Why I didn't run the marathon
I watched as my running friends rose at dawn to clock their Saturday long runs. I listened to their tales of aches and pains. I started seeing posters for the marathon go up around the city—in subways, at the park, and everywhere in between. I blocked out memories of the race's rousing start, the agonizing middle, and the triumphant finish. I didn't even care about the medal. It doesn't matter that I'm not running the marathon this year, I told myself, over and over. And then the shoes arrived.
Apparently, I'm destined to run the New York City Marathon every other year. And I'm surprisingly okay with that!
This year, my training was on track and actually going better than expected for the first 10 weeks. My mileage was great, I was healthy, and when I woke up the morning of the Bronx 10-mile race, I felt better than I had in weeks. But after one little nagging foot injury—and a few pointless podiatrist appointments—I was sidelined for one week...then two...then...well, there's no stopping the marathon, which arrived right on time, and I was forced to sit this one out.
Dealing with that reality was tricky at first, and I wrote about managing my injury and looking forward (always forward) in my latest story for Shape. You can read it here: Why Seeing a Pair of Sneakers Made Me Cry.