A few months ago I attempted to spin up a running blog with this foolhearty delusion that if I wrote about it hard enough that I could train myself into an ultramarathon. Write. Plan. Train. Write more. Public accountability. Blah. Blah. Blah.
Insert life events here.
Nearly six months later I’ve run some more races, travelled the world, pulled a half marathon five-year PR out of my ass, earned some speed, and got absolutely no closer to an ultramarathon goal.
So forget that.
Then yesterday, about twenty-four whole hours prior to writing this post, an email arrived in my inbox: congrats, it told me, you’ve been selected by lottery to run the 2020 Chicago Marathon.
Oh. Right. Shit. I put my name in for that thing, didn’t I?
Four hundred bucks in non-refundable entry fees later, I guess I’m in the market for some flights to Illinois… oh, and ten months of marathon training.
Chicago will be my fifth full. My third in the USA. My second major. All that after vowing — cross my fucking heart and hope to die (which I may) — never to run another damn full marathon ever again. Ever.
What was I thinking?
So here I am. Back to this idea of writing a blog about it. Record. Write. Plan. Train. Write more. Public accountability. Blah. Blah. Blah.
Oh, and lose twenty pounds. Lock in some core strength. Fix the issues with my back. Deal with chronic leg cramps. Figure out how to fuel while running without getting nautious. Convince myself I’m not crazy. And do it all while juggling life, family, work, and a bunch of other personal commitments.
Oh wait. Maybe I am a bit nuts. Stay tuned to find out for sure.