I go through insomniac phases. Often I can blame this on the myriad small humans waking me during the night with various complaints of darkness, fear, thirst, or needs to vomit. As of late, it has been the fault of the youngest and his molars. The thing is, once he is again calm and settled, snug and warm and sleeping…Mama is wide awake with Brooks-wearing butterflies running about her tummy.
ELEVEN DAYS. That, dear Readers, is less than two weeks. Just in case you couldn’t do that math. Speaking of math, let’s talk numbers, shall we? Eleven days. Five to six more runs. One Komen 5k (still time to donate!). 26.2 miles. One thousand or more of the aforementioned butterflies.
The good news is I am only nervous when the moon’s out. My confidence rises with the sun every day and my Ego resumes its normal magnificent size. In the light of day, I am all “pshaw” and “it ain’t gonna be NOTHIN.'” But wake me mid-slumber and I can lie awake for hours mentally dissecting each twinge of the knee, crack of the hip, or slight cramp of the calf. It is not so much that I’m worried about my ability to finish; I am worried about my inability to make it to the starting line injury free. I have never been what one would call graceful.
So. The outcome of the worry is this: no more plyo. Modified TurboFire (I restrain myself from out and out jumps for fear of bad landings). Lots more stretching. Absolutely NO high heels (not that living in our section of the sticks calls for heels very often, but just in case…that’s the rule for the next eleven days).
And if I need motivation? Well, I always have you, right? But just in case you choose not to cheer me on (I will assume the only reason will be that fireants have gnawed off your fingertips leaving you unable to type), I have stories of previous marathoners facing much greater odds than “but it’s my first one.”
Take Pheidippides. He was the first marathon runner ever. Not only did this guy fight in the Battle of Marathon, he ran 26.2 miles without stopping to declare the victory and then dropped dead. Now that’s some grit right there. Of course, I am hoping for far different results after my 26.2. But I’ve got walking breaks, Gu, and people handing me water. Plus, PortaPotties. Things have changed since 490 BC. I bet the poor guy never even read a single issue of Runner’s World.
I also rather enjoy the story of Kathrine Switzer, the first woman to wear a bib number in the Boston Marathon. Registered as “K.V. Switzer,” she was chased down by a male race official upon his discovery that she was, indeed, female. He attempted to eject her from the race but was stopped by a protective wall of fellow racers. She finished and went on to run 35 marathons.
Suddenly, my little old Run for the Red seems teeny in comparison. So teeny that I know I can squash it like a bug. Still, though…feel free to praise me. Or buy me a tiara or a crown so everyone can see I am a Running Queen. I won’t deprive you of those things. Because, well…that’s just the sort of thoughtful girl I am.
Now…if I could just get this kid to sleep…