This is the post that I never wanted to write. And I certainly never dreamed I'd be writing it about THIS race. THIS race that I was in the best running shape of my life.
I'm not really ready/interested/willing to talk in great lengths about the race on here. Even if I was... there isn't a lot to say. I'm disappointed, pissed off, embarrassed, sad, and frankly, over it.
I'm not the type to wallow around in my failures, so, the idea of going into some melodramatic, detailed, woe-is-me race report kinda makes me want to vomit. But, I like you guys (most of you, anyway), and even though I'm kinda done talking about it, I feel like I owe you guys some sort of explanation. (And also, this way, instead of having 5 different conversations with some of you individually about this whole piece of shit race, I can just say it once and be done with it).
Sunday morning was perfect. I couldn't have asked for a better start to a race. The weather was brilliant, I wasn't nervous, I was in my proper corral about 30 minutes before the start of the race, I was hydrated, fueled, and mentally prepared to push and hurt and run the race of my life.
And despite the perfect conditions, by mile 17, I was done. And the hardest thing, the most gut-wrenching part of the whole miserable experience is that I can't place the blame on one thing. I can't say, Amy, by doing this, you royally fucked this race up. SO DON'T EVER FUCKING DO THAT AGAIN!
I didn't go out too fast and blow up. I didn't suffer some kind of awful injury on the course (thank god). The hills didn't off me (although, they sure as hell tried). I didn't get too hot. The race wasn't too crowded. I wasn't undertrained or overtrained.
And yet, I didn't finish.
What pulled me from the race isn't some kind of glorious, epic excuse... Nope, I'm not awesome enough for that. I had to quit the race because I was literally running my guts out. From one porta potty to the next. There is no way to sugarcoat this, so I'm not even going to try; starting around mile 7, I got an awful case of the shits. At first, I thought I'd just have to make a couple of stops and it'd be no big deal. Unfortunately, it got to the point where about a tenth of a mile after my last stop, I was looking for the next porta potty.
I don't think it was my dinner the night before, or my fueling the morning of. I wasn't dehydrated or experiencing heat exhaustion, I didn't have some kind of random stomach flu or bug. I just couldn't run without having to stop every 3-5 minutes to take a crap. I don't know what the hell my problem was, but my stomach was not interested in me running a marathon that day.
And so instead of finishing my 16th marathon. I DNFed for the first time.
Onward and upward. Or whatever.