I signed up to run the Hometown Fair 10k in Manhattan Beach tomorrow. I’ve been running about three days a week. So, theoretically, I should feel good going into this race.
But, that’s the thing about theories.
I’m in good enough shape to finish a 10k. I might need to stick to a strict diet of beer and Advil afterward but I’m pretty sure I can finish it. The question is, will I enjoy it. I’m not so sure anymore. I’m having a problem with motivation.
Anyone who runs races knows this is true: It’s a mind game.
My body can do it no matter how much I bitch about my injuries or lament about sore hips and strained muscles. I actually believe part of my pain is psychosomatic. Meaning, I’m inventing the pain in my body with my mind.
Basically, my mind is in a ‘take no prisoners’ battle between the lazy, shiftless version of myself that wants to watch Jeopardy and sip Chardonnay (read: enjoy life) versus the lion-hearted competitor version of me that wants to push to the finish line no matter what my shin splints say (read: earn self pride). Clearly, I’m at war.
I can see both sides. I’m definitely doing the race. Half of me hopes to run the whole thing without stopping to walk once. The other half says, “Who cares if you walk?”
And that's the rub. Really. Who cares?
I did the Mud run for nine years straight. A 10k race on the grounds of Camp Pendleton that challenges runners with hay bales, trails, fire hoses, creeks, sand, a swim across a lake, tunnels and of course, the mud pits. Every year, I slogged through that mud, fighting through pain and tired muscles to cross that finish line. And every year, I was reborn in that mud, a reminder that I was still vital, still alive and still willing to thumb my nose at the reaper and say, “Tell your story walking, pal.” I was lucky enough to have people at the finish line waiting for me. I was grateful for their presence and they made the joy of the moment great. But in the end, the person I was trying to please was me.
So do I still need to make myself proud?
No. Not in the same way. I will finish this race. And I’ll feel good. But my pride comes from a different place now. From the hugs I get from people I love, to the things I learn, to the things I write, and somehow slogging through mud doesn’t have the same appeal.
This applies not just to this race, but to the Lavaman too. Obviously, a little soul searching is in order. Hopefully I’ll find my answers as I’m trudging up Rosecrans at 8am tomorrow morning.
And if I walk a little bit, who cares?