Marathon training began in earnest last month, and with it the inevitable analysis of runs gone wrong. Could I have been faster? Trained harder? Consumed more/less GU/Gatorade? Worn different shoes? More/less/different clothing? Could I have shaved a few seconds off my time if I hadn't wasted breath cheering on that red-faced dude who was walking in the 19th mile? And what about that weird, spasmy leg thing that happened in the last 10k? What was that about? On paper, my last marathon was a success: I didn't die, or injure myself, or unwillingly defecate. What else can you ask from the 26.2? But I went into this one determined to do better--to finish faster and feeling stronger.
I thought I was being smart when I took some time to consider strategy--a more holistic approach to training. I'd started to have a little trouble with my IT band, and felt good about the fact that I'd worked in some strength exercises to address that, in addition to a particularly gruesome but effective technique, recommended by a running buddy, that involved applying deep tissue massage to those areas with a frozen Nalgene bottle (for the record, that shit hurts). The stress of the last year had left me about 10 pounds lighter, not weight I could afford to lose, and so I also started approaching nutrition deliberately (I have a tendency to forget to eat). Pilates, strength training, deep tissue massage and icing, good nutrition: these are all elements of a sound marathon training plan. On paper, I was good to go.
What I never stopped to consider was whether or not I wanted to dedicate myself to the endeavor. I've been wanting to run New York for so long that when I found out I got in, the decision was automatic. I registered immediately, giddily, and told everyone I knew, all of whom were excited for me and overwhelmingly supportive. I made plans to take the train from my conference in Boston the night before the race, to stay with a friend in Brooklyn, to take the Staten Island Ferry the morning of. I started training.
What I noticed right away was a profound ambivalence, which was totally new and deeply frustrating. I didn't want to run. I forced myself. We all have days when getting out of bed to knock out some miles is difficult, but it was happening every morning, and I pushed through the runs with an antsy boredom. At first I chalked it up to momentum: I needed some time to get in the groove. But as the weeks went by, and I wasn't putting on weight, and I was getting sick more frequently and severely than I ever have in my adult life, and I was constantly stressed about fitting in runs before it got too hot, I was forced to reconsider my decision.
When you're the sort of person who says yes to everything--not out of an inability to say no or a lack of assertiveness, but rather a wish to stuff your life full of as much experience as possible--backing out of a commitment, even one that you only made to yourself, is almost unthinkable. When people have suggested to me that perhaps I work too hard or push myself too hard or take on too much, it's always made me think about all of the things I'm not doing with my life. If only they knew what I slacker I am! If only they could see how deeply I've disappointed myself by not finishing that novel or learning to play cello or taking my kids on a Disney vacation or writing more letters to the editor or learning to sew or or or or or--
Sounds a little nuts, right?
I'm on the Board of an organization that's been entrenched in expansion planning for the past year; the last time we met with the developer, I asked him to identify our risks and vulnerabilities. His answer? Taking on too much. Trying to do too many things. And this is the risk of every entity who wants to expand: if you take on too much, you risk collapse. I say this to my Schweitzer Fellows constantly, as they wrestle with their community projects--most of them are passionate about what they do, they want to change the world, make a true difference. And almost all of them try to do too much; their project descriptions inevitably read like Five-Year Plans, though they only have 9 months to implement them. And my job is to gently direct them to simplicity and focus. I somehow manage to do this well, though as is true of most practitioners, my personal endeavors reflect the exact opposite approach.
And so, I've withdrawn from the marathon. I'm taking a hiatus from running, as well, as I think that particular form of exercise only promotes my tendency to push myself excessively. I'm going back to yoga and pilates, and though the mere thought of that makes me squirm with impatience, I think that's the exact reason to do it. I'm tired, and I'm slowing down.
This somehow feels like a huge risk (what if I slow down a little and completely stop doing everything?), but I've looked around at the people I admire and all of them possess the ability to simplify and focus, to essentially say, I can't do that right now. It seems paradoxical, still, but in my gut I know it's true: if I want to feel stronger, I need to quit.
Hooray for quitters.