I’m in the peak of marathon training at the moment, and it’s hard. This past weekend I hurt my foot — nothing major, I hope. And that’s been frustrating. Not just because of the interruption, but because of how quickly my mind goes to: “You messed this up.” As if one small thing undoes weeks of consistency. It made me realise how easily I slip into thinking: “I’m bad at this.” ...
After running my fourth marathon just more than a week ago, I expected to have so much to say. Instead, there’s a strange quiet. Where is the neat little story about perseverance, grit, and the magic of race day? I don’t have it. Instead, I find myself wondering whether signing up for two marathons so close together was actually a good idea. It probably wasn’t. At the time, it felt exciting. Ambitious. Like something my future self would thank me for. ...
My foot caught on a lip of uneven concrete, and before I could even comprehend what was happening, I was down. There is a specific, jarring shock to falling at forty-four. It’s not quite like falling as a kid, which was already bad for me; it’s a heavy, bone-rattling impact that leaves you winded on the side of a busy road, traffic blurring past while you check for blood and broken pride. I sat there for quite some time, brushing grit off my palms, wondering why I do this at all. ...