On nerves

The night before I ran my first marathon, I didn't sleep much. I forced myself to bed before nine o'clock, and then woke up at least once an hour all night long. It was nerves. Big-time nerves. I'd heard of runners feeling like they were going to throw up after a race, but my stomach rolled all the way to the starting line. When the gun finally went off, a surge of adrenaline went through me, chilling me right to the bone.

The nerves, combined with a disappointing race performance and an injury left me feeling sorry for myself as we drove home. But before the sun set on that day, I'd signed myself up for another marathon.

I recognized the feeling; as a high school swimmer, I loved practice, but hated races. I'd never skimp on my laps during practice, but I felt so intimidated as I saw the other teams' swimmers entering the pool deck that I wanted to run back into the locker room and cry. The only time in my life that I ever faked being sick was when I managed to snag some entries into the district championship meet. I just couldn't take the pressure. 

At the second marathon, the nerves were still there, the same feeling of dread set in a couple of weeks before race day, the clock taunted me all night long once again, but at least I could eat breakfast. The next time, I slept and ate breakfast.

This weekend I'm running my seventh marathon, and three days out, I'm not nervous. I don't know if it will be my best race (I've had sort of a nagging IT-band injury, and my training wasn't as focused as it could have been), but I'm no longer afraid. If I do well, great. If I don't, there's always another race (I'm already signed up for Ogden and plan to sign up for New York once I get back). If my knee doesn't cooperate and I have to pull out, it will be a bummer, but I'll live.

Not being afraid is pretty liberating, and it's something I never really thought would happen. Even if I never get another PR, then I consider overcoming my game-day fear to be a reward that will translate beyond running.