I love races. Er. Ma. Gerd. Do I love races. I love the mercilessly early alarm clock shattering the inevitably fitful bouts of sweaty, restless sleep. I love the frantic dash to arrange clothes as accessibly as possible always-later-than-planned the night before, and the mad scramble to decipher that arrangement the all-too-early next morning. I love force-feeding cliff bars and beans into my anxious, groggy belly, only then to be forced onto over-long porta-potty lines cutting it uncomfortably close to the start gun (and the thresholds of my bladder…TMI?)

But even better than all that (and what could possibly be better than staving off self-imposed diarrhea at 6 in the morning?) are those first few hopeful footfalls over the startline, when the energy that has been building over hours and days, and months of early mornings and evenings turning down happy hour invitations, springs an adrenal leak in that steely anti-happy hour resolve, and the whole world revolves around you and however many hundreds or thousands of your closest friends swarm that start line with you.

No matter the race distance, it’s profound the way that energy ebbs and flows with the turns and climbs and crowd’s enthusiasm. Each stride strips a little of your emotional and physical wellbeing, and you’re left to your thoughts, your training, and maybe your playlist. (Neyo had a lead role in the last few miles of my first half marathon.) Eventually, your feet and legs and brain and iPod overcome the miles laid before you and you sprint or limp or do whatever you need down that finisher’s shoot to collect your medal, your banana and chocolate milk (and beer!), and your newly-elevated pride. The rest of the day – the length of which is inversely proportionate to the length of the race you just crushed – is left to revel in your victory and your well-deserved bottomless brunch. (Unlike daylight, the earned depth of your post-race brunch is directly proportionate to the race distance.)

All this is to say, races are the best. From sleep deprivation, to bowel instability; from mental and physical anguish, to bottomless self-esteem, champagne and eggs.

And here I am, laying out clothes for Scott; affixing his number to my race belt and digging into my bulk stash of energy beans and shot blocks to make sure he has all the fuel he needs for the best race possible. He’s gone to bed now, and I’ve laid out a water bottle and Nuun, and set my alarm to wake up with him to see my gorgeous runner-man off.

In the midst of all that partner-rather-than-self-prep, I’ve found time to gaze longingly at my own bib, which will go unused tomorrow. Ah screw it, let’s be honest, after Scott tucked himself in, I literally cried on my number. I held it in my lap, and thought about how many people out there entered that lottery back in the spring for the chance to run tomorrow. I have in my possession a red and yellow piece of paper that thousands of people wish they had, and it’s as useless as my left ankle.

 

(Oh and I myself fought harder than just entering a spring lottery to get my grubby, gimpy hands on it: I fought the online hordes last year for a spot in the disorganized Marine Corps 17.75k [11.03 mile] trail run out in Mothmen territory, suburural [I made that word up] Virginia to earn my ticket into tomorrow’s race. Money and miles well spent clearly.)

I was so excited a few months ago for another go at the perennially-popular Marine Corps Marathon after being benched with a similar left ankle stress fracture last year. (At least I’ll have Birkin rather than that air boot as a sideline accessory this time.) After my mushy brain and resulting dizzies denied me my first full Ironmen, I thought MCM might be my Boston Qualifying (BQ) race. Not PR’s be damned, I’m not even allowed to run down the block let alone 26.2 miles. It’s just another huge letdown. Another goal sabotaged by my own body. And I am so sad. Er. Ma. Gerd. Am I sad.

So as I’ve thrown this very pitiful pity party against Scott’s slumber party in the next room, I’ve tried to self-reflect at least a little, and what I’ve come up with is:

It’s not about me.

Not this time. It’s been about me, a lot. Running and cycling and racing triathlon have been endeavors that have caused not just my world to revolve around myself, but have also spun Scott, and Birkin, my family and numerous supportive friends and coaches into my orbit. So this selfish gravitational pull is just one more thing I need to shake off as this disappointing year winds down. Scott has been by my side since my first century ride and then tri, and my dear friend Lindsey was there at that first tri finish line too. And they deserve to have tomorrow be all about them, from wake-up through brunch and beyond.

In racing we often develop mantras that we repeat to ourselves to keep going when things get tough. When I [get to] race, I tell myself in my head that I’m doing great and I count down from 10, and outloud I yell, ‘Go legs!’ Tomorrow’s mantra will be a little change of pace (get it?). In my head I’ll be repeating, ‘It’s not about me.’ And, outloud, ‘GO RUNNERS!’