I set a new personal best at the half marathon. How did I get here, and where do I go next?
At Mile 3 of my half marathon this weekend I had a little conversation with myself: “Am I really going to try to keep running this fast? Screw it, why not.”
And I kept going as hard as I possibly could.
Splits: 6:36.4 / 6:44.1 / 6:45.5 / 6:50.4 / 6:46.5 / 6:40.1 / 6:40.9 / 6:33.8 / 6:37.0 / 6:37.3 / 6:45.6 / 6:45.7 / 6:56.1
During a typical run I like to doze off, look at the birds in the sky and wave to the passers-by, but today I was laser-focused on churning out mile after mile at muscle-tearing pace.
I’ve run this fast before – but not at such a distance for such a sustained period of time. My previous personal best at the half marathon was 1:35.06 this time last year. In my 14-mile run two weeks before this, I ran 13 miles in 1:33.xx.
Perhaps a week’s buildup of anxiety helped me to attack this race with such ferocity. I don’t know. I’m glad I went to bed early on Friday night instead of seeing Wet Leg (but, boy, I hated selling that ticket).
This also wasn’t the running calendar I had envisioned this year. I was supposed to run the Avenue of the Giants in May, but then a hamstring injury sidelined me. And that, like some cruel pokemon, evolved into a hip injury.
I have been going to physical therapy since early March. I have one more appointment next week and, with luck, it’ll be the last one.
And so here I am. My attempt to hit a new personal best at the marathon was derailed early on. My hopes of running one in the fall were similarly destroyed. And I put everything into this race on Sunday.
I needed to test my hip. I needed to put it through immense pressure to give myself the confidence I need to carry on with my amateurish running ambitions. I endured the biting cold of January and February during my ill-fated marathon training, and suffered through the suffocating humidity of July and August just to get back to where I think I should be.
Should – Should – Should. A word that fear latches on to you during the most difficult parts of a run.
Should I continue running this fast? What if I’m not good enough? What if I can’t do anymore? I’m afraid I don’t have it in me to run a marathon again.
And, I think, in circumstances hyper-tailored like this one, repression can be a good thing. And I shoved it down. Pushed it away. Shut down my anxiety, my doubts, my fears. Everything.
I stared at the path before me and I attacked it with mindless ferocity.
I collapsed at the finish line. My quadriceps were on fire. My hamstrings were screaming. My breathing was laboured.
I looked at the heart rate on my watch: 181 average / 198 max (omg !!!!!!).
And then I slumped back onto the grass and threw my hands on my face, and then lay prostrate.
It felt unbelievable, truly. I still don’t know if I can do that again, but of course I’m going to try.
Now it’s time to map out the remainder of the calendar year. And then soon, 2026.
Fitzie’s track of the day: Walk of Life, by Dire Straits
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