"It's just the Half," I tell myself, alternately, after, "I'll just pick up my shirt," and, "It couldn't hurt to walk."
Months upon a time ago, I registered for the Go! St. Louis race (exclamation in the trademark) almost as an afterthought. Cincinnati's Flying Pig was the goal, and maybe it still kind of could be, but friends who had been motivated by if-Allison-can-surely-I signed up to race, and riding a wave of sure-that'd-be-fun and I'll-need-a-long-run, I put down my money.
"I'll run it all," I said, maybe weeks after running 26.2 (except for the parts that I walked).
Well.
That will not be happening. Instead of miles upon miles upon ever increasing training miles, the last ten weeks have been filled by dates with the sports medicine doc and the physical therapist, the elliptical and lately, barely, the treadmill. I am in no way ready to run 13.1 on the pavement. Thousands of conspicuously consumed insurance company dollars attest that my tibia has healed and there's nothing left but chronic medial tibial stress syndrome, which is just shin splints in dress clothes. Just, that is, the kind of nagging issue that affects daily life not in the least but can derail the whole running thing, and now we're thirteen days from the race.
I'm certain the doc would advise against, were I to ask him. 10% more distance a week is the standard rec, in which case I'd be ready in, oh, July.
But it's only the Half. And I could walk, would have to, much as the thought of that pains me. Hundreds if not thousands will, on purpose, as a goal. I suppose I could always wear my cast. I expect in my not quite-as-fit shape it will feel like plenty of challenge, and if it hurts, well, then we'll see. I know the difference between the bad pain and the deal-with-it, and I promise not to do anything excessively stupid. Really.
More than five months ago, a starting line was a major milestone, and I learned about satisfaction and effort. This is not that, not even close, though it might be about crossing the finish.
