Tomorrow at 6:30 a.m., I’ll take off with nearly 300 other runners at the start of the Dick Collins Firetrails 50. Right now, I should be getting ready to run 50 miles tomorrow — which is exactly 20 percent farther than I have ever run before. I have errands to run, gear to gather, bills to pay, a story to edit, a chapter to finish, email to answer, laundry to fold, an iPod to update, two kids to pick up, one dog to walk, logistics to coordinate. But I have accomplished virtually none of that yet today because I AM FREAKING OUT. Not the head-spinning, hollering kind of behavior that those all-cap words might suggest, but the caving-inward, desperately quiet kind that freezes me to this chair and erases from my mind all — wait, where was I going with this? See, that’s what I mean: I can’t finish a thought, much less a task.

Off to fold laundry. Be back soon.

Really, I went and folded laundry, and it helped. But I’m still struggling to douse the negativity and anxiety simmering during the past few days. It’s as though all the training, planning and positive thinking I did over the past four months to prepare for this event — and, generally speaking, to transition to a better mode in life — are powerless against a monster of worry and self-defeating thoughts. What, really, is there to worry about? That I won’t finish — maybe. That I won’t have a stand-out performance — yes, that’s closer to it. That it will be over, and then what? Ah, that’s part of it — that training for this race has been an exciting undertaking and a solid goal that distracted me and legitimized siphoning off time from other areas in life that need attention.

It hasn’t been the best couple of weeks. After the Diablo 50K, my mileage plummeted. I tripped and fell during a short run, tweaking my quad, which forced several days of rest, and then I took a whirlwind trip to Southern California that left me scattered and groggy. And then (cue the ominous music, maybe the Jaws theme or better yet, Psycho), the binge-inclined, heavy-drinking Mommy Dearest Cassandra alter ego who invades my body with each period showed up for a visit this week, and like a messy house guest won’t clean up and go away. I’m still bloated, cramped and cranky.

Last night, I caught myself studying the race course and trying to calculate split times between aid stations, all the while berating the kids for trivial things and literally yanking on my hair. Then I combed through the list of entrants and wallowed in self-pity when I saw that big beautiful Bree Lambert had signed up, the 42-year-old in whose league I yearn to be, but it’s as plain as the pimple on my chin that I’m gonna bump between second and third tier and never graduate to her top echelon. My shoulders slumped as I thought, “There goes the age-group trophy.” The female runner who won last year just ahead of Bree also signed up. The whole list is packed with hot-shit runners who’ll leave me in the dust.

Boo-hoo, woe is me. Why even try.

Pretty pitiful, huh? Writing about it helps me see the comedy. It’s like a salve on a sting (which I may need tomorrow if I’m one of the ones who gets attacked by bees on the Golden Spike section of trail in Redwood Park, which happens to a handful of runners in this race every year). Get over it, Sarah. That dark alter ego always looms and reaches for the worst in me. I can’t let myself get trapped in this competitive mode; it drains the elemental joy from the experience and ultimately sabotages my running performance. I have to live with the reality shared by 99 percent of all serious athletes: that we won’t be Number One or even Top Ten; we can only run our own race and try to do what’s best individually. Running against others runs counter to the whole spirit of tomorrow’s event.

I feel myself relaxing and looking forward to the morning. The tension in my jaw eases enough to make me yawn. I’m eager to run with a pack — to get a contact high off their energy and run with them, grateful that Bree and all the others will be there to help pull me to the finish.

On June 15, nearly 18 weeks ago, I wrote: “My main goal — my only goal at this point — is to arrive at the starting line on October 9 in the best shape possible and injury free, and if I can do that, then I will feel a huge sense of accomplishment regardless of the outcome of the race.”

Note to self: You did it. You ran about 700 miles in the weeks between then and the start of the taper, building up to a 40-mile training run. Had some best-ever 50Ks and marathons since mid-summer. Got in the best shape ever since turning 40. Stayed injury-free, mostly.

I can be my worst enemy, my toughest critic — or I can befriend and support myself and be a good sport out there. Enough said. I’ve really spent enough time on this. I’m not going to be a perfectionist and muddle over this for the rest of the afternoon; I’m going to post it, barely proofed, and go get ready. It’s time.

Tags: 50 mile race, Bree Lambert, dick collins firetrails 50, Firetrails 50, Running, trail running, Ultrarunning

This entry was posted on Friday, October 8th, 2010 at 2:22 pm and is filed under Blog. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.