Humble (Fat-Free) Pie

It's the most important part of a runner's diet.

And it's something I should have eaten all along.

Just like a typical 22-miler on a Saturday morning, you can become so engulfed in your training that you become so quickly to forget about setbacks and holds. The, "What if?" is for mortals. Injuries? For the weak. Bad days? Not for me. I'm too good for that, too strong to ever have a bad day.

Then I had not only a bad day, but a bad week of training.

It all started with a Saturday night out at my friends' local favorite establishment. With only 23 days away from the biggest moment of my waking existence at that point, it would have behooved me to not go out and have a few beers with the gang. What was supposed to be an easy night ended up being a night of horror that ended with me walking out of the E.R. at 4 a.m.

As I was out, I bent down to pick up a bottle so I wouldn't step on it and cut myself. Fortunately, my lower extremities were unscathed. Unfortunately, my hand wasn't, as I lost my balance while picking up the bottle, put intense pressure on the bottle to keep balance, which eventually led to the beer bottle shattering on my hand. Fifteen stitches later, I was dejected, thinking I wouldn't be able to run the race I have had on my calendar for over 540 days. Instead, I am able to run, but with a 3 pound soft cast to show for it after reconstructive surgery to regenerate the nerve damage I so elegantly did two weeks ago.

Surgery was Wednesday. More importantly, the final long run was Saturday. 23 miles, with 6 easy, 16 of tempo at marathon goal pace, and 1 to cool down to top it all off. I was still in pain. I was held back by a 3-pound weight on my hand. What it ended up being was 5 easy miles, 15 miles of tempo pace around 4 seconds too slow per mile, and then death. I had no energy left. I was entirely spent, after only 20 miles. This couldn't be. My worst long run was my last long run. Maybe it was the cast, or the percoset, or the fact that I just was out of shape. Maybe it was a bad day. Whatever it was, doom was imminent. Or was it?

The recent events of the last week engendered an epiphany. While my diet boasts my daily servings of fruit, grains, protein, and ample amount of fluid, I totally forgot about my humble pie (fat-free of course. I am a runner after all).

Until this point, my training was completely uninterrupted. If there was ever such a thing as smooth sailing, this was it. It seemed inevitable that I would break 2:40 in Boston on the eighteenth. Now, doubt swarmed me like a starving wolfpack.

Yet, I know now just how lucky I am that I still can run. That I am prone to bad days, especially after being on painkillers and undergoing anesthesia 72 hours prior to a 20 mile run. That if it happened to my legs, there would be no chance of me running in the 115th Boston Marathon, lining up with Ryan Hall, Kara Goucher and Robert Kiprono Cheruiyot. It may not have been a perfect week, but it was still a week of training, a week that will make me stronger, make me better, make me tougher .

Because I am so lucky, I will not let this moment fade away. I cannot, and will not, let my goal be unattained, for it would be wasteful. Just as I was wasteful of my fat-free humble pie earlier. No more.

And, maybe if I do break 2:40 in ten days, then perhaps I'll even have a piece of non fat-free pie to celebrate.