286 – Just. Finish.

“Your brain writes the checks, but your body’s got to cash them.”

Truer and more timely wisdom has seldom been uttered in a race. I was less than a half mile from the finish at the 37th Dayton River Corridor Classic half marathon, but instead of pushing up the throttle for a triumphant and powerful finish, I was crouched to the ground, trying to stretch a little and talk my aching hips into jogging just a little bit more. There was no glory in this race, no joy for me, only suffering. I was totally beaten, and though I hadn’t quit, I felt that I might as well have, for all the time I had spent walking, stopping to stretch, and shuffling along at what could only be called a survival jog.

It’s been three weeks since my remarkable performance at the Air Force Half Marathon, where I smashed my previous PR to bits, having one of the best races of my life. Only a week after that, I charged through an abbreviated 10k to a podium finish. But this morning, my body let me know in unmistakable language that it had had quite enough of this running nonsense for awhile, thanks very much.

The warnings were there, I just didn’t heed them. My left hip has been bothering me a little bit for months, and I aggravated it again by coming back to running club too soon after the Air Force Half. It quieted down enough to run the 10k, and I haven’t done a running workout since, but neither have I been taking it easy. In lieu of running to get ready for this weekend’s race, I opted to step up the intensity on the road bike, hoping that the lessened impact would help my hip, but still have me strong enough for the race.

But it wasn’t enough rest, or maybe I’m just hurt worse than I’m being told. Warming up before the race, it was already apparent that I was going to have problems. No matter, I thought, I’ve been dealing with hip pain, off and on, for well over a year. I could surely just grit my teeth and make it through this race, and maybe even set a decent time. The conditions were perfect to do it, too. Partly sunny, warm and with a slight breeze on the return leg, just cool enough to refresh you when you needed it most. In October in Ohio, you can’t ask for much better.

After yet another inexplicably delayed start, the gun went off and we headed out of the parking lot of the Payne Recreation Center in Moraine. As we turned onto the road, the crowd thinned enough for me to have a little room, and I dialed in a comfortable pace, focusing on running as smoothly and gently as possible. I wasn’t pushing hard, but I was trying to run fluidly enough that I would be able to minimize further damage to my hip.

For the first couple miles, it seemed like it was working. My hip hurt some at the beginning, but then it tapered off, much like the knee pain I had dealt with early in the season. Maybe, I thought, I’d be alright, and be able to turn in a decent result after all! But right around mile five, the pain returned, this time with a sense of finality to it. I set my jaw and soldiered on, hoping against hope that it would hold together long enough, just long enough to take me to the finish.

It wouldn’t. The pain in my hip increased, and I eased off the pace, intentionally at first, and then more, simply because I had no choice. While my first five miles had all been sub-8:30, the next four slowed to 8:45, 9:18, 9:22, 9:58… I was falling apart physically, and nothing I was doing mentally was going to overcome it. Somewhere in mile 9, my left foot abruptly went numb, and my mindset went from annoyed and disappointed to concerned. Pushing through pain and running through an injury are acceptable, but I was starting to have reason to worry about more permanent injury. As I passed the 9 mile sign, I realized that my hobbled pace wasn’t even sufficient to keep me breathing hard, so I slowed to an uncomfortable walk.

My buddy Joe caught up to me just then, and walked with me for awhile. Neither of us seemed to be having the race we had planned, but he was as positive and cheerful as ever, and it helped. My hip started to hurt a little less as we walked, and he talked me into jogging to the next water station, only a couple hundred meters ahead. I did, and it felt as okay as it was going to feel. We walked again through the water station and then picked back up to a jog again, but I didn’t last long. My conservative 9:30 pace soon became a 10:30 slog, and soon I was walking again, as Joe trotted off ahead of me.

This was to become the pattern of the rest of my race. Walk until I had recovered a little, jog until I couldn’t stand it, then walk some more. It was a little strange, if I’m honest, being back in a part of the pack that I haven’t seen for most of the year. Further ahead, where I thought I’d be, the runners are strong and practiced, and the attitude is relaxed and convivial. Somewhere between where I wanted to be and where I was, though, something changed. This is the part of the race with the suffering. It’s were you’ll find the people who are injured, who are enduring their first ever race at this distance, who are clearly working very hard but not having much fun doing it. This is where I was last year, and where I started the season this year, and it was humbling to be brought back to it.

Strange as well were the messages from my body. My muscles were rested and well-fueled, and urged me on. I had plenty of power and energy, and the racer in my head was screaming “GO, RUN! You’re so much faster than this! You can beat all of these people!” But I couldn’t, not today. On a good day I am a great deal faster, but today was not a good day. Maybe it wasn’t a good day for many of the racers struggling alongside of me, or maybe it was about to be their first great triumph, but it was clear that on this morning, I wasn’t faster than any of them.

I tried to jog all of mile 11, just to have this race over with, but I only made it a half mile. I walked over the penultimate bridge and stepped off the course to stretch a little, hoping to bring a little life back into my hip to get me home. My right hip was hurting now too, a sympathetic injury developing from the miles of favoring my left. I set off again just as I heard somebody say that there was a mile and a half to go. The first few steps felt okay, and I chugged along at a nine-minute pace for a little while, picking up positions again and telling myself that surely I could make such a modest distance. That feeling lasted about a quarter of a mile, and I soon sputtered out.

This sucked. It wasn’t fun, it wasn’t what I wanted, and it certainly wasn’t what I signed up to do. I’ve been riding a wave of momentum all year, improving nearly every race on bike and on foot, and the progress has begun to feel common to me, almost expected. I had it in mind earlier in the week that this would be a great race to try and break 1:50. During my warm up I figured I’d be pretty happy to stay under 1:55. After things started to hurt again at mile five, I just wanted to be under two hours. Now? All I wanted was for it to be over. All I wanted was to finish. Just. Finish.

I passed medic stations and a bridge where I could have cut out of the race. I could have taken off my bib, walked through the crowd and called it quits, but I just don’t know how to do that. I’ve raced hurt before, particularly at the end of last season, but I’ve never DNF’d, and I didn’t want to now. I wanted that finisher’s medal, and I wanted to earn it. So as I limped over the last bridge, I looked at the distance remaining, and made up my mind I would at least run through the finish. With a half mile to go, I crouched by the median, not exhausted but feeling defeated nonetheless, and tried to stretch my hips.

“Hey big fella, c’mon, you got this.” It wasn’t a cheer, it was a statement. An older runner was approaching, looking right at me. Without thinking, I got up and returned to a jog beside him.

“Oh how the mighty have fallen,” I said, “it’s hard to believe a few weeks ago I was PRing at 1:51.” It was at once a confession and an excuse. Selfishly, I didn’t want anybody to think that this was as fast as I could go.

“Well,” the man replied, “you brain writes the checks, but your body’s got to cash them.”

I chuckled, and picked up my pace a little. “I think today my body came back NSF!” I called over my shoulder as I trotted ahead. It was the pickup I’d needed. I’d make it from here. I turned into the parking lot, jogged around the building, put in the world’s saddest kick, and thudded across the finish.

Katie was there, as she almost always is, all smiles at my finish, even though she knew I’d be disappointed. She told me she was still proud of me, that I should be happy to have finished despite everything. And she was right. Even with crashing and burning in the second half of the race, I finished in 2:11:32, which is faster than I went a year ago at the same race, and not much slower than I went at the Xenia half this spring. Now it’s time to recover, and heal, and start planning for my next running season. Here’s hoping it will be one free from injury.