My heart hurts.
And I will unashamedly admit that I’ve been crying for nearly a week.
Because when I say the words, they make it to my throat and then threaten to choke me.
And just typing this, telling all of you, almost hurts the most. Because it’s not telling Marcus. Mom and Dad. David and Sue.
Though you have to believe me when I tell you that I have never felt denial so powerfully before in my life.
But just like Brady, I spent the better half of the last month running through pain that I shouldn’t have ignored.
The way I justified it to myself is that like the actual race, training is a fluid and continuous event. Sometimes you’re supposed to push-through and sometimes you’re supposed to stop and breathe. But the line separating the two can be extremely hard to distinguish, and every time you have to engage in that delicate dance, it’s a gamble.
In my case on October 2nd, the two things I was so absolutely certain I was going to do – crossing the starting and finish lines of the Twin Cities Marathon, are not going to happen.
I think it has been so hard to process because I made it to the taper.
I have a number.
I have a corral.
Of all of the things that I do have, the one I do not is Time.
Two weeks is enough time to deal with fixing bruises, blisters, chafing, and aches.
But it’s not long enough to rest a muscle outright, much less start running again before the race.
It’s like some sort of sick joke.
Rational Kat knows that this is the right decision.
That I haven’t even been running for a full two years.
That I’m only 24.
That I never started training for this race with the intent to break myself as the end goal.
That if I ran on October 2nd and ended up as a former runner, I would never forgive myself.
But the girl who made it over the hill? The one who only had 6.2 miles left?
Her world is shattered right now.