One sprained knee, 4 dead toenails & a ridiculously awful finishing time later, I am still reeling from the disappointment that was the SG Marathon.
I was hoping to write a victorious update not for the sake of vanity, but for the mere luxury of being able to look myself in the mirror and knowing for an absolute fact that accomplishing it the first time wasn’t a fluke or some wondrous stroke of luck because seriously, I am no athlete. To me, that 1st marathon was the culmination of months of training and sacrifice, proof that anything is possible as long as I put my heart/mind/soul into it. My 2nd marathon theoretically was supposed to be better. I ran the first marathon in support of friends and family, but I wanted this second one to be for me. I knew what I was up against, or so I thought. I realize it’s so easy to blame it on external factors- the humidity, the heat, the lack of sleep, my superstitious pre-race ritual that i skipped this time around, but it just boils down to one pure and simple fact: I choked.
My right knee gave way at the 34th km after running through kilometers of crazy cramping on my right thigh, and as I sat there on the floor sobbing as the medic bandaged up the sprain, he told me that he didn’t think i should continue, but that meant that i wouldn’t be considered an “official finisher” of the run. I didn’t quit. But I didn’t run either- I jogged/walked/trudged the rest of the way to the finish line. I know that there’s some degree of honor that comes from not having given up but I can’t seem to shake the crushing sense of failure I feel at not having conquered the run on my own terms. Or worse, that overwhelming feeling of discouragement at not wanting to run again because I don’t want to go through that misery and relive that last 8km again.
That picture above was taken just yesterday, a few meters away from the finish line, pain visibly etched on my face. I pushed myself to run through it and finish “strong.” If only my emotional self could be just as strong.
