Where do I start with this one? I'm having trouble organizing my thoughts this morning prior to my run. My run. My trudging. My three hour shuffle. My make or break? I should be stretching. I'm stalling. I want to do this. I am scared to do this. I am scared of failing. Is this a one chance thing? What if I did fail? What if something happens between now and October 10th to cause massive disappointment. I don't want to go all in as far as my expectations are concerned . . . as far as my hope goes. Because I do not deserve to feel good about my athletic accomplishments. Is that a true statement? I feel guilty every time I tell another person that I am running Chicago. I feel guilty telling people that training has been going really well.
Over time my expectations shifted from expecting to win and perform well to hoping I didn't fail. And now I am somewhere in the middle cautiously hoping that hope doesn't burn me . . . does not laugh in my face, "You do not deserve to even hope!"
Grace has gotten me this far. Every good run. Every bad run. Every step. Grace. Holds. Me. Up. A new, good friend of mine told me that through faith we hope (to do well). But, sometimes God plan for us is different. So, I do deserve to hope. I know that I am probably doing most things wrong from a sports psychology standpoint. But, I do know that I'm going to have fun. And hope for a performance that is satisfying. . . that looks like a success. . . that makes me feel good . . . that specifically is a time of about 3 hours and 50 minutes.
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What does 20 miles look like?
It looks like some Pardon the Interruption podcast, some rosary podcasts, a selected mix of old school Jock Jams and Totally Dance CDs. It looks like the gray morning light turning blazing gold over the lake. It looks like two big loops around a lake and through the arboretum.
It looked like 3 hours. It looked like my butt cramping for the last five. It looked like me singing my favorite Third Day song during mile 18. It looked like me groaning after I stood up for the next twenty-four hours. It looks like I'm feeling pretty good about this whole marathon thing.
It looked like 3 hours. It looked like my butt cramping for the last five. It looked like me singing my favorite Third Day song during mile 18. It looked like me groaning after I stood up for the next twenty-four hours. It looks like I'm feeling pretty good about this whole marathon thing.
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