Projo Fitness Blog

I'm not a natural distance runner. I'm what triathletes and some other runners might call a Clydesdale. I'm over 200 pounds, and I have short, thick legs. The workouts were always a lot of work, even though I'd typically run for just 25 minutes or so. Longer on some weekends.

It seemed I was always breathing hard. My legs felt heavy and tired. The running was good for the soul, but I never experienced that so-called runner's high. I made some progress, built some endurance, but not as much as I hoped. With a chronically tight right calf and hamstring, I worried about injury and would generally alternate a day or two of running with a day of walking, stretching and light jogging.

Through all the work, I nervously anticipated race day, but I looked forward to the week before the race, when I could finally start tapering down. Now, some would argue that I hadn't really tapered up, or built up enough to taper down, but I wasn't going to let that get in my way.

As of late July, I still hadn't run seven miles in any single workout, but my buddy, and I figured we could get through the race if we could run five miles in relative comfort. We had both run the race before (although I hadn't done it in 11 years), and we knew "Falmouth."

We knew that the race, run along a beautiful course that's bordered by the sparkling waters of Vineyard Sound, is always hilly and usually hot. We also knew that the course would be lined with people -- people shouting, singing, handing out water, spraying the runners with garden hoses -- and we knew their encouragement would boost us. We knew they'd be worth a couple of miles.

So I planned a run of five miles or so for the weekend before the race to build my endurance and my confidence. After that, I would taper down to ensure my legs were fresh for the big day.

Then I hurt my foot.

With just nine days until the race, I felt a slight pop on the outer part of my right foot. It was followed by soreness on the side and under the foot. I had suffered a similar injury in May. Back then, I rested a few days and the pain went away.

I wouldn't be so lucky this time.

I canceled my "long" weekend run to let it rest. I rested it through Tuesday, because it still hurt. On Wednesday, I tried some light jogging, but I was afraid to do more because it was still uncomfortable.

By Thursday night, when I was supposed to pick up my official number -- the one I'd scored over so many real runners -- the discomfort hadn't gone away. I picked up the number not knowing whether I would actually use it. Would I have to quit a half-mile into the race? By now I was testy, angry that I had to commit so far in advance only to face the possibility and humiliation of backing out at the last minute.

In the town building where runners pick up their numbers, the race organizers also sell Falmouth Road Race T-shirts. I liked the look of the shirts and wanted one as a symbol of my accomplishment, but I knew that if I didn't finish the race, I wouldn't wear it. I might have paid for it, but I wouldn't have earned it. I would have to throw it away or give it away.

I thought for a while, then I decided to throw my hat over the fence one more time. I put down $40 for two of the shirts, a short-sleeve shirt for those hot summer days and a long-sleeve shirt for the cool fall nights. Was I wasting my money? Would I regret it?

On Sunday morning, it was relatively cool and dry, decent running weather, but my foot was still uncomfortable. I didn't know how it would respond. If I hadn't entered the lottery nearly three months ago, if I hadn't gotten a number, if I hadn't bought those shirts, if I could have just signed up the morning of the race, I probably wouldn't have even shown up in Woods Hole.

I was a couple of miles into the race before I stopped worrying about my foot and began to wonder if my legs would hold out.

They did.

My legs are sore, but I feel great.

And now I don't have to throw away those shirts.