Where do we go from here?

The marathon is quickly approaching.

There, I said it. It is swiftly and inexorably approaching, much like it did last year, and much like it will do each year from here on out. I have my golden ticket, my winning lotto number, my entrance fee paid. I get the bombardment of emails greeting me with a cheerful and ego inflating "Attention Athletes!" The long-miler weekend is happening soon - twenty miles. I remember that run. It was the best run, performance-wise, that I have ever completed. Twenty got me hyped, somewhat misleadingly, for 26.2. In the springtime it was time to pull out the running shoes again as I had only been sporadically running during the winter months. I was out of shape but looked forward to the experience of reaching for a lofty goal and achieving it. I wanted to better my somewhat disastrous time by not being hideously ill the day of the race. I wanted to make everyone proud again. I wanted to make myself proud again...


The marathon is quickly approaching, and will pass by without me. This race will be run by others, but not by me.

There, I said it. The truth I've been avoiding. I'm not running this year. I'm somewhat hopefully deferring my slot for the next go-round, paying the entrance fee again, and looking with concern and anxiety to next October. If I was feeling polite I would tell you that I was disappointed in myself, if I was being honest I would tell you that I was crushed. I would tell you that I am dreading the expo, the flow of tourists and runners coming into the city, the signs, the preparations of those around me, the day before, and most of all the day of. I have friends running, and I've spent the last month and a half, and another month to go, preparing myself to get out of bed on that day, and cheer them on with every ounce of passion that I received the year before. This will be a bitter acrid pill to swallow.

My frustration is laid at the feet of no one but myself, but if we're being honest - and it seems that we are - the anger and frustration and self-flagellation isn't entirely fair. The truth is that I fight an invisible disease everyday, one I don't feel comfortable enough to discuss or name with the internet, and that disease has contributed, or rather destroyed, my ability to train this year. I don't talk about it, I don't want to, but it's there and it hurts. I can't lay all the blame there, but I have to portion blame where appropriate to avoid the tidal wave of anger and guilt I feel when I stare at my running shoes and think, "remember what you used to do? Where you used to be? Now you are no where."

This isn't a plea for sympathy. It is a confession, a whispered revelation, a silent 'help me'. Most importantly it is getting this off my chest so that I can look at the more important question at hand: "where do we go from here?"

That answer just might be found in the laces of my running shoes, the encouragement of friends, and the simple but profound statement of "Onward". I know that I am not any less of a person for not running this year, but believing that statement is a little trickier. Much like the battle I fight everyday, I will work harder at that belief, at cutting myself a break.

I am a marathoner now and always, and no illness or sense of despair can take that away from me. On October 12th, I will still be a marathoner - and so will so many of those around me. I am so proud of you all, I know what you've gone through and this is your year, not mine - enjoy every single moment.

See you on Congress Parkway in 2015.