I will not be able to run the Twin Cities marathon.
I figured today (2 weeks before the race) was my last chance and if I didn’t improve significantly I would have to give up.
Well I didn’t.
I did improve, but oh so slightly. I’m still really bad.
Each week there has been a tiny improvement, and I need six times that to be ready to race.
It’s frightening. With an injury you have tangible proof that something is wrong and know that you just have to wait until it heals. With something which might be overtraining? Well who knows? There’s no obvious thing to fix.
Will I ever get back to where I was?
I was expecting this. It isn’t as disappointing as I had feared, not as disappointing as it was.
But a few days ago I was so depressed that I couldn’t sleep and finally I had to get out of bed and write a(n extremely self-indulgent) piece about my despair and how that just exacerbated my other insecurities (mainly my conviction that I’m an terribly dull and no one could possibly want to be my friend). Luckily I had sense enough not to post it — but writing it was cathartic.
‘ “On the Usefulness of Everything”,’ read the Muskrat, ‘But this is the wrong book, the one I had was about the Uselessness of everything.’
But the Hobgoblin only laughed.
Finn Family Moomintroll — Tove Jansson
OK. I can’t run well today, but I am getting better. There are other marathons. I will recover (I think, hope). There’s no rush.
There was a flotilla of tiny little ¿grebes? down by the waterfront this morning. I can’t identify them, but they were cheerful, silly little birds, swimming in tight circles and dipping their bills constantly into the water. And the clouds after the first rain have been beautiful.
In the mean time, I can always make pots. Making something beautiful can be very soothing. I give them away as wedding presents.