It’s race morning and I’ve been awake since about 4am. I didn’t sleep well. I’m laying in bed digesting some breakfast and feeling rather terrified.
The fear sort of makes sense because of my injured foot. It’s doing ok, but it’s nowhere near good. It’s probably dumb of me to even be attempting this today. All the way up until this morning, I’ve been wanting to. Now I’m not so sure.
I can’t remember how I felt the morning of my first half marathon, although I’m pretty sure I was almost equally scared. Most of my memory of that June day is positive. This morning, the sheer volume of people participating has me uneasy. 22,500 runners. This seems crazy. I can’t separate what is normal anxiety from irrational fear from real concern over my foot.
I haven’t run since the 5k last week. I went to the gym twice in the interim to do cardio. I feel ill prepared. I want to stay curled up in bed feeling sorry for myself. I worry that I’m chickening out and somehow this means I’m never going to run again, that I’ll go back to the couch potato I was a year ago because I’m just lame, literally and figuratively.
I’m trying to remind myself to just have fun, that whatever happens, even if I have to quit the race early, is fine. It won’t be a tragedy or something to resign running altogether over. I don’t need the finisher medal to prove I’m not a quitter or a loser.
But for now, I have to sit with this fear and hope I can overcome it.