The Heartbreak of Unachieved Goals

(Disclaimer: This is not my official Pittsburgh Marathon race recap. This is my attempt to sort through some of my feelings before the official recap so that the official recap can focus on more of the positives. That being said, though, there will certainly be some race spoilers in this post, so be forewarned!)

I’m not used to failing. That’s not who I am. That’s not normally what I do. When I set a goal, I accomplish it a lot of times because I tough it out. I do what it takes to get it done. Because I hate the feeling of not succeeding.

Just to lay it all out there for you: I’m really hurting right now. And I don’t just mean physically because I crossed the finish line of my first marathon on Sunday (note the phrasing there), although my legs are a bit sore. I mostly mean emotionally. With this marathon, I set three time goals: one that I could meet if I was feeling REALLY good, one that I could most likely meet even if I was having an off-day, and one that I would definitely meet, barring injury. I also had an unstated goal – unstated because it was so obvious that I would achieve it that I didn’t even think it was worth mentioning; that goal was to run the whole thing. (I’ve never EVER walked during a race. And I’ve never EVER stopped/paused during a race.) So there were my four goals.

And guess how many I achieved.

Zero.

None. Of. Them.

During the race, I knew my top time goal was unattainable by the time I hit the 12-mile mark. My second time goal was out of reach probably by the time I crossed the 14-mile mark. I struggled to about the 15.5-mile point when I did the unthinkable (for me): I stopped. (Side note: Tears are welling up in my eyes as I write this.) I stopped to stretch, but I didn’t really need to stretch; I needed a break, and stretching was my excuse.

I had been debating with myself over the previous mile or so. I knew I needed (or thought I needed) to give my legs a break, but I also knew that once I stopped running, it would be nearly impossible for me to will myself to run more than a little at a time again. But I was running so slowly that eventually my desire for a quick break won over. I “stretched” for a minute or so, and then I walked. I walked a lot before I finally convinced myself to adopt a completely arbitrary run/walk technique. I used that technique for 9.5 miles. More than one-third of my very first marathon – the highly anticipated culmination of the last 18 weeks of my life – was spent run/walking.

Had my plan all along been to run/walk, I would have been OK with it. I wouldn’t have been beating myself up for the last few days because of it. But that wasn’t my plan. That’s not how I trained. I trained to run THE WHOLE THING. And I am devastated.

But here’s the thing: At the time, I didn’t care (well, not as much, anyway). I was minorly disappointed when I decided to walk, but I kept a brisk-ish pace while taking in the surroundings and enjoying the atmosphere. And when I got to the 25-mile mark – after 9.5 miles of run/walking – I decided to try to jog the remaining 1.2 miles. And I did it. I jogged across the finish line successfully. (Never mind the disgusting dry heave that I had tried to keep under wraps but that unleashed itself when I was 10 or 20 yards from the finish line. I really hope the race photographer captured that.)

Leading up to the race, I had gleefully imagined the sense of accomplishment that would wash over me when my foot hit the finish line. But when I actually crossed it, there was no such feeling of achievement. Since I’d actually enjoyed the race for the most part, I wasn’t dismayed, either. There was just no emotion whatsoever. It was kind of like, “OK, there’s that. Um, I wonder if there are any snacks left.” (Not that I had any appetite, anyway. I just wanted the snacks for the next day, when I would, in theory, be hungry again.)

This marathon was supposed to leave me feeling empowered. I was supposed to have an unparalleled sense of accomplishment, that I-can-do-anything quality. Instead, I feel discouraged. Like a failure. Like I can’t instead of like I can. I’m not standing tall with my finisher’s medal around my neck. I’m crumpling under the weight of my own unmet expectations (which were not all that lofty, by general running standards or by my own standards).

Sure, it was a hot day. Sure, there was a heat advisory. Sure, I had done my training mostly in winter, with no temperatures near what I faced in Pittsburgh. No, I can’t pin my complete running meltdown – no pun intended – on that. Some of it, maybe, but not all of it.

I have had so many people tell me things like, “But you still did it! That’s not failing. You didn’t quit! You kept going! You completed a marathon!” I admit that there is some truth to that, and I appreciate the encouragement. In my mind, though, I didn’t do it. The moment I decided to walk, I quit. I gave up. End of story. And I don’t just want to say that I completed a marathon or that I crossed the finish line of a marathon; I want to say that I have run a marathon, and that’s not a claim I can make right now.

I’m just going to take this whole marathon grieving/recovery process one step at a time. It’s difficult, and it hurts a lot right now. This is not at all how I expected my post-marathon experience to be. I expected to be elatedly telling stories from the race, not choking back tears every time someone calls me a marathoner (a title I don’t feel I’ve earned) or asks how the race went because I’m so disappointed in myself/my effort.

I’ll work through this. I’m sure I will. I have a whole bag of 26.2-related souvenirs that I don’t feel like I’ve earned, but I want to get to a place where I feel like I have. After all, I paid a pretty penny for them.

There’s one thing I know, though: I am going to try again. I can do better, and I will do better. The marathoning world hasn’t seen the last of me.