Test Anxiety

I have terrible Text Anxiety.  I always have. In school, I would freeze up on EVERY  test.

Hence why it took four tries of the GRE and a special pass from the dean to graduate college.

Apparently, my test anxiety has spilled over into my running.  And Friday night was another prime example.

The last FIVE (yes, 5!) long runs I've done in prep for this race, I've averaged the EXACT SAME pace.  About 20 seconds slower than my goal pace.  Not too shabby.  Especially because other than a run in which I bonked, I was keeping a conversation and having a jolly time.

I thought for sure I would nail this last half marathon.  The last half marathon on the docket until at least a year from now.  If not longer.  Number eight for the last two years. 

It should be noted that I have been chasing a sub-2 hour half marathon for 6 of those 8 races.  The closest I have gotten is 2:06.  And it was a hard fought 2:06.  But Friday, Friday was going to be my day.  I was finally (yes, after about a year) below what I weighed for the marathon last October.  I felt great.  I didn't put in the heavy training that I usually do for these events, but judging by my long run times, I felt that I could easily do it.

Then Wade left for the week to go backpacking with the scouts.  And I had to find a babysitter, and though I had my brother secured a while back, some plans got changed and I had to scramble this week to find one closer to home.  Lo and behold it was Youth Conference and so all my usual babysitters were gone--which was just as well, because I tend to stress out a lot if I'm gone somewhere where the babysitter can't get a hold of me easily--and I ended up having to ask my parents, again.  Which stressed me out because I had to clean the house so they could spend the night. Which is a little different than cleaning the house so the 15 year old neighbor can babysit. Of course, I waited until Friday to do so, and by the time N. and I left for the race at 6 pm, I was halfway cooked.

But I still felt okay.  I was hydrated and ready to roll.

There's so many details that you all don't care about, but at mile 2.5, I was done.  Not just tired and plodding along.  Done.  I told N. to go ahead and I would catch up. 

Ha.

By mile 7 I had convinced myself that I was going to pull out of the race.  I have never not finished a race.  Ever.  But Friday night, I had conceded that even the good runners pull out.

Of course they pull out a race because they aren't going to win.  Not because they fear they will be the last one across the line.  But, you know, whatever.

I looked around as I came to terms with my decision and realized that (a) there was no one around me and (b) the finish line (from which we had been bussed to the starting line) was 6 (6.10 miles, if you want to get technical) away.  I toyed around the idea of flagging down a car (because, yes, we were running beside a major road.  In the dark.  Because, we're smart like that, that's why.) but then I thought what if they were a serial killer and they kidnapped me.  No one would even know until N. informed the race officials that I had never shown up at the finish line.  By then I would be long gone.

So I kept going.

The next water station was a mile away and I figured I would just tell one of them I was done.  Happy with my decision I started jogging.  I came through the water station and kept plodding along before realizing that was my last chance to bail.  I guess I had changed my mind. 

Ugh.  The remaining five miles were a mix of self-loathing, self-pity, and pain.  I've been fighting an ankle thing all summer and the hills (of which we were assured the course was mainly downhill.  Apparently, the race director's idea of downhill is vastly different than my idea of downhill.  My version doesn't include running up hills to run down hills) aggravated whatever's going on with my foot.  I have never hated running as much as I did between miles two and 12.  At mile 12, I started walking with a girl who felt the same way I did.  We ran the last half mile and then I went to find N.

N., while she didn't enjoy the run at all, ran it awesome.  It's the story of my life.  I need a sports psychologist.

And maybe a new hobby.