Expectations, Hot Marathons and a 5k.

Can we talk about this?

For the love of vodka...

Much like last year, I decided to run a marathon the Sunday before Columbus day.

Also like last year, as of this past Sunday the high looked to be around 68-70.

Last year I thought “how much hotter could it get!”

And it was 80 by the time I finished.

And this year?

We’re looking at a hot day yet again.

I am thinking I need to give up on this whole early fall marathon thing because fucking A, I hate the heat.

And I don’t care if you live in America’s wang or Rick Perryville and think that’s comfy. I don’t live in those awful places.

No.

Yes, Homer said it first. If you didn't know that I hate you.

I live in a much colder awful place and run like shit in the heat. So this? IS NOT GOOD NEWS.

Oddly enough however, I’m mostly too distracted to care. I’m actually finishing up the last week at my current job (I know…shocking) and starting a new one Monday and am preoccupied with all the fears that go with it. I also know I’m undertrained and not in PR shape anyhow so…what the fuck am I doing?

Good fucking question.

And frankly, I wondered about that this past Sunday too.

Much like last year, I opted to run a 5k with a fast, mostly masters, all women field. I don’t know why. I drove to the race on zero sleep and in driving rain. I thought about the fact that this was a dumb idea, though I also thought that running Wineglass this year in the same weather might have been dumber. (Now that I’m looking at unseasonable warmth? I am kinda wondering about that one.)

Anyhow, I broke 20 at this particular 5k last year.

This year? I did not.

Oops – spoiler alert.

As much as I went into the race realizing it was mostly an exercise in futility, I realized within about 600 meters I wanted to be under 20 again. Then I found myself hitting the first three kilometers in about 4:00 even. I tried to stay on the tangent line but found myself pretty far back (FAST RACE) and weaving through some of the crowds. While I felt pretty good, I hit the 4k in about 16:07 and realized I’d screwed the pooch.

I turned into the last kilo thinking about the fact that I had just a quick uphill followed by about 600 meters of down. I also thought about the fact that I’d be pissed if I didn’t try and pick it up, but my legs felt…meh. One woman started to pass me and got ahead for a brief moment but I took her down and ran down one more along the way.

The final result?

ZOMGZ TEH GARMIN DISTANCE IS DIFFERENT!

20 fucking 07. Giving me the dubious honor of being the first woman in the field to NOT get under 20. Which frankly would have been easier to swallow if I hadn’t been able to clearly see the clock switch over. Or had I not broken 20 last year. A friend was standing near the chute and I immediately started bitching about going over 20 until he stopped me and said “You’re running a marathon next week, you’ve been injured for how long, the weather wasn’t as nice as last year and you’ve done how much speed work in the past year?”

(The answer, by the way, is none. Well, at least not in the traditional sense.)

But his point – that I should STFU – was taken. I had no expectations for that race going into it, and all things considered I HAD NO RIGHT TO COMPLAIN.

But here is the thing:

No matter how relaxed approach I take going into these things, I have a hard time NOT Monday morning quarterbacking everything I do. From what I ate over the past month to what I haven’t been doing for months before, I can’t help but analyze even low key races. And this is problematic in the sense that I tend to stress out even when I have ZERO expectations about a race.

Which leads me to this coming Sunday:

I want to say I have NO EXPECTATIONS for Sunday, but I realize that I can’t say that.

My goal is not to make an ass of myself. It’ll be hard since I’m bloated as all fuck and in an ideal world I’d be gunning for something faster than what I am capable of right now…but it ain’t happening.

So, let’s hope (and by “so let’s hope” I mean “For the love of vodka…I better”) I manage to eat enough salt and carbs to avoid cramping on Sunday and that it remains cool enough for me to wear a tank top so nobody has to see my fat gut flapping around for 26 miles. Let’s also hope my stupid knee holds up and that I can wear heels Monday morning when I have to go to work. And let’s hope I don’t suck too much ass. (That’s what the hooker said.)

And if you’re all for rooting against me, you can hope for all of those things. We cool.

I’ll just work on my Voo Doo doll of you.

JUST KIDDING.

Yeah…

Kidding.