It’s a hard thing to get over. I went along as if everything would go smoothly. I didn’t plan ahead and I waited until the last minute to try and make it work. Many would say it’s my fault. But when I look back and think about the bib number that was supposed to be mine, I just feel empty and a large void in my heart fills with bitterness. Racing is that one relationship that you have where everything is somewhere between a happy comfortable and an obligatory love. On a day to day basis, you look ahead to the race with an eagerness to build as much strength and confidence in it, but once the process of going through it gets underway you begin to learn about those nagging little details that make it a little tough to handle at times.
I’ve never missed a road race that I signed up for. I’ve shown up slightly buzzed, with little or no sleep, and even found myself in a port-o-potty when the gun went off in more than one instance. But I’ve never missed a race, let alone made a decision not to go… until Seattle. And not running it feels like a bad breakup. Seeing results, reading blogs, and hearing about it ignite a deep tearing feeling deep in my gut making me angry at the world but even more at myself for effing it up and not putting more effort into it.
And then I begin to feel regret. If I had done just one thing different; purchased a plane ticket further than one week in advance, I might have had a better shot at going. And I can’t forget about the void that I had to try and fill all weekend; which failed miserably. I tried to go out and run a long 17 mile run to try and mimic the pain of the race, but instead I lied in bed and felt bad for myself. Finally, to make it all worse, I looked up the results of the race and saw that I might have placed in the top 25 females (assuming I at least tied my previous marathon time). If that wasn’t “just kick you in the crotch, spit on your neck fantastic,” I don’t know what is.