I Get Knocked Down

But I get up again. Oh, do I ever.

This week, I got mastitis, and the timing was impeccable. One week before the biggest race of my life, and I get wiped out by a raging bacterial infection. Fantastic.

I have weathered many things during this first year of my son’s life, but this was one of the worst. Fever, aches, pain, chills… and the agony of not knowing whether I would be able to run the marathon on Sunday.

Now, for some of you, it might seem smarter to skip out on the race. There are other races, you say. Other marathons. Other challenges. The whole thing might not seem like that big of a deal.

But I have been training for this race for nearly a year. Since my son was born, this race has been my reason to run. It has been the reason to get on my treadmill instead of taking a nap, to finish long runs in -20 degrees, and to push myself through brutal interval workouts. I have worked around nap schedules and feeding schedules and husband schedules. I’ve been though twisted ankles, bruised calves, sore joints, stomach cramps, chiropractor bills, and countless Epsom salt baths. And now mastitis.

So when people say “maybe it’s just not in the cards this year” or “there are other races,” I want to cry. Or scream. Because for me, this is it. I don’t want to run another marathon. Other races, sure. But I’m exhausted and I don't want to do this again. After months of training and hundreds of kilometres, the race is the short part. It's a twisted, painful sort of reward for all of my hard work, and I just want it to be over.

So this is it. On Sunday, it’s me versus 42.2 kilometres of pavement. Me versus the clock. Me versus mastitis. Me versus antibiotics.

Me versus me.

It should be an interesting race. I might not finish in my goal time, but I will finish. I’ll want to throw up and I’ll want to cry. I’ll want to stop, give up, and sit down.

But I’ll get up again. Whatever else happens, you can count on that.