as I passed the timing mat and slowed to a walk, I realized...I couldn't walk. Not with any weight or pressure on my left foot, anyway. I literally hobbled to the bag check truck a couple blocks away, dragging my foot and wincing with every step. How I managed to run 13.1 miles before getting to that point is still a mystery to me. 

I knew once I started feeling that pain at mile four that I had a choice to make. I knew that my plans to run the Big Sur Marathon the next month and Ironman North Carolina in the fall were in jeopardy. I also knew how disappointed I'd feel taking a DNF - not only would it have been my first ever, but it would have been the worst race for that to happen to me. I have a love/hate relationship with Shamrock. It has always tested me, and I have failed more than I've passed.

So I pressed on, I continued when I arguably shouldn't have, and I ran every step all the way to the end. During those 110 minutes I was out on the course, the risk of having my spirit crushed was greater than the risk of whatever consequences I might face at the end. The consequences were these: I dropped out of Big Sur, I was unable to rub for 2 months, and subsequently started my Ironman training ~200 running miles behind. Those were the trade-offs.

The more training cycles I go through, the more trade-offs I'm presented with. I haven't had a perfect training cycle since my first marathon 2.5 years ago, yet with every new one, I foolishly give in to the expectation that this will be the one. This will be the one where I have the discipline to endure every workout, the one where I never get sick or injured, the one where my life is stable and I can go to bed early and wake up early, the one where I can only see the finish line and everything else takes a back seat. 

Today I was back at the scene of the crime for the first time since that dreary March day. I sat out on the balcony overlooking the ocean, 14 stories above that same spot where I was limping a few months ago, getting ready for my long run. I had already accepted that this wouldn't be my best run