Sunday, September 02, 2018

I can’t tell what’s worse:

feeling my knee explode in pain at mile 2.5, pushing myself to mile 3 which made the pain almost crippling, making the decision to actually quit a race for the first time in my life, realizing that pushing myself to 3 miles meant having to hobble 3 miles back, avoiding eye contact with all the runners who were behind me because I didn’t want their pity, admitting absolute defeat at the 2-mile water station and having the volunteers call for a ride back to the start line for me, feeling bad for sweating all over the nice driver’s car, or being so irrationally mad at myself that I’m slinking home instead of cheering for all my friends as they cross the finish line.
My pace was already over a minute slower than my goal pace at mile 3 and would have gradually gotten slower to the point that I would have probably been disqualified from the race anyway. So I guess it’s better that I quit at mile 3 and not had to hobble even farther home in a race I wouldn’t have been allowed to finish.

I’m going to continue being irrationally mad at myself for a while and then get over it and move on. But there won’t be a group finisher selfie today. Sorry, guys.

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