Does positive thinking run the risk of being delusional?
At the last minute before the Goodlife Fitness Victoria half marathon, I decided to leave my phone at the starting line along with the ability to call my husband to rescue me en route.
After all, it was a glorious October morning with the promise of a sun-warmed run framed by brilliant coloured canopies of trees.
Why wouldn't I think with giddy pre-race excitement that the route's aesthetics would miraculously cure my IT band and aching knee?
The catch was I hadn't run this distance without pain this training season. The night before the race, I noticed for the first time the medical form on the back of the bib number where you can list an emergency contact and I actually filled it out.
I was OK with walking, if I had to. In fact my strategy was to run eight minutes, then walk for one minute. My fear was that my right leg would fail me completely and I'd be incapable of even limping across the finish line.
But the adrenalin buzz as people congregate for the race is intoxicating, so I didn't take the phone but did take an Ibuprophen and decided with my rose-colored glasses to enjoy the "event" as I had come to call it, rather than "a race."
I decided to only look at my watch to ensure I was in my Goldilocks pace zone, not too fast, not too slow, just right (recent great advice from my physio).
Usually, I would pick out someone slightly ahead and make it my goal to pass them.
This time, I prided myself on how many people passed me.
I wouldn't have minded if Momma Bear, Papa Bear and Baby Bear passed me, however I didn't expect two guys dressed as turkeys to overtake me. They actually passed me three times, once after stopping at the Prairie Inn Harriers faux aid station to drink beer.
At the halfway mark, I allowed myself a small smile inside. Sure, I had a complaints from my leg but getting this far was an accomplishment I was grateful for.
The big grin, and tears, came just after Kilometre 12 when I spied my daughter and husband curbside. I hadn't expected they would come out to cheer, given that my unpredictable ability could mean I wouldn't make it to their usual cheering spot. I ran off course to hug my daughter Simone and I couldn't stop smiling as I took off down the road.
When I needed motivation, I look at my hands as they swing into view. In blue nail polish on my left thumbnail are two "S"s for Simone and Stella, my 18-month-old granddaughter, while a "M" painted on my right is for my mother.
I think of Stella running through our kitchen, hall and living room like she's doing laps at the track, the same way I remember my mother laughing and doing 'laps' around my parents' kitchen, dining room and living room as my dad playfully chased her.
It is the spirit of movement and joy. Without the competition.
That is the feeling I've returned to more than once during the half marathon - being grateful to be able to run any distance, grateful for the support of friends and family, grateful for the recreation opportunities we have in a safe, clean, beautiful city.
As the kilometres click by, my sense of gratitude intensifies when I realize my leg is doing pretty damn good. Because I've been pacing myself at a slower speed, I don't feel as spent as I usually do by the last four kilometres.
That's when I see the two turkeys ahead of me by half a block near Ogden Point.
To hell with that feel-good ethos of running for the joy of it, I want to beat those suckers.
The familiar competitive streak awakens and I can almost feel my mind physically change as I gear up. My leg is either going to get me there. Or not.
I pass the turkeys and then other runners who have left more out on the course than me.
I feel stronger along the last turns past Fisherman's Wharf and the luxury condos than in any of the five times I've run this identical route.
Crossing the finish line, huge smile on my face, I jab at my watch to stop the clock.
I'm over the moon that I've met my goal of being upright and injury free.
But I can't resist a sneak peek at my time - 2:18:09.
Not that anyone's counting (except me).
听
听
